Last Night's Nums: Mediterranean Mac and Cheese

Anyone who knows me well (or has simply had a conversation with me about food) knows that I'm an annoying elitist about my mac'n'cheese recipe. Being a Southern Girl, mac'n'cheese is an important staple in my food repertoire. I'm not just an elitist about my recipe, I'm an elitist about how it's prepared at all (I'm sorry, but pouring cheese sauce over pasta does not count as "mac'n'cheese").

So you know that I'm not likely to give any other macaroni and cheese dish a chance unless it looks pretty damn good.

Enter Mediterranean Mac and Cheese. I discovered the recipe on Tumblr, an adaptation from a Martha Stewart recipe. Okay sure, why the hell not? Especially when it includes a cast of ingredients like this:

The result was a very tasty blend of Mediterranean flavors tossed together with a traditional macaroni and cheese. Pretty good, I must say, though a bit runny; I'll be sure to drain my tomatoes better next time and will probably add more cheese.

As always, I diverged from the recipe here and there. My trouble-with-authority moments are noted in italics after the original recipe.

You will need:

• 1 (14.5 oz) can fire roasted, diced tomatoes, drained well
• 1/3 cup chopped black or kalamata olives
• 1 Tbsp chopped fresh basil, plus more for garnish [LOL, no. I used an entire handful.]
• 1/2 tsp dried oregano [Again, no. I likely added upwards of two teaspoons here.]
• 8 oz elbow macaroni pasta [I had whole wheat noodles, so that's what I used.]
• 2 Tbsp butter, plus more for baking dish
• 2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
• 1/3 cup chopped red onion
• 1 large clove garlic, finely minced [Y'all know I always scoff at this notion of "one garlic clove." Nope, my recipe included no fewer than four, and I wouldn't recommend doing it any differently.]
• 3 Tbsp flour
• 2 cups whole milk [I used 2%]
• 4 oz crumbled feta cheese
• 4 oz shredded mozzarella cheese
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter an 8 by 8-inch baking dish or a 9-inch deep dish pie dish, set aside. Boil pasta to al dente according to directions listed on package. Drain pasta well and return to pot.
2. In a small mixing bowl, combine red onion, garlic, drained diced tomatoes, chopped olives, most of your basil, and dried oregano. Meanwhile, melt butter along with olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add mixture, about 3 - 4 minutes.
3. Lower heat to medium. Whisk in flour, and cook stirring constantly for about 30 seconds to a minute. While whisking vigorously, slowly pour in milk. Increase heat back to medium-high and bring mixture just to a boil, stirring constantly. Once mixture reaches a boil reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring constantly until mixture has thickened, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat, stir in 2 tbsp feta cheese and mozzarella cheese then season with salt and pepper to taste.
4. Pour sauce  mixture over drained pasta in pot and toss to evenly coat. Spread into prepared baking dish. Sprinkle top evenly with remaining crumbled feta cheese. Bake in preheated oven 20 - 25 minutes until edges are bubbling and top is golden brown. Serve warm garnished with fresh basil. 

Enjoy!!

The Nice Guy Hijacker

For better or worse, rape culture has become an increasingly popular topic of conversation in both feminist and non-feminist circles alike. From politicians shooting themselves in the foot to survivors being empowered to speak about their experiences, conversations about sexual violence have pushed their way to the forefront of sociopolitical discourse.

Let me pause here to say that I define rape culture as a culture in which rape and sexual violence against oppressed and sexually-vulnerable people are systematically excused, tolerated, or condoned. One does not have to actually assault someone to perpetuate rape culture: one may contribute to rape culture by participating in victim blaming, by diminishing the importance of consent, by making or excusing "rape jokes," or simply by denying the existence of sexual oppression. Rape culture is also perpetuated by other kinds of attacks including sexual harassment and the use of sexually oppressive language.

I also wish to clarify that rape culture does not only affect women. Any number of oppressed people are likely to find themselves vulnerable to sexual attack at one point or another. Cis-women receive a large portion of attention in this area, but LGBTQ folks and incarcerated people are also highly vulnerable to being attacked or oppressed as a result of rape culture. And while heterosexual cis-men are occasionally assaulted by female attackers, patriarchy continues maintain the hierarchies that perpetuate the cycle of sexual violence, even when the assault is perpetrated by women.

