HOW DO YOU FIND THE TIME?

This is a loaded question, don't you think?  We do not "find" time, we make time for the things we care about.

Some of you know I am a proponent of  "The Fifteen Minute Method" in which you work 15 minutes a day on something you are trying to finish, to accomplish, to get rid of, or dying to start, and so forth.  You can think, 15 minutes out of 24 hours is not going to kill you.  You can exercise for 15 minutes, study something for 15 minutes, not a big deal. This works.

As I write, one of my kitchens is being torn apart. Preparation for this event threw a big monkey wrench into my daily routine, and of course, frustrations set in because my time was consumed by packing up, cleaning and throwing out (not a bad idea) and the rest of my ongoing activities were sliding by, undone, unpracticed, unfinished.

I rethought my Fifteen Minute Method considering the current circumstances by choosing 4 activities that are important to me and assigning 30 minutes a day to each one.  Then I made a grid of 4 blocks to fill in as I completed each 30 minutes.

Here are the activities, listed not in order of importance.  They are all important to my daily life, my sense of well being, my sense of self.  Piano Practice; Writing; Drawing; Exercise. You can see that there is nothing about cleaning house or making money or using Facebook or shopping for groceries.

This first week was a revelation. 

DORA AND THE ITALIANS

I have always had Russian neighbors in this San Francisco Richmond District apartment building. Many comings and goings of very interesting people, like the White Russian  couple, each born in China, reuniting and marrying in San Francisco. Then there was the guy who liked to shove his furniture out the window to the sidewalk below as a more expedient method of moving things. He also painted the interior of his apartment a hideous shade of pink.  Oh My. Then there was Dora, who made Italian style cookies.

The Russian population eventually settled down to 2 couples, Dora and her  husband, living directly above, and Rosa and her husband, living on 3rd floor. I don't know how it started, but the women and I began exchanging food with each other.

Rosa is still famous for her piroshki, which she brings down periodically steaming hot.  Dora was famous for her cookies, which resembled biscotti. The first bite was instant love;  being rather relentless about acquiring recipes of tasty foods, I started to organize a kitchen meeting with Dora, to learn how to make them, and Rosa as the translator, for Dora spoke no English. The trick was getting them here at the same time.

Dates were made and broken for about 2 years. Then suddenly without warning, Dora appeared at my door, ready to make cookies.  No Rosa.  I quickly  calculated that I probably had the ingredients on hand, and somehow we could manage. Next, I got out flour, butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, salt, and a big bowl, measuring cups and spoons. Dora would indicate how much of each item; I made a stab at measuring, and wrote down quickly on a torn up piece of paper.   

We made the dough, formed the logs, baked, cut, re-baked. Same delicious stuff.  Was I happy!

We did it! Kisses and hugs and smiles all around. And cookies.

A couple years later, Dora left us for the Heavens, and I organized the neighbors to go to the funeral at the Jewish Funeral Home on Divisadero. Banks and banks of flowers, Russian style! (We saw this in Leningrad, whole bodies banked in flowers.) Dora's son,, Isaac, invited us to the apartment for refreshments afterward. Upstairs, lots of people, a regular feast of Russian food laid out, along with strong drink. It was very noisy and animated.  I started to remember the cookie episode  and thought the relatives might like to hear about this.. In a booming voice the son drowned out everyone, telling them to listen to my story.

And so I told them the whole thing, adding at the end, that I never understood why Dora, from the Ukraine, made this particular kind of cookie.  

A woman spoke up, maybe her daughter-in-law: "Oh, didn't you know? Dora was a prisoner of war in a concentration camp, guarded by Italians. She learned it from the Italians! And she promised me the recipe but I never got it."

"I have the recipe," I said, and raced downstairs to my computer and within minutes handed it to this woman.

Last Visit with MFK Fisher

It was a dark and stormy night, 1991. A ridiculous night to drive from San Francisco to Glen Ellen, just before Christmas.  But the invitation was plain, and imperative; MFK Fisher had asked us to come for supper. This was something one did not turn down.  MFK Fisher was the front runner of food writers for years, a national treasure, my friend, and she was dying.

We arrived at the house on time. All was dark.  Did I make a mistake?  No, a girl named Terra opened the door and welcomed us . Was there a fire in the fireplace? No. Was the table set? No. Again, did I make a mistake? We had a bottle of wine with us, soon opened, and we drank in the dark room.  "She'll be able to see you soon," Terra said.  This would be in her bedroom up a few stairs past the bookshelves filled with French titles.( Did you know she did a translation of Brillat-Savarin's famous book?) With the wind howling outside and it being very dark, I had a sensation of being in a very large castle somewhere near the bottom floor.

In the meantime the room began to come to life. A fire was lit (or turned on to resemble fire, I can't remember) and Terra  set the table for two.  "After you eat, she will see you," Terra said. Out came homemade bread and butter, a small pate, some cheeses, and a Cornish Game hen that had been split neatly in two, revealing glistening fruit that was the stuffing. Dessert was a small terrine of wild rice pudding.  Of course, all of this food had been brought in by friends and neighbors, as was the custom. We lingered over the wine, and finally I was summoned to go to her.

A real hospital bed had been brought in for her, but it was a shock to see her lying in it.  She smiled brightly and made murmuring noises, then saying once again, "I want to ask you everything and I can ask you nothing,"; I had heard this many times. She motioned for me to go to a small box on her dresser  that had very small silvery balls. She took them in her hands, waved me down close to her, and shook the balls.  The most incredible music was coming from them, tinkling merriment.  Her eyes sparkled as she listened. I knew it was already time to go. I had a feeling of finality about this , but I smiled and held her hands and told her I loved her, saying  goodbye without saying it.

We said  thank you to Terra, and stepped out into the cold. Impulsively I turned back, tearing a beautiful scarf of golds and purples purchased in St. Maarten, from my neck,  handing it to Terra to give to Mary Francis: I knew she loved purple. Then we drove back to San Francisco with the shades of winter hounding us all the way, but I was possessed with a glow that only a loving effort can create, born in the heart to stay forever.

A Good Excuse

The promised stories will appear directly; there has been a 3 week interval of computer shutdown.  I used the time to do some new knitting and baking and getting ready for the installation of new kitchen cabinets, countertop and sink.  We also had a flood  and big problems with the heat.  This is reminding me of a comment by an old friend whose name was Coral.  She told me she was late one day to pick up her mother. As soon as mother got into the car, Coral started on a stream of excuses.  Mother said, " My Dear, if you have a good excuse, one is enough."