I am working on a little side project for a friend of mine who has asked me to collaborate in developing a persona or two for designing a solution to a serious problem. I am not going to go into what that problem is. My friend and I have both have done a lot of research in the domain, and feel confident that we can come up with a persona that will be representative and serve the end goals.
I had finished an initial draft of a persona profile, and started the endless search for photos to go with the persona to bring her to life—her mood board, and day in the life stuff. I wanted to show her family, and wanted her family to be interracial, not because it matters all that much with respect to the problem, but because “we white people” often default to white people pictures in our work, because that is what we have, it is what we know, and it is what is easy. It is precisely because it doesn’t apparently matter that it does!
I wanted a picture of a mom, a dad, and two teen-aged kids. First I searched for families. Lots of great pictures of different kinds of families popped up:
Initially, I was please that so many different types of families were represented, but then I realized that none of these families showed teens.
I quickly became frustrated by the fact that I couldn’t find any pictures of families with teen-aged children, even after I modified my search to include them. I think this speaks to how much our culture dislikes adolescents. We are biased against teenagers, favoring images of families with young, cute little children. How sad. No wonder adolescents feel so disenfranchised; they are! I gave up on that and thought I would go look for individual family members. I began looking for a mother.
I typically used Duck Duck Go as my default search engine. I entered, “stock photo middle aged woman,” very generic, thinking that I would get a mix of images of white people and people of color. This is what I got:
Not a single “person of color,” in fact this is a very pale set. Even searching “below the fold” did not yield more diverse results!
A lot of white women, even “below the fold.” I went to Google. Same result:
I went to Bing:
Holy smokes! I had no idea that there were so few women of color in their middle years. I searched on “middle aged men,” and ended up with the same white result.
What should we conclude from this? I guess white people are the only people who get to middle age?
I searched on “good-looking men.” All white. Then, “good-looking women.” All white. Who knew?
I told my husband about my discovery, and he suggested that I add “Gen Z” in my search for pictures of interracial families and teens. Darn it, if that didn’t do the trick! I found my family, finally.
I am not sure what to make of all this. I believe this is big data at its worst. Our algorithms are biasing us; they reinforce our bad beliefs, and encourage us to live inside our bubbles. Whatever is going on, it is NOT good. What do you think?
This chile gets the dark green color from the poblanos and beef broth. Bacon adds a smokey flavor.
Ken and I are green chile fanatics. What is better than a bowl of New Mexican green chile with fresh tortillas? Okay, well maybe a bowl of red! Although we are fanatics, we do not adhere religiously to the same recipe every time we make chile. It turns out a little different every time, depending on a number of factors, including who is making it. The following recipe describes how Ken made it this time. It was fantastic, although not a “traditional” New Mexican recipe because he added sun-dried tomatoes. The most critical piece of making any chile, of course, is the chile. We think New Mexican varieties are the best, but you can get great results from well roasted chiles of many types.
½ – 1 cup chopped sun dried tomatoes in olive oil, drained
Olive oil as needed
Course ground garlic salt & ground pepper
Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Salt and pepper cubed pork. Set aside ~20-30 minutes (or more)
Brown bacon in two tablespoons olive oil in a cast iron or oven-proof heavy pot or dutch oven. Drain, and set aside bacon, leaving bacon fat and oil in pot for later.
Dredge pork lightly in flour. Heat up reserved fat, and brown pork in a single layer in batches. Set aside with bacon.
Add onion and garlic to pan. Cook until translucent scraping up bits from the bottom (~5 minutes). Add oregano.
Add poblanos, pork, and bacon. Mix into onion/garlic mixture. Add broth a little at a time until the consistency is a little thicker than cream but the pork and veggies are covered (may not take the full 3 cups, maybe more)
Let cook in oven uncovered for at least an hour. Longer is better.
30 minutes before serving, add the chopped green chilies and sundried tomatoes.
Finished sauce should be “sauce” more than watery/soupy. Serve with hot tortillas, and optionally garnish with lime, cilantro, sour cream or yogurt.
Ginny did not take to motherhood naturally. The whole process was so messy, so out of her control from the start—and, all of the expectations that went along with the role of mother overwhelmed her. One expectation, in particular, weighed upon her, that she would breastfeed her child for at least a year.
The nurses at the hospital had impressed upon her the importance of breastfeeding, giving her statistics about all of the horrible things that could happen were she to choose formula over breast milk, and so hesitantly, in the interest of the health of her baby, Ginny had chosen to breastfeed.
Learning to do it properly took her entire 8-week maternity leave, during which time she had suffered cracked nipples, a breast infection, and numerous humiliating incidents of breast leakage. Although she never loved it, she had gotten the hang of it, just in time to return to work.
