My Daughter, the Foodie

The Pies by Bink

Bink loves food. In fact, her relationship with it goes far beyond what tastes good and satisfies her hunger. She loves looking at cookbooks, finding recipes on the computer, and watching cooking shows. The painting subject she selects for her weekly art class is often something edible. The paintings on our walls at home, and the stacked finished canvases along the baseboard in the living room, depict pies, ice cream sundaes, candy apples, oysters, brie cheese, jars of pickles, and other things that make her mouth water.

She enjoys cooking and baking. Although she needs the substantial assistance of another adult and takes frequent breaks, her enthusiasm about picking recipes and helping to make them is always high.

One of my favorite observations about this love affair Bink has with food is the photography it’s generated. The girl takes pictures of everything she eats, or finds appealing. That “everything” means every rendition. If she tastes her own meal or snack and finds it lacking, she has learned to say, sometimes, that it needs more salt, or sweet, or some vinegar. Once the missing taste is added, she’ll take another picture. The food on her plate may look exactly the same as it did a few moments before, but to her it is quite new.

A definite omnivore, my daughter wouldn’t dream of eating pedestrian fare like hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries, or chicken nuggets. I certainly have no problem with her avoidance of those foods, and I do celebrate her widening palate. When she was three years old, she went through a phase where she would eat only blueberries and dry Cheerios. Neither is on her Yes list now. So, what does she eat?

Bink is attracted to the spicy, the sweet, the pungent, and the pickled. In her relatively short life, she’s enjoyed an enormous variety of comestibles that you’ve likely never granted transport across your own lips. She once had Ostrich Carpaccio with her father when she was about ten years old. She loved it, as she has also relished occasional octopus, eel, braised rabbit, many kinds of lamb, a rainbow of pickled plant life, anchovies prepared a number of ways, and a small variety of dried spiced crickets. She salivates at the thought of raw oysters and enjoys Teriyaki seaweed and ostrich jerky as a snack, when available. Very, very few of those things have made it onto my plate.
Most ethnic foods are yesses, especially Indian, Moroccan, and Japanese. She also loves many of the Korean delicacies her dear Aunt Young makes for her. Think homemade Kkaennip Jangajji (pickled Perilla leaves) and Japchae ( spicy glass noodles with vegetables).
Over the years, I’ve honed my cooking skills to suit her palate. Eggplant, bell peppers, smoked duck, goat cheese, and the above-mentioned lamb, are generally high on my own list of Will Not Eat. Still, I can handily transform them into dishes with an Indian, Chinese, or Japanese twist for my gourmet daughter.

Bink takes her lunch to her day program most days, and we plan those lunches together. On Saturdays, she’ll decide what she’d like to have for her lunches during the following week. We shop for the ingredients on Sundays, and cook more or less together most Sunday afternoons. Bink favors warm lunches, so typically she’ll take a lidded ceramic container of soup or stew, along with a side of something pickled or some sticky rice chips, and water. Yesterday morning, however, we had to cobble together a cold lunch, as her day program was headed to Newport, Rhode Island, wouldn’t be back in time for her to heat her lunch. She and I managed with anchovy fillets, some of my recent batch of zucchini pickles, Kalamata olives, and some coconut sticky rice chips, each of those foods nestled into a little Tupperware container. The beverage is always water, which makes it easier.

One of Bink’s quirks is that her food preferences can turn on a dime. When she requests something, it can come from memory, or from perusing cookbooks and The Food Channel. Sometimes, she’ll get very excited at one of my (or our) creations, and will eat it with gusto until it’s gone. Other times, she’ll enjoy it once or twice, and then I’ll get a text during a weekday, or she’ll announce at dinner or breakfast,” I’m tired of ______ (that thing that took two hours to make). ”

On rare occasions, we can negotiate a way to doctor the taste of the food with a seasoning or sauce, and she might deign to try it again. Often, though, she will not touch said food again, at least for a few months. So, we might end up with a container of some very spicy eggplant, or a soup that tastes and smells like strong fish sauce. I really don’t like to waste food, but Superguy and I just don’t have the stomach for some of Bink’s choices. We do know a few hardy souls who enjoy some of these things, so we can share some of the cast-offs as well as the excess from my more successful creations.