That being said, this whole "nice guy non-rapist" thing has got to stop. On more than one occasion over the past week, I have been engaged in deep and respectful conversations about rape culture only to have the thread hijacked by some guy's pious remarks about his status as a "non-rapist."

One such incident was a Facebook thread where a person had inquired about the needs of assault survivors in health care. The original poster was a health care worker and wanted to know how she could provide respectful and compassionate care to folks with a history of sexual assault. A respondent replied by sharing her experience in detail: a survivor of an abusive relationship that included many instances of rape and emotional abuse, she spoke candidly about how she feels the health care system has failed her. Others came forth to offer support, sharing our own experiences about times we've felt violated in one way or another. The conversation was absolutely enlightening, respectful, and supportive. There was a sense of camaraderie and sisterhood even though many of us didn't know each other in real life. Then came the Hijacker.

"Can I just say I'm really happy to be a part of this conversation. I'm proud to say I'm not a rapist and I never will be. I don't understand how a guy could do that to someone." And just like that, the conversation was over. No one responded. No one continued to share.

It's difficult to navigate this kind of thing. On the one hand, wasn't he just offering his support? Wasn't he just vocalizing his appreciation that our conversation was happening? Wasn't he just, dare I say, being nice?

I'm positive that these are things he thought he was doing, and in that respect it's very difficult to tell him not to do them. But whether the he knew it or not, his entry into the conversation was unwelcome. It hijacked a situation where people with shared experiences were listening to and learning from one another. It silenced us, and his claims of being "a part of this conversation" just added insult to injury. However, to tell him these things - to suggest he butt out - would likely be met with hostility, not to mention those cries of "I was just being nice" that fatigue me to no end.

And again, I don't doubt he felt he was doing a good thing by letting us know he supported us and had no intention of raping any of us. But you can't argue with results: these kinds of comments - whether it's a guy saying he's not a misogynist or a while person saying they're not racist - always bring conversations about oppression to a screeching halt. It violates the safe space that individuals with shared experiences have built for their own use. Not to mention, it smacks of masturbatory self-importance, a person's way of acknowledging that oppression exists while summarily excusing themselves of any way they might have contributed to it.

Now one could argue that this was Facebook, and doesn't everybody have the right to comment? This is true, however, just because you can doesn't mean you should. There is value in silencing yourself to make space for voices that are usually silenced. Those of us with a certain amount of privilege find this a difficult pill to swallow. We've known our entire lives that we have the right to free speech. We should speak our minds and anyone who tells us otherwise is violating our rights. But again, just because you can doesn't mean you should; you can make space for others to claim that same right simply by curbing your claim to it.

So the next question here is likely to be, if you shouldn't speak up in these conversations, what should you do?

Put simply, you should learn that you don't get a medal for not being an asshole. You should accept that you don't deserve thanks for being an ally, but rather see your desire to be an ally as a charge to never stop examining your role in the oppression of others. Most of all, however, you should shut up and listen. You should make space for other voices, and you should do so because it's the right thing to do, not because people will thank you for it (they won't).

But if you still have that desire to get rewarded for your valiant efforts at not being a rapist, I can offer you this:

That moment when you learn your client's doc is a flaming antichoicer...

I have a client due in a couple of months who is under the care of an obstetrician I've yet to meet. I asked the mama-to-be a few simple questions about his philosophy, how she's felt about her care thus far, etc. But of course I like to do my own research so I know what to expect when the day arrives.

So I found the Facebook page of this doctor's medical practice. The first thing I noticed was that it's affiliated with a large, multi-state health care network that runs a few hospitals and many physician-led practices. But then I noted a prevalence of anti-abortion, anti-contraception, and even anti-LGBTIQ links. (Because having a position on gay marriage so relates to the process of pregnancy and childbirth.) Overall, I'm thinking at this point that this is highly unprofessional. Divisive social issues have no place on the professional page of a medical practice.

