A Mindful Life

I think Popeye’s Red Beans and Rice dish is incredibly yummy. I’ve searched for their recipe without luck, and so I’ve been experimenting. I believe I have discovered the closest approximation to their dish. It came out so savory, with lots of umami.

Red Beans and Rice (Crockpot)

1 pound dried red beans
2 to 2.5 lb. smoked pork shank
3 bay leaves
2 stalks celery, finely chopped
1 bell pepper (any color), finely chopped
2 large onions, finely chopped
5 cloves garlic, minced
3 Tbsp. bacon fat
1 tsp. thyme
1/4 to 1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tsp. black pepper
2 tsp. salt
1.75 to 2 quarts water
3/4 to 1 cup instant mashed potatoes

This can be made in a pot on the stove as well but requires more attention.

Sort and rinse beans, then soak overnight. Drain and rinse beans. Put the ham shank into a 4 qt. crockpot and add the beans and bay leaves. Melt the bacon fat in a saucepan; add the finely chopped vegetables and sautee until onions are translucent and veggies are softening. Mix in the thyme, cayenne, black pepper, and salt with the vegetables and stir. Pour this over the beans and ham in the crockpot. Add the water. It’s okay if some ham is exposed; it will cook down. Cover and turn the crockpot onto high for about six hours. (If using stove top, bring the mixture to a boil, then turn it down to simmer.) The goal is for the veggies to melt away into the broth as much as possible.

Remove the ham shank (it will be very tender and fall apart). Let cool a bit and then chop into small pieces. Throw away the extra fat and bones. Use a masher and mash the red beans in the pot, then return the meat to the crockpot and stir. Turn heat down to low and add the instant mashed potatoes to thicken. It is ready to serve then, but it can cook on low or warm for another hour or so.

Cook white or brown rice of your choice according to the directions on the package. Spoon rice into a bowl and ladle beans on top. Enjoy!

I really like David Attenborough, and I think the Vogel Cup Bowerbird is amazing – here.

It is daffodil time, so the robins all cry,
For the sun’s a big daffodil up in the sky,
And when down the midnight the owl calls “to-whoo”!
Why, then the round moon is a daffodil too;
Now sheer to the bough-tops the sap starts to climb,
So, merry my masters, it’s daffodil time.

–Clinton Scollard

Allie Brosh sums it up beautifully. While I am not soul-crushingly depressed as she was, even a bout of soul-pinching depression has deleterious effects. It’s insidious. I’ve known something is askew, but stumbling in the fog I wasn’t clear about it specifically. Until I read Allie’s Depression Part 2 post, and found myself re-reading it about 10 times a day since, as well as her first post about depression. The fog cleared just enough to identify that yes, I am depressed. I used to get into a bout of it in springtime in years past; it had been a few years, and I’d forgotten about that.

First: Adventures in Depression by Allie Brosh @ Hyperbole and a Half

Second: Depression Part 2 by Allie Brosh @ Hyperbole and a Half

Over the past months I have slogged through feeling:
Hopeless
Helpless
Unmotivated
Pessimistic
Irritable
Angry
Sad
Exhausted
Isolated
Disconnected
Listless
Restless
Insomnia
Foggy-brained
Absent libido

You might argue that this is the human condition. And while that is true to a point, experiencing all these feelings consistently for the past many weeks signifies something is wrong.

I wish my blog were famous and had millions of readers so this video could reach many, many people.

If the video doesn’t show/play then click to watch it here.

I’ve not read any of David Foster Wallace’s books, but hearing this speech I can’t help but wish he was still alive.

If there’s a thing, a scene, maybe, an image that you want to see real bad, that you need to see but it doesn’t exist in the world around you, at least not in the form that you envision, then you create it so that you can look at it and have it around, or show it to other people who wouldn’t have imagined it because they perceive reality in a more narrow, predictable way. And that’s it. That’s all an artist does.

– Tom Robbins

Analysis has its peculiar scientific value, but the Spirit which passes from one person to another as a flame leaps from one coal to another grasps truth in its wholeness as a living thing united within itself. …Spiritual truth cannot be sharply defined like scientific truth. It exists on the dim edge of the unexplored region beyond the horizon of self-conscious thought. The language of the Spirit is symbolic and its suggestions are not so much facts as signs which point beyond themselves to the unseen ground of all existence. So inarticulate sometimes is the voice of the Spirit that it can be expressed only by a sigh, or even by complete silence.

-Howard Brinton

Oh, to sink into silence. To breathe. To wait.
No rituals, no incense, no chants, no words. Just silence
and a straight-backed wooden chair.

The silence is alive. Traffic zips down the highway.
Chairs creak. Birds gossip. Someone coughs or sniffs.
But if you really listen, you can hear the sunshine singing.

Sometimes the entire hour passes in silence. Other times
a few rise to speak, to share whatever they felt led
to share prompted by their discernment.

To wait in the Spirit, in Love, connecting with
and through each other. The tender embrace of silence.
Opening the door within. Welcome, quietude! Welcome.

After the hour someone shakes another’s hand,
signaling the end of silent worship; then handshakes
and smiles ripple through the room.

The invitation comes to share what we did not feel truly prompted
by the Divine to share in worship. Announcements are made.
An invitation is given to refreshments and conversation next door.

That is the Meeting of Friends.

…over the margins of life comes a whisper, a faint call, a premonition of richer living which we know we are passing by. Strained by the very mad pace of our daily outer burdens, we are further strained by an inward uneasiness, because we have hints that there is a way of life vastly richer and deeper than all this hurried existence, a life of unhurried serenity and peace and power. If only we could slip over into that Center! … There is a divine Abyss within us all, a holy Infinite Center, a Heart, a Life who speaks in us and through us to the world.

-Thomas R. Kelly, 1941
Faith and Practice, Religious Society of Friends (Quaker)

THE AFTERLIFE

They’re moving off in all imaginable directions,
each according to his own private belief,
and this is the secret that silent Lazarus would not reveal:
that everyone is right, as it turns out.
you go to the place you always thought you would go,
the place you kept lit in an alcove in your head.

Some are being shot into a funnel of flashing colors
into a zone of light, white as a January sun.
Others are standing naked before a forbidding judge who sits
with a golden ladder on one side, a coal chute on the other.

Some have already joined the celestial choir
and are singing as if they have been doing this forever,
while the less inventive find themselves stuck
in a big air conditioned room full of food and chorus girls.

Some are approaching the apartment of the female God,
a woman in her forties with short wiry hair
and glasses hanging from her neck by a string.
With one eye she regards the dead through a hole in her door.

There are those who are squeezing into the bodies
of animals – eagles and leopards – and one trying on
the skin of a monkey like a tight suit,
ready to begin another life in a more simple key,

while others float off into some benign vagueness,
little units of energy heading for the ultimate elsewhere.

There are even a few classicists being led to an underworld
by a mythological creature with a beard and hooves.
He will bring them to the mouth of the furious cave
guarded over by Edith Hamilton and her three-headed dog.

The rest just lie on their backs in their coffins
wishing they could return so they could learn Italian
or see the pyramids, or play some golf in a light rain.
They wish they could wake in the morning like you
and stand at a window examining the winter trees,
every branch traced with the ghost writing of snow.

–Billy Collins