I’m well aware of how fortunate we are to be able to offer this quirky gourmet a variety of things she enjoys. It’s important to me that she eat as well rounded a diet as possible, and I have come to enjoy a little adventure in my cooking. Also, not all of her preferences are expensive or unusual. She likes particular pizza from certain places, and she’ll sometimes enjoy garlic bread and simple vegetable soups. Raw carrots are in occasional favor at the moment. She really likes sweets and baked goods, though she limits them to once a day and generally writes four NO TREAT days into her wall calendar. That last one is a story for another time.

Next month, Bink will turn twenty seven. Some kind friends, a family with a wonderful adult son who is also on the spectrum, have invited us out to dinner to celebrate in a few weeks. Bink is already anticipating an order of creamy raita, with just the right amount of tamarind and mint sauces mixed in, to savor with her Peshwari naan. She’ll probably share an appetizer of vegetable Samosas with me. Then there’ll be some kind of spicy lamb dish, and perhaps she’ll have a little of whatever curried vegetable there is to share. For dessert, she will be delighted with some cardamom scented Kheer (Indian rice pudding) or sweet sticky balls of rosewater infused Gulab Jamun.

Truth: Just now, on this Wednesday midday as I sat editing this piece for the blog, Bink called me from her program. That doesn’t happen too often, and usually it means Something Is Wrong. What was today’s message? “ I’m tired of the lemon risotto. Lunch I want balsamic mushroom barley soup tomorrow.” And so it is. Would anyone like a serving of perfectly good parmesan infused lemon risotto?

–Melinda Coppola

The Melting Popsicles by Bink

Turn, turn, turn, turn

OCTOBER

October is like an unplanned drive,
the roads back country
and meandering,
the other cars
occasional,
a determined deer
or quicksilver squirrel
the biggest hazards,

and then
just like that
the road widens,
and thickens,
a harsh unnatural line
slicing the middle,
asphalt and buildings
erupting like an acne
upon the tender earth.

Last week we bared legs,
dropped back into
the arms of summer,
the humidity raising sweat beads
that shimmered
jewel-like
on grateful brows,
like so much magic
against the backdrop of
autumn oranges
and reds.

Last night
a near freeze,
and the basil
is at the back door
begging to come in,

and I stand at the kitchen sink,
eyes glazing towards the window,
wondering which way to go—

out to walk
with the ever crisping breeze,
the optimism
of the sunflowers still smiling
and waving from the neighbor’s yard

or down, down
to the depths of the basement,
the underworld home
of a bin marked
Winter: Warm Things.

–Melinda Coppola

In Plain Sight

Deus Occultatum

Love sparks
and cells cluster,
forming flowers and rainstorms,
people and evergreens,
calling bees
and grasshoppers
to song,
squirrels and deer,
to dance.

Love lifts the paintbrush
to the canvas, parts
the lips of the singer,
fills the page
with poem.

Love is present everywhere;
not just at all those arrivals,
all that coupling and multiplying,
as some would have you believe.

The woman opens
her mail on a Tuesday afternoon,
receives her divorce decree.
The heaviness in her chest
isn’t simple grief.

Love has landed there
in her heart, and
hope will grow
in the places Love touched.

Afghanistan, a young
soldier has a leg
and half an arm blown off
in an IED attack.

He begs to die,
but Love knows
the names of his future children,
keeps him breathing,
returns him to his fiancée.

Love stood by as three
different cancers thrived
in your father’s body,
and when it was
at last time
for him to go,
it was Love
who took his soul’s hand
and guided him home.

—Melinda Coppola

WALKING


At twelve, thirteen,
fourteen months,
when most children
begin to walk,
or make a show
of pulling their soft
wobbly bodies
to stand,

you were content
to sit and rub
the carpet, watch
the fibers grow fuzz
beneath hands
you didn’t seem to know
belonged to you.

A plump child you were,
with flesh-ringed legs
and arms,
at least three chins.

As you grew
stronger, my arms
did, too,
carrying you
room to room,
holding you
while you screamed
inconsolably,
and turned away
from others,

while you recoiled
at sights and sounds,
textures, certain clothes,
and any kind of shoe.

We didn’t know about autism,
not yet,
but I quickly learned
what brought you comfort.

