Silence is my trauma response. When I do not feel free to be me, I close ranks. I batten down the hatches, throw up impenetrable barricades, and hide my true self from you.
It is an internal flight. I’m still there, guarding my words, playing the angel game that I learned as a child.
I don’t have the patience for it anymore. My tolerance for BS has diminished over the years. At 62, I am more vocal. I stand my ground and speak my peace. Yes, peace. I’m not arguing with anyone. It’s not a war.
That means that there must be a third… fight, flight, or just be your own true self, confident in your own right. I like the old woman me, more crone than sweet old lady.
My blog has been in a flight mode while I recovered. Thanks for reading!
This is one of those “how to feed a family on not much of anything” potato soup recipes, so adjust ingredients or measurements to what you have on hand and season as you please.
Ingredients:
6 to 8 med. Russet potatoes, peeled and sliced into a heavy saucepan.
Just enough cold water to almost cover the potatoes
1/2 stick butter (put 3 T. in pan with potatoes and 1 T. into a small skillet)
1 sm. can chicken (drain juice into pan of potatoes, reserve meat for later)
1 env. Goya chicken or a bouillon cube
1/4 c. chopped onion
1/2 c. corn, drained
1/4 c. crumbled cooked bacon, optional
1 T. dried minced chives
Salt & Pepper to taste
1/2 c. sour cream
1/4 c. milk or evaporated milk, if needed
Cheddar cheese, for garnish
Bring potatoes, water, 3 T. butter, and juice from canned chicken to boil over medium heat. Add chicken broth seasoning.
Meanwhile, saute onion in butter until they start to soften; add corn and bacon bits. Continue to saute until onion is tender.
Add onion mixture to pot of potatoes. Cook until potatoes break easily when stirred or poked with a fork. Reduce heat to low. Add reserved chicken, chives, and sour cream. Think with milk, if desired. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Gently heat through and serve topped with grated cheddar cheese.
VARIATIONS: replace canned chicken with a can of minced clams, add mushrooms. Use chunks of ham or sliced kielbasa instead of chicken, omit bacon. Omit meats and chicken seasoning for just potato soup, toss in leftover veggies, etc.
Is it good? Ask my grandsons. They went from “ewe, I don’t want to eat that” to “umm, this is good” real quick.
My apologies for the lack of step-by-step photos. This isn’t a cooking blog. I just post recipes now and then as someday, those boys might get nostalgic for grandma’s cooking and find this online after I’m long gone. Thanks for reading!
Just before I went to bed last night, I added water to a clean kitty litter bucket that was loosely filled with shredded paper and stirred it with my hands. It felt kind of nasty. I wondered if I could deal with the textures in this, my first attempt at making paper.
Today, I am stirring with a wooden spoon, a.k.a. magic wand, to stir in words of affirmation spoken in my dreams.
I did not expect to dream of making paper sprinkled with dried petals and such, even though that is what I plan to do. I did not expect to dream of conversations while making paper with those long come and gone, both living and dead. Tis a bit sad when the man who claimed to never dream wanders into mine as there is no reciprocation. Yes, I want mutual haunting.
I woke myself up by speaking a word of affirmation out loud, then drifted back into the same dreams. I don’t remember what it was, but I’m sure to recognize it if I see or hear it. That word, whatever it was, must have some kind of significance.
We talked about making affirmation cards on homemade papers in the second or third dream.
It’s unusual to have a dream that continues all night long, despite several awakenings. And even more unusual to wake up feeling so peaceful and refreshed, as if it was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time. I savored the sensation and drifted out again.
The last dream was a bit odd. He who cannot dream visited mine, but instead of him being an elusive figure off in a crowd, we sat and talked for awhile, comfy as old friends. He gave me a stack of worn jeans to weave into rag rugs. I asked if he was still alive. The dream ended with me walking alone into a town hall meeting carrying just my own folded jeans, feeling vulnerable and exposed with bare legs and beige underwear, looking for an empty seat.
Now, if I could just remember that word… whatever it was, may his mother’s wooden spoon stir it in.
Barnbees 