Spaghetti Squash with Greek Meatballs/ Swiss Chard with Bacon and Cannellini Beans

 I am always looking for new and innovative ways to use vegetables. Here are a couple of recipes that I have made in the last week using spaghetti squash and one that used up a big bunch of swiss chard that I had in the refrigerator. I have been cooking so many ethnic recipes lately that I decided to take a southern, homecooked meal approach to the swiss chard. The squash definitely would fall on the ethnic side of the menu though. Sorry, I forgot to take a picture of the squash and meatballs, but both Pete and I enjoyed these recipes. Bon Apetit!

Spaghetti Squash with Greek Meatballs (Meatball recipe courtesy of Giada De Laurentiis)

Ingredients

Meatballs:

1 pound ground beef (I used ground buffalo)

1 cup cooked and cooled couscous (I used whole wheat couscous)

3 scallions, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

1 egg, at room temperature, beaten

1/4 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

3 tablespoons dried mint (I cut the mint in half)

1 1/2 tablespoons dried oregano

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Sauce:

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 (25-ounce) jar marinara sauce

2 cinnamon sticks

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

Directions

For the meatballs: In a large bowl, mix together the lamb, couscous, scallions, garlic, egg, parsley, olive oil, mint, oregano, salt, cumin, cinnamon, and cayenne pepper. Form the mixture into 15 to 16 (2-inch diameter) meatballs.

For the sauce: Heat the oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add the meatballs and cook until brown on all sides, about 6 minutes. Add the marinara sauce, cinnamon sticks, and ground cinnamon. Bring the sauce to a boil and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook, turning occasionally, until the meatballs are cooked through, 10 to 12 minutes. Discard the cinnamon sticks.

Squash:

I whole spaghetti squash

Directions

Cut in half and hollow out the pulp. Place the squash in pan cut side down with a layer of water on the bottom of the pan. Cook in oven at 350 until tender, about 45 minutes. Once cooked use a large spoon to scoop out the squash and place in large bowl. Serve with meatballs and sauce on top of squash. I served this with a green salad and bread on side.

(Serves 4-6)

Swiss Chard with Bacon and Cannellini Beans/ Corn Muffins on the Side

Ingredients

Swiss Chard Mixture:

1 Tbl olive oil

½ cup chopped onion

1 large bunch of swiss chard

1 Tbl. Bragg's cider vinegar

1 Tbl. real maple syrup

½ tsp red pepper

1/3 cup water

4 pieces turkey bacon

1 can cannellini white beans, drained

1 package of corn muffin mix

Cook turkey bacon in a cast iron skillet. Remove and shred into bite size pieces, set aside. Leave fat in skillet and add onion, cook until soft. Add olive oil, water, and greens to the pan. After the greens cook down add the syrup, pepper, and vinegar. Mix well then add beans and bacon.

To make corn muffins follow package directions. I like to mix jalapenos into my muffins.

After the beans are heated through serve on top of corn muffins.

(Serves 2) 

Slowly, I'm Letting Go

I was talking to a friend last week about my jam-packed schedule and how exhausted I've been feeling this summer. As I ticked off the things that filled my month and barred me from a full day off she asked, “why did you schedule so much in July then?” Nothing like the frankness of a Canadian to get you thinking.

As I pondered my propensity for all or nothing (it has been all of late), it also occurred to me that my physical health is not optimum right now either. For a week I've had a dull ache in my belly, my neck is all jacked up, and I've been discreetly picking my cuticles. This morning, as the the light bled through the window covering, I got still and listened...what I found was fear. I think my overscheduling has been an avoidance tactic and this uneasy feeling is directly tied to fear for my child's safety. I have this notion, unconscious until now, that if I keep Jayne under our roof she will be safe. The reality is she is eighteen and going to college, and I have to let go now. I know this is a rite of passage that all parents must go through, I just wish I had a few more years with her at home. Pete and I have done our best to guide her fairly, honestly, and lovingly, and our hope is that she will allow these principles to guide her as she heads off to college. Now we must find our faith.