When you were at peace
I could be, too.

I wonder
if you recall,
as I do,
when you were sixteen, eighteen,
twenty months
plopped on the grass,

making a study,
it seemed,
of the individual green blades,
your fat hands
brushing the tops of them
over and over,
your face some mix
of stern concentration
and happy fascination,

sweet reprieve from the screaming,
relief for my strong
but tired arms.

And still you grew,
and rebuffed
my attempts
to hold you up by the armpits,
sing walking songs
show you videos
of babies toddling happily
from toy to toy.

It was this,
the not walking,
that brought my questions
to doctors,
to Early Intervention,

that began the parade
of specialists and therapies
I never dreamed
would become our norm.

It was a blur in many ways,
that time,
but I recall when
you took your first,
tentative steps.

You were two
years two months,
finally ready
to trust your feet
against the hardness of the earth,

to step forward
into the blur of delight
and confusion
and newness
and noise.

–Melinda Coppola

Kind or Write?


I’ve been finding it challenging to encapsulate life with my daughter, Bink, lately. Hard to shape words for the page and even for casual conversation with friends, many of whom have their own experiences with parenting and/or caring for people they love who have special needs.

It’s not for lack of material. Bink continues to surprise me at times, wear me out at others. She delights while calling forth all my mental, emotional, sometimes physical resources, in almost equal measure. She’s growing incrementally towards greater confidence. She’s opening up, revisiting some foods she’d dropped from her odd gastronomic repertoire, talking of trying some activities like skiing; these are things that are, in my world, a very big deal.

There is so much I want to share, and yet I’ve been noticing more guard rails hugging the road I walk and ride while parenting her. Sometimes my own hands show the callouses that tell me I’m on the work crew, building those stout metal fences with what might be a thought of safekeeping. But what is there to keep safe? I’m aware of maintaining some privacy for her and for our family. That’s the why for the blog names I’ve given daughter and husband, and the way I don’t show many pictures of her.

Maybe that’s part of the tension. As she grows, so do her talents. I’m biased, but she has a range of them that almost beg to be shared. She sings beautifully, and has a huge memory vault of songs going back to even the little tunes I made up for her five or six months after she was born. I want to record her and share some of that melodious magic with you. She is developing into quite an artist, and as our walls that display some of her work
beg for mercy, the canvases stack up along the baseboards. She wants it all framed and hung, you see.

She has been horseback riding for over a year, an activity that Superguy and I shared some pessimism about when she began. Knowing her as we do, we figured the combination of a good bit verbal instruction (which can overwhelm her), the smell of the barn and paddocks, and the physical challenges of maintaining good posture and engaging core and leg muscles for thirty minutes would culminate in a short-lived equestrienne experience. Between us we probably gave it four weeks. I’m thrilled she has proven us wrong!

I’ve talked with Bink about recording some of her singing and sharing it, and she said that would be OK. I know she’d be fine with gaining a few more admirers for her paintings, too. And there is just so much life, so much that is funny and sad and fascinating in our day-to-day. It all wants to be written, whether read by fifty or by three. And yet.

I’m fortunate to have a few handfuls of writer friends, gained mostly from some fabulous online groups and communities. Our blocks are a common theme. There seem to be endless reasons to stop writing, or at least to stop posting what one writes. Sylvia Plath wrote that self-doubt is the worst enemy to creativity, and I’d have to concur that one ranks pretty high on the list. Not surprising, right? We all have an inner critic, and s/he can be very compelling, and nasty.

And then there’s the prickly issue of other people. I think most writers are introverts, and some of us are, umm, kind of sensitive. Working on thickening our skin, perhaps, but tender in places. A casual, well meant, and possibly quite constructive comment, or an innocent question, from a family member or close friend that reads our work, can send some of us into the claws of inner critic, the alpha bitch. “ See? Your writing sucks,” she’ll hiss. The effect? Shutdown.

There are, also, the other other people. The ones who have had a big impact in not-so-positive ways. For Bink,
some of these people and her interactions with them can take up a great deal of her headspace. Her mind seems to be full of what I can only describe as files. They go back to her infancy (and even before, but that’s a subject for another day).