The furthest I go on my doula business' page is promote myself as someone who is inclusive regardless of family structure, is experienced in supporting families through all kinds of loss, and believes that quality health care is a human right. These are the least divisive ways I can think to pen it. But it translates broadly without me taking a clear and divisive position on the issues: an LGBTIQ person or a family with a non-traditional structure will know that I will respect them and want to work with them. A person who's choosing to terminate as well as a person who will experience unintended loss will know I can support them as well. There is such a thing as marketing yourself towards certain types of people without taking divisive hard-line positions on things.

And I think I'm pretty good at it. I've had doula clients tell me straight up that they are personally against abortion. Since they were planning a birth, it wasn't an issue, even when they knew I had a different view. And we worked well together with compassion and respect. I don't hide the fact that I'm pro-choice and inclusive of all individuals and family structures; my philosophy has always been that if my sociopolitical beliefs are going to turn you off from me, there's probably also some personality traits that will make me a bad fit, and I am not the right doula for you. But that doesn't mean I flaunt my beliefs to countless families that might be looking for someone to support them through the birth of their child, especially when it's completely irrelevant to their situation.

Let me say this: he's open about it, and I respect that. And honestly, he's free to run his practice in whatever way he pleases. But the affiliation with one of our state's largest, secular health care networks... that is what's getting to me.

That and the privilege. OH THE PRIVILEGE. That someone can publicize their views on the most divisive social issues all over their business page and not have to worry about it hurting their business is the definition of privilege. Like the small businesses - landscaping, towing, etc - that have Jesus fish on their logos. Can you imagine what would happen if a business put the Muslim star and crescent on their marketing materials? Forget losing customers, in some areas their business would be viciously attacked, verbally or worse.

Whatever. He'll be the guy at the foot of the bed, catching my client's baby. He's a supporter of natural childbirth, and hell, he's the one that pushed her to consider a doula in the first place. I can get past his publicly-stated conservative views so long as he treats her with respect and honors her wishes. I'm not there for him, I'm there for her.

...and then I was Home.

I just re-read my 2011 Farewell Letter. It's airy, idealistic, and ambiguous. Mostly because that's how things felt at last year's end. I had no idea how 2012 would go, but I was privileged to begin it with the person I hoped to spend it with. And I did. And things have gone from ambiguous to concrete, which is in and of itself a wonderful thing, if not far more boring than the flighty idealism that I began the year with.

My partner and I are in a good place. We've made some huge changes in our lives, strengthened our commitment to one another, and navigated past some fairly complicated road blocks. More on that later.

I've continued healing from my past relationship, locating my baggage and acknowledging that I will probably carry it for years. I've learned to let go of the fact that I cannot be the one to tell him what I think he needs to hear. While I was never perfect, I am not a bad person. Let me be clear that he didn't actively seek to make me feel like one, but for the length of our relationship, that is what he did to me. Learning these things about him, through hours and hours of therapeutic processing, has in and of itself allowed me to let him go for good. If that means we're not friends anymore, it means we're not friends anymore. But I cannot be responsible for him, his actions, or the way he treated me. As I'm often so fond of saying, shit ain't mine.

A major thing I've learned this year may surprise some: I realized I am far too agreeable. That's probably a funny thought for anyone who knows me politically, but for those acquainted with my personal life, it should make perfect sense. So this year has been about beginning a new pattern, where I speak up if something is bothering me, not worry about inconveniencing someone if it's a reasonable request, and just generally be more honest about what I want and need in life. Again, those who only know me as the raving feminist with all the crazy opinions will read this and ask how on earth they're going to deal with me being even less agreeable, but that's not the arena of my life that's needed work.

But the biggest event in my life involves finding myself and where I belong. Looking around my house this morning, I realized it feels more like Home than it ever has.

There's something profound about the word Home. To many, home is merely a place you keep your  things and sleep at night. But they're wrong. What makes Home different from your house is simple: how does it make you feel?

At Home, we are at ease. We find comfort, solace, and pure acceptance for who we are. By definition, an enormous portion of the population is Homeless. By definition, I've been Homeless for years.