We are stewards of our children. It's our job to love them, teach them right from wrong, show them how to commune with the world around them, and then send them out into that world to flourish. To paraphrase Hermann Hesse, some think holding on makes you strong; but sometimes it is letting go. I'm getting closer to letting go.

Our Small, Everyday Interactions Matter

This is a picture of Pete's grandparents, Lucrezia(Louise) and Joseph Aniello. Grandma was born here in America in 1917 to Italian immigrants and Grandpa came to America from Italy when he was thirteen. I'm not sure why, but I find their history something to be proud of. Perhaps because my own people have little idea as to their roots. Grandma died yesterday in hospice care at the age of 96. Here is how I came to be an Aniello and how they accepted a very young and unpolished girl into their family and, unbeknownst to them, how important their everyday interactions with me through the years have been.

I met Pete in college at nineteen and we married a year later. In my family of origin I was considered an old maid by some, the fact that I went to college and wasn't pregnant put me ahead of the game in their eyes. I was well aware that the way things worked in my family wasn't the way things worked in all families. My best friend and maid of honor voiced her concerns at my age and the gravity of what I was taking on; bottom line, I watched my family and followed their lead. I didn't realize until much later that I was carrying this underlying sense of embarrassment around about being so young and married. When I met Pete's family I knew there must be some reservations about the viability of our relationship, but no one ever voiced them. I remember my first visit to Florida and my first big Italian meal at Grandma and Grandpa Aniello's. I was trying to make myself useful and was in the kitchen with Grandma helping with all the details for the gathering that was taking place. I specifically remember a conversation with Grandma about my unease at being so young and married, or something along those lines, and Grandma said, “Stop worrying about it, you make Peter happy” and then sent me into the dining room with a task to look after. She never mentioned this converstation again. This family has shown me a way of being that I had not seen before and, with Grandma's passing, I feel overwhemed by a sense of appreciation at knowing her. Grandma and Grandpa showed me unconditional acceptance and I had no idea how much this meant to me until now. I am often sad about my own family of origin, most of them do not embrace my awesomeness, yet, with this loss the reality is I do have a family that appreciates me...I just married into it.

We got to visit Grandma six weeks ago while we were in Florida. Sixteen of us crowded into her hospice apartment, most of us knowing it would be the last time we saw her, yet my heart was light with love. As I looked around her room it struck me how rich her life had been. I only hope that I am surrounded by the abundance of love and laughter when I grow old as Grandma was. In her room the walls were decorated with pictures from her childhood, her wedding day with Grandpa, the Saints from her beloved Catholicism, and pictures of various grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We took turns talking to Grandma when Ann (Pete's mother) said, “ Look around this room Mom. The priest said to go out and multiply and you sure did.” Even at 96 Grandma's personality shone through and her response was classic Grandma, “We only had two kids, this is on you people” and she rolled her eyes. I think Grandma would like the fact that when I think of her I will think of this interaction and smile.

How I Stumbled Into Conscious Living

 Pete and I have been discussing living a conscious life for the last few months and the difference we think it's made to our overall happiness.

What does living a conscious life mean? First, let me tell you what it doesn't mean. Getting a little yoga knowledge and turning into a self-righteous asshole. A new found love for healthy living and preaching to all the sinners still eating McDonald's about their evil ways. Assuming every fight you have with your husband is his fault. (Why did I find it so hard to be wrong?) Stepping up to the express lane at the grocery store with a LOT more than the maximum number of items and pretending you don't see the sign. All those behaviors that deep down, if you listen really closely, you can hear a little voice warning you might not be right. Ah, but making changes based on that little voice is easier said then done.

I began to inadvertently listen to that voice based solely on maternal instincts. Carrying a child can be a powerful catalyst for change.