Once a file from a certain part of her life is open, the things that happened during that time period get played out over and over. I mean this rather literally. Unfortunately, a lot of her recall involves unpleasant scenes and comments. She loves her old-fashioned tape recorder, and she can regurgitate the exact comments people made, in a good imitation of tone, volume and inflection the way she experienced them. She can even recall the date and day of the week these things were said, or done. She scrawls in her journal about these things, too, and creates lists of questions for me to answer the way I think the particular person would answer them.

Bink doesn’t record the sounds and events of her past for the benefit of an audience. Save the aforementioned lists of questions for me to answer, she doesn’t seek a reaction from me or Superguy. In fact, she seems a bit taken aback when we suggest that it may not be the best thing for her to perseverate endlessly on the things people did or said that upset her. She might respond with, “ I’m just trying to understand it.” Or, “ I like to hear the voices.” or even “ It’s important to me.”

As you might imagine, it can be jarring and also enlightening to hear the things a few certain people said to Bink, sometimes decades ago. She doesn’t know how to lie, so there is no doubt these things were actually said. Some of them are appalling. I can only hope they were not actually yelled, and that the loud volume she recalls and imitates is a result of her sensitive nervous system and wiring.

Bink opens new files every five or six months, and re-opens old, familiar ones more often. There is always more to learn from her well-organized memories. Mostly, the people who star in these spoken or written negative memories are not actively in her life anymore. That’s probably a good thing for them because I’d have questions and some sharp words for them.

What does this have to do with my difficulty writing about Bink of late? Well, it’s a delicate thing, to either include or extricate the parts about her obsessions with unpleasant ghosts. I think it’s very unlikely that any of them read my work, but one never knows.

I’m a big fan of Metta, the practice of loving kindness meditation. It has saved me, at times, from becoming entangled in sticky globs of anger or fear or bitterness towards a person or people or happenings that seem to have hurt or wronged me, or Bink. There is a process to the practice, a form and shape that starts and ends in the heart center. It begins by directing deeply loving attention first to the Self. Next, there is a gradually expanding circle of invitees, beginning with the loved ones, then the liked ones, then the neutral people, and finally the people (or circumstances) who challenge us the most. Yup, the practice is to open the doors to the most tender and loving place inside. Once the guests arrive, we make them comfortable, and then proceed with blessing them with happiness and peace. It’s not an easy practice, but it can shift the entire energetic relationship we have with life.

Therein lies my answer, I suppose. I can write about Bink’s thorny memories, or my own. I can poem about anything, include anyone. I just need to be willing to accept reactions, and remember to bless each person and circumstance, present or past, who have crossed paths with Bink, or with me. Thank them for the lessons and wish them an honest well-being. And, just maybe, Bink’s opened files, her very vocal recitations and hastily penned recounting of less than pleasant things, can serve as reminder that love can indeed be greater than fear, and the choice to forgive is the very best gift we could give ourselves and each other.

If you’ve read all the way to the end of this run-on piece, terrific! And if you haven’t, that’s fine, too. I’ve just written about not being able to write about Bink. Surely, that counts as writing about her, which means it’s time for tea.

“I write to discover what I know.”
–Flannery O’Connor

PS: Bless you. I forgive you. Be well.

Temporal Tryst

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, meaning “seize the day while trusting as little as possible on what tomorrow might bring”.

Tomorrow

In a daytime dream,
the kind of interlude
I once slipped into
and out of
as easily as frog to pond,

and as shiny,
with the slick
lubricant of youth,

I met some Truth.

Down by the river,
it seemed,
among the broad
skunk cabbage leaves
where I knew fairies
peeked at me,
or napped,

though to catch them asleep
is a very rare thing indeed,

I tripped upon a root,
and stumbled into something,
a large shape-shifting cloud,

more like a swarm
of stingerless bees,
or a waft
of waxing hummingbirds.

I tumbled in,
and seemed to hover there
held aloft
by all that buzz and dance,

and in that dream
of separation, day
from night or young
from middling,
or me from you,

I opened my lips
to introduce
my self or selves,
time traveling grandaughter
of the Fae,
or some Balkan equivalent,

and found no words in me,
only a throat full of ears,
a heart shaped
basket
of listen
and feel
and know

and so,
the thrum and verve,
the sparkle and mumble
of nebulous dance and buzz,
passed over and under
and through me,

as if I were sponge,
born porous and light,
unknowingly poised
to take in and on,

and transform
and wring
and give forth,

and this amorphous
toss of effervescence
had wafted out
to meet me
in that dream of day,

to gift a message
and task me tastefully

to go forth
and make story
or poem
or song,

and tell you,
tell you all,
that I met Tomorrow,

and that she never lands,
never stays,
never quite arrives.