You'd think my lack of Home during my relationship with C would have tipped me off. But we're good at kidding ourselves, of creating the illusion of Home as a matter of survival. And I don't blame myself for refusing to see the truth; leaving is complicated. I guess I should give C a break on that one... abandonment was indeed the easier path.

But back to Home. It happened so organically. Almost as if it was fate. It's cliche in a way, but it's true. Going from Homeless to just happily rootless in 2011 has given way to my 2012, where I discovered how profoundly I fit in in spaces I did not even know existed. I've made new friends that immediately accepted me as I am, and I them. My old friends feel closer, golden with years of memories combined with my newly-found comfort to be open about everything I am and want.

My life continues to transition, as I hope it always does, but my roots are stronger, clearer, and more defined. Upheaval is met with more confidence, uncertainty with courage and calculated steps forward. My head is clearer, I know what I want most of the time, and I'm trying to be better at achieving it. Large-scale life changes no longer frighten me or pull me into a cycle of complete panic and anxiety. And if nothing else, I know any level of crazy I need to pull out will be met with love, compassion, and support.

I am Home.

Prescribed Addiction

I'll preface by saying that the following is not meant to diminish the experiences of those who have dealt with (and perhaps overcome) addiction to recreational substances. I recognize that my prescription drug is a) legal, b) easy to obtain, c) fairly cheap, and d) not likely to land me in legal trouble any time soon. But seeing how it is as close as I'll hopefully ever come to feeling "like an addict," I believe my experience with Paxil is one that deserves to be spoken about.

I started taking Paxil a little over 12 years ago. What was going on in my life: I was sixteen, looking towards beginning my junior year at an expensive private high school in Atlanta's ritzier neighborhood. Death had encompassed my life over the previous year as I dealt with the passing of five people close to me: three elderly family members, one suicide by a queer teenaged friend, and a close relative of my best friend that died suddenly and unexpectedly at a young age. While I did not personally know the latter, his was the one that hit me hardest. He was young, barely into college the way I remember it. He had an undiagnosed heart condition that had never caused him any trouble until he was just... gone. Young people dying suddenly and without notice. That was scary for me.

The panic attacks became so regular that my life was on hold. I could not so much as stand up out of bed without the crippling feeling like my heart was going to give out. But really... why would it have? I was a dancer, one of the most active kids in my peer group. I was healthy, ate well, had no family history of congenital organ defects. But people who suffer from panic disorder are irrational by definition.

So my parents did what was likely the only thing to get me back on my feet before school started back up: took me to a shrink who would give me pills. After all, legitimate panic disorder manifests as a true chemical imbalance (shut up Tom Cruise, you're an idiot), so drug therapy was surely the proper treatment.

It worked so miraculously that we all but forgot to look for the underlying cause of the imbalance. I understand now that chemical imbalances rarely "just happen" and that drug therapy is best used as a temporary solution in conjunction with whatever will get to the heart of it all. Of course my teenaged self wasn't about to ask questions. After all, I was one of many sixteen year olds on SSRIs. In 2000, it had become as normal as teen angst, and all I had to do was take a pill. Take a pill, feel normal, repeat.

After a decade of this, I started thinking about my reproductive future. Paxil is not safe to take during pregnancy, and I would not will the risk of heart anomalies on a future child. So I'm in therapy (the kind with a person who doesn't have prescription privileges), working on whatever it is I think I should be working on. Hopefully I'll go off the drug one day, but past attempts have not fared well.

Anyway, Paxil is known for its withdrawal symptoms. I've had quite a few experiences with this. I forget to get my prescription refilled before the pharmacy closes, and so I have to wait until morning. Those nights are hell. I had one last night.

These are the moments that make me feel like a drug addict, where I feel as though I can sympathize - if only mildly - with people who have battled addictions themselves. I woke up a number of times overnight after having vivid nightmares. Cold sweat. Hot but freezing. Mouth dry. Sheets below me damp with perspiration, dizzy and emotional. These are not the symptoms of panic disorder itself as the drug manufacturers would like you to believe; this is drug withdrawal.