What living a conscious life means to me is being ever vigilant of my behavior knowing that it directly affects the people around me. This notion was born for me the day I found out I was pregnant with Jayne. My two candy bar lunch chased down by a Big Gulp of Coke suddenly seemed wrong, so naturally, my journey into conscious living started with diet. Then, after Jayne was born, she was collicky and more of my darkness was exposed. The frustration arose quickly in those sleep deprived days and my instincts, so screwed up from my own childhood, was to shake her in anger. What I did instead was put her in the crib, lock myself in the bathroom, and cry with such self-loathing that I didn't think I would ever be able to look in the mirror again. I've stumbled along the way, but I seem to always find my way back. Having a child watching and emulating my behavior was a powerful motivator. I credit much of my mindfulness, my conscious living, to my studies of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras and the Buddha's Noble Eightfold Path. You don't have to study Eastern philosophy to get there though, Christ delivered a very similar message. To ferret out what exists within each of us that we find so disdainful and expose it to the light is the beginning of change. Once exposed, these behaviors, some of which are burried so deep, suddenly seem to have less of a hold on us. I've always been a happy person, but lately I feel, dare I say, blissfully happy and it's nice.    

Ode to the Country Archie Bunker

                                                              http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5-XFdGl0Vc

   

     I have this fantasy that my parents are aging hippies with a proclivity toward all things new age. When they come to visit in my fantasy we sit around and have deep conversations about stuff like the universal energy while eating quinoa and veggies. After dinner we might hang out under the stars drinking wine together in silence. My dad recently came to visit and reality was much different than fantasy. You see, my dad is a throwback to a different era, he's a country Archie Bunker and I am his Gloria. Growing up we were constantly at odds with each other. So much of what he espouses is just so wrong and I felt it was my job to open his eyes. It took me forty years to get it...he is who he is and he ain't changin'. It's rare for my dad to leave his comfort zone; Texas, Red Lobster, Cracker Barrel, a Casino. However, he is an awesome Papa (his choice of moniker, not ours) and for Jayne's graduation he came to California. I was both excited for him to visit and a little nervous; it's funny how, even as adults, there is some primitive desire to please our parents.

     I wanted so badly to bond with this man I have so little in common with, yet love so dearly, that I threw myself on the altar of our local San Manuel Tribe. I spent three hours in a smoke filled casino pushing buttons on a poker machine. I am a people watcher and noticed the other patrons seemed listless with an unhealthy pallor. I suppose the allure of hitting it big is better than sitting at home and watching Jerry Springer. Continuing the bonding experience we ate at Tony's Spunky Steer, dad's choice, he loves their downhome cookin'. As we chatted over fried chicken I tried to explain that Jayne's new found pescatarian lifestyle does not include chicken. In dad's world anyone who doesn't eat red or fried meat is a little suspect, especially men; men who don't eat meat must be a little light in the loafers. Like I said, he has a lot of opinions that can leave one speechless.

     My dad is not in the best of health and I decided one night at the Spunky Steer was enough so I volunteered to cook dinner at my house the next night. I chose to make jerk chicken and vegetables grilled kebob style with rice. I thought this wouldn't offend his sensibilities too much. As we ate I asked dad what he thought of the recipe? How foolish of me to assume a positive response was coming since he had just cleaned his plate. Always true to his Archie Bunker persona he responded, “Not too good”, then he threw me a bone, “I guess it was ok.” This is who my dad is, I know this, and my response was simply, “Well, it's healthy for you dad.” How close the old me was to the surface though, as it suddenly felt prudent to move on to a new subject as the possibility was very real that I might fly across the table while hurling a stream of profanities at him. Then, a few deep breathes later, and Yoga Lisa was back. I glanced at my father cooing over my sixteen month old niece and remembered how he held my daughter in the same way seventeen years ago, probably my sister, my brother, and myself as well. I could see in that moment that my father loves his children so quietly, yet so deeply, and just because it's not how I'm choosing to love doesn't mean it's not love. Once more my yoga is serving me off my mat as I embrace who my father is with an equanimity that allows me to love him just as he is. Now I will end this post with my dad's phone farewell to me each week, “Later”.

Wistful Joy

There are moments in this life that can bring you to your knees.