–Melinda Coppola

Perhaps his name is Three Dollar Bill

The Emissary
To the man on Pleasant Street

You pace
the same stretch
of sidewalk
every morning,

purposefully, in one direction,
then turning abruptly
to traverse the same piece
of asphalt

back to an invisible starting point,
ovalling this way
over and over,
rain or shine,
in every season.

Your arms flail
as if conducting some
mysterious orchestra,

both hands
occasionally popping
peace symbols.

How can any mere human
maintain such a pace?

Is there a secret wellspring
of energy bubbling up
from some crack
in the hard ground
you’ve claimed as your own?

Your eyes hide
behind sunglasses,
with no regard to weather,

as if you can perceive
sun where there is
none.

An unkempt jungle
of beard and mustache
obscures more of your face,

with just a long
sunburned nose
and two crescents
of tanned upper cheek
to show a weathered countenance
to an indifferent world.

And then
there are the too-long pants,
always bell bottoms,
perhaps the same pair
day after month
after year.

You seem a refugee
from Woodstock,
and I wonder
what called you
to this life
of endless pace.

Is it drugs,
or mental illness,
or the too-common
marriage of the two?

Do you know any refuge,
where and when
do you sleep,
and who once called you son?

There are days, man,
when I see those
peace symbols popping
from your expressive hands,

and I think
you could be a messenger
come to remind us—
the busy ones,
the ones who hide our crazy
behind full schedules
and rapt consumerism—

that we’re born for more,
that walk-dancing on a sidewalk
can’t mean less

than strapping ourselves into cars
to rush to sit
behind screens
so we can buy
more than we’ll ever need.

Perhaps it could
very well
mean more.

–Melinda Coppola

Hearing the Ocean in a Tea Cup ( again)

The Sea, the Sea

I met the Pacific in 1982,
she in her blue-green majesty,
and I, in perpetual denim,
my words untested
and eyes
not yet jaded.

For twelve months,
hundreds of days,
I lived so close
I could sense her depths
by the movement of
fine hairs on my forearms,
her salt
with my inexperienced nose,
yet my feet
did not once taste her.

Atlantic and I,
having been casual friends,
revelers with no commitment
over some
six decades,
we are in each other nonetheless.

My DNA swirls in the belly
of an east coast fish,
the curve of a shell,
and her pungent saline
melds with my own,
runs the rapids of
the rivers of
my veins.

Past mid-life now,
considering commitment,
I can picture us,
the sea and I,

like good neighbors,
best buddies,
my watery body
and hers
heeding the same moon’s pull,
witnessing
the gull’s winged dances

against every sky’s first light.

–Melinda Coppola

Pentimento

pentimento
noun
pen·ti·men·to | \ ˌpen-tə-ˈmen-(ˌ)tō
Definition of pentimento
A reappearance in a painting of an original drawn or painted element which was eventually painted over by the artist

The canvas: my face in the mirror, fifty eight years familiar with this world.

Five or six, roaming like the free-range child I was, I caught the sharp end of a rock that soared from an older brother’s slingshot. He didn’t mean it, don’t think he aimed at me, but the impact was hard, and the flesh below my left eye tore, and years later my mother said,” We probably should have gotten you stitches there.”

It’s faint now, a sleeping crescent moon at the top of my cheek. Grace that it didn’t hit my eye, methinks. Pure grace.

Pentimento.

Seven years old, my neighborhood friend
Chrissy rammed a big branch end into the tender space between my nose and my lips, that little grooved path that caps my cupid’s bow.

I’ve since learned its name is philtrum, and no hard feelings, but the game we were playing tattooed a constellation of broken blood vessels across my upper lip, and dotting towards the tip of my nose.

Pentimento.

At twenty nine I had some of that lasered away. Safe for the pale philtrum, not so for the tender lip herself, and so I carry the permanent memory of that day as some big red blotches across my lip. Lipstick never covers it completely.

