Sunshine Soup

When I have someone in my life who is enduring something tough, just like you, I want to do something for them. With food a universal currency of comfort, I've made what I call "Sunshine Soup" my new offering. I prefer savory to sweet, and this soup is a unique alternative to baked goods or casseroles. It's a simple labor of love, easily deliverable, unexpected, and unencumbered. This soup is healthy and safe for gluten free and vegan friends; it's easy to cook in about an hour; and it's like a sunshiney warm hug. 

The recipe below is the vegan version of a carrot ginger soup with potential substitutions in parentheses.  I tend to adjust quantities as I cook, but I know these ratios below make a wonderfully smooth and creamy soup. Make your own soup thicker or thinner, tarter or sweeter, milder or spicier, etc... The recipe can be halved to make less than a full pot.  Adding curry powder or yellow Thai curry paste would easily make a Curry Carrot version (yum). This soup tastes great hot and even lukewarm--a winner for all seasons.

Sunshine Soup (Carrot Ginger)

Ingredients:

• 3 lbs of whole carrots, peeled and chopped in chunks
• One white onion, chopped
• I added two small sweet potatoes to today's batch, peeled and chopped, but this is optional
• A bunch of garlic, chopped
• A sizeable knob of ginger, peeled and chopped--I prefer light ginger, so add more at this stage if you want "ginger forward" flavor
• One seeded and chopped jalapeno or Thai chili, depending on your/friends' spice tolerance
• Coconut oil or olive oil--enough to saute onions and garlic (substitute butter if desired)
• A carton of vegetable broth (or chicken if desired)
• Two cans of coconut milk (milk or cream if desired)--Note:  this soup can also be made WITHOUT coconut milk if that's not your jam--to keep it vegan, add more broth to reach desired consistency at the blender stage
• Salt to taste
• 1TBS turmeric
• 1/2 to 1 cup citrus juice--I squeezed orange into the soup initially and then lime and lemon into later to taste, making it "brighter"

Making the Soup:

• In a sizeable pot, saute onion, garlic, ginger, and jalapeno in oil until onions are tender/translucent
• Add carrots (and optional sweet potato), turmeric, and juice; saute for a bit and then add broth
• Bring vegetables in broth to a boil and then simmer on low for 15-20 minutes until carrots are soft/easily cut through with a spoon
• Remove pot from heat; add a can of coconut milk and stir
• Blend with immersion blender (or in portions in a blender) until smooth.  My soup was too thick without the second can of coconut milk and was perfect after I added it.  Blend until smooth and creamy.  At this stage I added more citrus in squeezes until the soup tasted just right (IYKYK--and it's your own taste buds that know :))

Possible Garnishes/Toppings:

• I like a little dash of carraway seed with my carrot soup--pictured above.  Crunchy roasted chick peas are also awesome
• A friend who received this soup added her own seed mix on top for some crunch/texture, including pumpkin, sunflower, chia, and hemp seeds (this friend also claims the soup makes a great salad dressing!?)
• Cilantro (or a dollop of cilantro lime pesto?) would be delicious too, along with some sour cream/yogurt
• French fried/crunchy onions

Warm sunshiney hugs come in many versions and forms.  I hope you give and receive many!

I See You

Anyone else out there feeling vulnerable?

Coronavirus, and not knowing for sure what's next or right or reasonable in preparing for, preventing, and managing it, is our new shared, global, collective anxiety.  COVID-19 has also become part of the greater preexisting web of things we worry about, while expanding and exposing our already tender underbellies.

Quarantines and social distancing and closed schools and businesses are conspiring to keep us apart for our own good.  And yet, we need one another.  Because underlying This Big Worry are all the other stressors and circumstances, short- and long-term, big and small, which existed before and many of which will still be around after Coronavirus has peaked and then waned.