That shatter you into a thousand pieces.

Pain so extreme you think you might not survive......

That's what happens when you are truly, whole-heartedly engaged in life.

Glimpses of dark and light, love and hate, heartbreaking joy and earth shattering sorrow.

Pain so deep it can bring you to your knees, face down in the dirt,

begging for someone or something to make it stop.

In these moments we are broken wide-open, exposed beyond our knowing, and spent.

Yet, on the other side there's light. Always light.

It comes slowly and gradually like a change of season.

We wake one day and the pain is softer, muted to a dull ache.

With time the ache becomes a memory that is full of wistful joy.

And then our hearts are filled with an appreciation for loving so deeply,

sharing so profoundly this precious experience with another,

that we open our arms to the universe in anticipation.

Slow Down Ricky Bobby

     Growing up in the house of a bipolar honed my bobbing and weaving skills as my mother's moods could swing from playful to scornful in a nanosecond. As an adult this has manifested itself in a myriad of ways, some negative and needy, still others have been immensly important to my self-preservation. As my dad says “you don't have to hit me on the head twice” and on Wednesday my heart plummeted as I read between the lines of an email I received. I was asked to create the curriculum for a new Eastern Religion course at the college where I teach with the understanding that when the funding came in I could teach it. However, the budget has changed and they have funding for a full-time position in the Humanities Department. So, why don't I just apply for the position you ask? Because I have no classroom experience and that's a prerequisite (which when I get out of my heart I understand), so the bottom line is whomever they hire will be teaching the class I designed if they choose to implement it. 
     Eight hours later as I walked out the door heading to the college I received a phone call from a friend about a yoga venture we are delving into together. I was in a hurry to get to class and thought the implication of the phone call was that I wasn't going to be as involved as I originally thought.....great, more income lost before it even arrives, and just as we take on college payments. As I drove down the highway to class I was pissed at the universe, pissed at myself for not choosing a more marketable degree, pissed at my friend for cutting me out, just PISSED! We poor Midwest kids pride ourselves on our Ricky Bobby-like reflexes and, full disclosure, I'm an aggressive driver. Driving down the road I took my anger and disappointment out on my fellow unsuspecting coachmen. Then a whack to the head...am I really driving to teach the mellow, zen inspiring practice of yoga in a rage? My foot eased off the pedal and I sent up an apology to the universe for my behavior.

     As I walked to my classroom I realized my short-lived road rage was a good teaching tool. You see, this particular day in class happened to be the day I planned to talk about Dharana. Quick yoga lesson: Dharana is the sixth yoga branch and tells us we must concentrate on what we find when we move inward through pratyahara. Pratyahara is the fifth branch and is to remove ones senses from the outside world and to look inward. How does this relate to my tantrum? Without my meditation practice, both on and off the mat, I probably wouldn't have recognized my motivation on the road, or at least I wouldn't have done anything about it. That's the beauty of a yoga practice. Once you begin to slow down on the mat all the numbing out we do begins to wear off and, like it or not, feelings arise. As these feelings are exposed to the light we begin to see what is at the root of our behaviors. All the monsters in the closet are revealed as you begin to make friends with the lonely little trolls living behind the door. Another bonus is you begin to see that not getting what you want, or think you want, is not always the tragedy we make it out to be. Life goes on and you can choose to be as happy or as miserable as you decide. 
    It's a powerful moment when you realize your destiny is not dependent on the perfect job, or the perfect partner, or the perfect (fill in the blank). We find this truth by climbing up the yoga tree one branch at a time, delving ever deeper into our own psyche. Patanjali said it best: “The student of yoga should be compelled not only to acquire a right knowledge of what is and what is not real......while results in the way of psychic development are not so immediately seen as in the case of the successful practitioner of Hatha Yoga.” Once more the practice of yoga has shown itself to be a wonderful gift. Eye-rolling after reading this would not insult me, my daughter told me just last week how corny I am, but I don't care. I happen to be madly in love with my yoga.