That this kind of thing can result from a legal drug, one that is prescribed to millions with promises of "normalcy" while innocuous substances like marijuana carry severe life-ruining consequences, is beyond my comprehension. My psychiatrist is a drug peddler, pure and simple. He requires one appointment every two years to continue refilling your prescription. The last one was immediately after my husband left me. In our 20 minute phone conversation, the only real advice he offered was to up my dose from 20mg/day to 30mg/day. (I did not ever do this... my marriage was ending, I wasn't supposed to feel normal.) The Klonopin he also prescribed proved a beneficial bandage as well, but I've learned that this man's job is not to fix but to drug.

And such is the problem with our society's treatment of mental illness. We assume these things "just happen," so just take this drug, don't worry about it, you don't need to look inward to find answers. Or rather, we don't have the time to soul-search for their roots. Drugging is easier, it's cheaper, and it's not at all time consuming. My current therapy is definitely not easy. It's not cheap. It takes time. I'm privileged to have the ability to do it, and in the long run it will be way less expensive than whatever health problems I'll experience from the decade plus of Paxil exposure. But again... we're not a society set up to prioritize those kinds of holistic self-care practices.

So we drug. And drug. And drug some more.

"Rejection" Video: From viral video to assault epidemic

Totally not discussing the election today. Because really... no.

There's a video a lot of people are posting where a boy toddler is repeatedly and aggressively pressing himself against a girl toddler despite her continued efforts to push him away. People are absolutely cooing over it, remarking at how adorable it is and "awe he's in love," and "oh look that little girl is so assertive and cute."

I gotta say, it's not friggin cute. It's an absolute disregard of this little girl’s boundaries. Then there's the adult behind the camera, giggling and doing nothing... how disgusting. And how analogous it is to when grown men don’t take no for an answer, no matter how much a woman pushes and shoves and says no.

You might say, but they're just babies. They don't know any better. "Boys will be boys." Oh yeah? And at what age, exactly, does this kind of invasive behavior become "not okay," because I've heard people use the same excuse for college-aged men who sexually harass women. And what better time to teach someone that pushing himself (or herself) upon a person who clearly doesn't want to be touched is not fucking okay? Instead, we film it and redistribute it all over the internet, cooing and laughing. Gross.

This is how we teach boys not to respect women’s spaces.

Last Night's Nums: Braised Coconut Spinach and Chickpeas

This was a very simple recipe that, while curry-ish, was a nice change from the constant legitimate curries we eat around here. It's very flavorful and goes well over brown rice (though any grain would probably work). What's more, it's made almost entirely from things we regularly stock, so it's a nice thing to throw together on those nights where you want to eat in but haven't thought ahead enough to go shopping.

You will need:

2 teaspoons oil or ghee
1 small yellow onion
2 cups red potato, chopped into 1" chunks
4 large cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger
2 teaspoons turmeric
1/3 cup sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1 large lemon, zested and juiced (about 2 tablespoons juice)
Dash of red pepper flakes
15-ounce can chickpeas, drained
1/2 pound frozen spinach
14-ounce can coconut milk
1 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1 teaspoon ground ginger

Instructions:

Complete with a view of the
utter mess that is my kitchen.

Heat the oil or ghee in a large, deep Dutch oven or heavy pot over medium-high heat. Add the onion and potatoes and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the onion is beginning to brown. Add the garlic, fresh ginger, sun-dried tomatoes, lemon zest and red pepper, if using. Cook for 3 minutes, stirring frequently.

Add the chickpeas and cook over high heat for a few minutes or until the chickpeas are beginning to turn golden and they are coated with the onion and garlic mixture.

Reduce heat to medium. Toss in the spinach and stir to blend. It will begin to look and smell seriously tasty. Let cook until all the ice crystals have melted off the spinach. (If using fresh spinach, toss in one handful at a time until the wilting makes room for more.)

When all the spinach has been stirred in, pour in the coconut milk and stir in the salt, ground ginger, and lemon juice. Bring to a simmer then turn down the heat and cook for 10 minutes or until the chickpeas are warm through. Taste and add more salt and lemon juice, if necessary.

Garnish with cilantro. Serve over brown rice with a side of nan or other tasty flat bread.

YUM!