Maybe it's Daylight Savings.  Lack of sleep?  Elections.  Tragedy.  There's menopause.  Cancer diagnoses and treatments.  College applications, acceptances, and rejections.  Grades.  Finances.  The stock market.  Depression.  Parenting.  Providing.  Trying to make a doctor's appointment.  Your child's behavior.  Being a good __fill in the blank__.  Death in your family.  Fear of death in your family.  Taxes.  The news.  Accidents.  Social media.  Anxiety.  Report cards.  SAT tests and scores.  Being responsible; is this what it means to be responsible?  GPA.  Insurance.  Deferred maintenance.  That pit in your stomach. Your children. The Joneses. Marriage.  Dating.  Your appearance.  Driving.  Climate change.  Being left out or feeling left out or FOMO.  Natural disaster. Your to-do list.  Your job?  Mortgages, or rent.  That thing you said. Also that thing you didn't say.  Your carbon footprint.  Panicking...or not panicking?  Your parents' health. Missing your parents.  Your relationship with alcohol. Someone else's relationship with alcohol.  Your relationships.  Do you need therapy?  Therapy.  Passwords.  Travel.  Real ID. The DMV.  Copays. Aging.  Being dead. Suicide.  Living up.  Being there.  Being there when you can't be.  Nutrition.  Clean water.  Regret.  Wildfires.  Preparedness.  Helping others.  Doing your part.  Maintaining perspective.  Being aware.  Not overreacting. Putting your phone down.  Laundry.  Doing enough.  Organic food.  Charitable contributions.  Forgetting.  Animal rights. Violence.  Retirement.  Healthcare.  Job performance.  Balanced meals.  Landfills.  Recycling.  Faith.  Teenagers.  The cost of oil.  War.  Feeling accepted.  Feeling seen.

Vulnerabilities are normal and natural and every day; they accentuate our humanness and connect us with others.  They're why we innovate and why we experiment and create; they're why we write novels and poetry and plays and songs and make music and paint and sculpt and reach out and act courageously and help and represent others.  Sharing our vulnerabilities and connecting with others' fears and insecurities helps us feel less lonely.

Our vulnerabilities can also spotlight our least desirable tendencies; they're why we manipulate and hoard and judge and fear our neighbors and develop addictions and point fingers and lash out and isolate ourselves.

And we're all vulnerable right now in our new shared reality.  Social media posts would suggest that we are asserting or seeking validation that our own approaches to current circumstances make the most, best sense.  Despite our links to experts' advice and testimonials, most of us don't really know the actual best way forward.  So we muddle through, collectively, along both parallel and intersecting paths.

At the height of his own fearfulness, Scaredy Squirrel, a Master Paranoiac and Overreactor, fell out of his seemingly safe tree sanctuary and serendipitously discovered he could fly.

But it's not a great time for us to venture forth into the Great Unknown.  We are likely to be having to hunker down (or up in our trees) soon with our nut supply and a limited view.

If elbow bumps are the closest safe contact, hugging and helping become rare gifts.

And that's why it's more important than ever to poke our heads out of our trees, acknowledge one another from a safe distance, and share more than our excess toilet paper, as our other struggles appear to recede in significance in the face of this pandemic.

Because Coronavirus isn't our only reality.  It's not our only vulnerability.

I see you, parenting a child with disabilities.  I see you, cutting corners to make ends meet.  I see you, in charge of making the tough calls in times like these.   I see you, unable to visit elderly loved ones.  I see you, worried about a family member's mental health.  I see you, mourning the death of your parent(s).  I see you, minimizing your own stress while maximizing your availability for others.  I see you, wondering if you/he/she will graduate.  I see you, worrying about test results.  I see you, struggling to speak up.  I see you, researching resources to help yourself or someone else.  I see you, wondering if anyone notices.

I see you. 

I see you, trying hard every day.

Acknowledging the journeys of others, unfolding before us even from a distance, might be what keeps us best connected in these unprecedented but also normal times.

I see you, searching for meaning.  Whom can you help be and feel seen?

Eulogy: Sandy Ferguson 1947-2019

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My 11^th grade daughter frequently reminds us that she loves every single one of her teachers this year.  It’s  wonderful to know your child is inspired, loved, and motivated by her teachers.  In turn, she has genuine interest in who they are as people and thinkers.  I, like her, felt that extraordinary connection with my teachers at Coronado High School, and the idea that I could be part of the kind of relationships these giants in my life inspired is why I am an educator today. 