Pentimento.

Teenaged and beyond, the blackheads landed on my nose and built whole neighborhoods there, and some pimple friends moved in to join them. An anxious one I was, and I discovered the simultaneous relief and delight of squeezing all those things.

So many years later, I can find a few little craters, and small dark lines that seem to drag one pore into another. Not enough so you’d notice, but my nose reminds me I lived through those times. And survived.

Pentimento.

At forty five the crinkling started. The skin at the outer corners of my eyes led the way.

Vertical lines across my forehead came a little later. Layering and playing with texture and color, nature gently added grooves. There are smile lines, and the little cupped channels below my eyes that trace the outlines of darker circles there.

Pentimento.

Sometime between then and fifty, one side of my mouth shifted downwards. It has the oddest effect, like half of each lip is larger, and the drooping side disappears into itself. Sometimes, I paint on lipliner to even it all out.

Pentimento.

Around fifty I began to notice that the skin was slowing way down. Once pressed and imprinted with pillow or a hand propping chin or cheek, she wasn’t so quick to plump back into her former texture and shape. Sometimes I carry the pillow lines until lunch, and I’m an early riser.

Pentimento.

The eyebrows have thinned. Some come in white, and there is a vacant patch in the thickest part of the right one. Sometimes, I pencil in some dark to seed that bare spot. Often, I don’t. The white hairs? I usually thank them for visiting before plucking them away.

Pentimento.

There are some random dark splotches over the cheeks, above the lip.. They call them age spots, I call them places of interest. I don’t cover these, though I wonder, sometimes, how many more will arrive, and if I’ll care.

Pentimento.

Face as canvas, and the mirror shows me the privilege of a longer life than many are given. On close inspection I find layer upon layer of sad and happy, hurt and scared, content and growing wiser. I find hope and despair, and lots of letting go, and a glaze of peace on top of it all.

Tender

Raccoon, bread, apple by Bink


Tender.

Unless I am speaking of meat,
which I mostly don’t,
the very word owns its ness,
as in,
what is tender
evokes tenderness,
and what calls that forth in me
is that which I am drawn towards,
or s/he whom I draw close,
or want to.

Draw close,touch,
be connected with, and to—
it’s like a song whose notes
sidle up beside each other
and seem happily married,
or a poem that dances
smoothly,
word to word,
meant to be silken,
not rough and chopped
like this one.

Tender.
Tenderness.

Decades ago, as a young mother, I joined a playgroup with the odd name of Warmlines. I was lonely in my complete consummation with motherhood, and with my baby. The group name continued to strike me as odd, until recently.

I am thinking of the people in my awareness that are hurting, that are celebrating, that are lonely, and tired, and scared. There are mothers whose adult children have complex special needs ( like my Bink) , and they are trying to hold their ground in choppy waters, and I so get this and I feel connected to their pain. There is the friend from a writing group who has recently been diagnosed with incurable brain cancer. I’ve never met her in person, but she is a sister of the pen. I can only hold her image in my heart, and pour small offerings of caring into her hands, her mouth, as I trek through my days. There is a friend whose brother has mental illness, and his dangerous behavior pulls something from my depths which reaches out to her. There is my dear Aunt, recently diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s, and my beautiful friend M who mourns the loss of her mother.

On the celebratory front, my niece is blossoming in her first independent teaching job, living in her own apartment. One of my Yogabilities™ students is in a new day program, an art program for adults with disabilities that encourages her immense talent and will also market her work. My own Bink is creating rather wonderful art in an afternoon class nearby. She also began horseback riding a year ago, and she has exceeded my expectations with her interest and ability.

There are so many more, people I know online, in person, people I know of through friends or family, all dealing with the sticky stuff of life. When I think about them, I visualize myself floating in a kind of emotional outer space, connected to each of these people, who are also floating. There are slender but strong ropes growing out from my body to theirs, or perhaps they originate from each of the others and find their way to a temporary home in my heart. The ropes are purple, and there is an energy pulsing through them; the energy of connection and compassion. That’s when it hit me. Warmlines. Tentacles of caring, linking us to one another as we journey through life. So tender, so very tender.

–Melinda Coppola