Sandy Ferguson, or “Ferg,” or "Fergie," and yes, we once dedicated the song "Fergalicious" to him at a Homecoming dance late in his career, was my teacher in 9^th and 10^th grade history and then for half of my classes in 12^th grade (for history, ASB, and then, well, I signed up to be his TA too).  I spent half of my school days my senior year with this man who was kind of like my dad at school.   I admired his humor, his expressive eyebrows, his handwriting, his VW bus, the tee shirts whose life he stretched past viable structural integrity, and that he ran on the beach. In turn, I felt smart, funny, capable, challenged, talented, understood, and real around and because of him.

Sandy Ferguson met each person he encountered, adult and child, with humanity first—not with authority, not with superiority, despite his intellectual prowess and vast funds of knowledge. Instead, it was as if he set out to demonstrate that taking mutual respect for granted actually made it happen.  He treated us like adults but understood that it was in our adolescent nature to test boundaries. He figured we’d learn from navigating them in the context of safe and trusting relationships with adults. He gave us independence and freedom as both students and leaders of our peers, saying yes more often than no, but challenging us to figure out if we got it right. A master of mischief himself, he tolerated our incessant pranking (we turned his posters upside down, moved classroom furniture to his office or the hallway--capers made possible by his often late arrival to class).  

He was also the teacher who called my parents in spring of senior year when I’d been accepted to college and was blowing off notes and assignments (after giving me fair warning). His manner of intervention was inspiring you to reflect on your own behavior, as if your choices and their consequences were a discussion you needed most to have with yourself. He taught us about geographical features like drumlins and all the rivers of South America, and then pushed us to think critically about history and politics and brought back former students to talk passionately about what they were learning in college.

Because I came back to Coronado to teach, I had the privilege to be not only Sandy’s student, but his colleague, and then his administrator, both supporting and feeling daily gratitude for his devotion to CHS and district athletics and facilities.  You can imagine how poignant it was when, after Sandy retired and Alzheimer's was affecting his acuity, he would stop by CHS from time to time and implore me to put him to work in any capacity.  I need to be here, he’d plead, I need to work with you all. And we made plans for him to come back and help, but it would be weeks or months before he returned.  And perhaps he might have regretted that it seemed too late for him.   And though his illness robbed our brilliant friend of many productive years, what I’d really like to say to Ferg is, you achieved it all in the time you had with us, and you, my mentor, also achieved Ralph Waldo Emerson’s definition of success:  "To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."

Thank you, Sandy Ferguson. 

List: Little Loves

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking of all the people and things I love as well as those which may never receive valentines, but nevertheless warrant my recognition and affection.

Here’s my Little I Love You list:

1.  Mittens and pacifiers and stuffed animals, etc. dropped out of strollers but picked up by someone and hung in a noticeable spot (fencepost, bench) in hopes that the owner will discover and recover that lost and loved item.
2.  Little kids sporting backpacks of disproportionate size to their growing bodies and featuring numerous dangling thingamajigs from zippers, etc.
3.  Plants that grow in seams and cracks of brick walls, freeways, bridges and other seemingly uninhabitable spots.
4. The transportation workers who are installing spikes on our bay bridge to prevent people from dying by suicide.  I hope they feel as important as they are in saving lives.
5. Yarn bombers and Banksy and Shepard Fairey and other folks who spread messages of goodwill or needed change through visual magestry.
6.  The kid in the class who, in moments of teacher exasperation, makes meaningful eye contact to convey, Yeah, I feel you. And every other form of similar kinship that happens subtly out there when two people share an empathic moment, even strangers in a crowd, traffic, subway car, etc.
7. People who feel little disappointments every day—not being picked for the team, not winning the classroom raffle, not getting the top score ever, not being asked or invited to the group thing, but who pick up and dust off and show up everyday cheerfully nonetheless.
8.  Hummingbirds and butterflies.
9.  Hilarious (and harmless) people on the internet.
10.  Elderly people with walkers or canes who walk their dogs daily, even in the rain.