Upon her return, Ginny discovered that the company had not fully embraced motherhood either, and therefore had made no provisions for new mothers. The Human Resources person Ginny spoke to suggested that she get an extension cord, plug her pump into the outlet by the sink in the Women’s restroom, and sit on the toilet in the stall to pump. She tried it once, sitting on the pot for 15 excruciating minutes listening to nothing but the hum and pulse of the pump, as puzzled colleagues came in and out to do their unsavory business. She produced half an ounce.
In the end, her administrative assistant, Ella, had made a “Woman at Work” sign fashioned cleverly after the “Men at Work” road warning sign to place on the door of the conference room when Ginny was in there pumping to make sure that she had adequate privacy. Ella had also set up a television and a comfy chair so that Ginny would have relaxing entertainment while she milked herself.And so, it had become Ginny’s habit to dutifully visit the conference room twice each work day to relieve her breasts of their burden, and while not entirely pleasant, it seemed possible.
One day, Ginny had just settled in. She stripped off her top, connected the suction pieces to each of her breasts, and turned the pump on. The home decorating channel came to life. Ella must have been in here, Ginny thought. She flipped the channel to what had become, idiotically, “her” soap opera, and she felt her milk “let down.” Such a relief. Just then, the door of the conference room swung open and her CEO, Bob Corchoran, trailed by an entourage of Asian men, stepped into the room. Expressions of confusion and shock filled the room. Ginny’s heart jumped into her throat. She squeaked rather than shrieked. She felt the milk dry up as she struggled to cover her milking machine encumbered breasts. Bob turned around, stretched his arms wide to prevent his tour group from moving further into the room, pushing them back and out, saying, “I’m sorry this room is in use.”
That was the last day that Ginny breastfed, and she never looked back.
Many years ago, my dear friend, Char, taught me how to make tortilla soup in the style that she had learned in her previous life in Mexico. When she taught me, I had never had a tortilla soup, and one could not find one in the US in a restaurant. Over the years, as Mexican food has become more mainstream, I have seen a variety of tortilla soups on menus, but have never had one as beautiful or as simple and pure as the one that Char taught me to make. Thank you, Char, for introducing me to “real” tortilla soup. It is a favorite for my whole family.
Unlike many restaurant versions of this soup, Char’s is a broth-based soup. The broth, and soup are quite simple; it is the canvas against which one splashes colors of paint, and fresh flavors. Because the diners assemble their own soups, to their own tastes, every person has a soup of their own creation with the exact degree of spiciness they desire.
As with most of my recipes, there are easier and harder ways to make this. I make a quick version during the week using canned broth and tomatoes, and a more involved version on the weekends. Either way, it is always delicious.
Broth ingredients:
6 chicken legs
2 carrots, chunked
1 onion, quartered
2 cloves of smashed garlic
2 stalks of celery w/ greens
Fresh and/or dried herbs (parsley, cilantro, oregano, thyme are good)
Salt
Pepper corns
Soup ingredients:
1 c. small pasta (shells, alphabet, stars, orzo, etc.), toasted
1/2 a medium onion diced
1/2 tsp roasted ground cumin
3T fresh Mexican oregano, (or a tsp of dried).
2 pan-roasted, peeled and pureed tomatoes (or substitute a 1 lb. can of fire roasted tomatoes that have been pureed.
2 to 3 cups of chicken (use leg meat if you made broth, or throw in leftover chicken meat)
Make the broth: Of course, home made broth is the best, but if you don’t have time to make a simple chicken broth, use a high quality prepared broth! We like to make our broth as follows:
Put six chicken legs in a deep pot. Add a couple of whole carrots, an onion, some garlic, a bunch of fresh or dried herbs, and any other veggies you have in your fridge that need to be used up. Cover with water (6-8 cups of water). Add about a teaspoon of salt, and some whole peppercorns. Boil and simmer for 30 minutes, until the chicken meat is pulling away from the bones. Remove the legs and set aside to cool. Strain the broth and reserve. Note: you should have 6 to 8 cups of broth an the end. If you don’t have enough broth, supplement with prepared broth, or simply add water and seasoning as needed!
Make fried corn tortilla strips: Heat about an inch of vegetable oil in a heavy skillet. While it is getting hot, cut a stack of tortillas into thin strips. You can play with the thickness, depending on what you find you like. When the oil is hot, place a handful of strips into the oil, and fry until crisp. Drain on paper towels.
Drain the fried corn tortilla strips on paper towel.
Make the soup: Toast pasta in a skillet. I know it sounds a little weird, but this is important; toasting the pasta gives the final product a toasty flavor–go figure! Just throw pasta into a dry skillet over medium heat. Stir continuously until the pasta begins to turn pink. At this stage, immediately dump pasta into a bowl, and set aside. If you leave it in the pan it might burn. I know, because I have done this more than one time!
If you are roasting your tomatoes, put them in your heavy skillet and turn and burn the skin. You can also do this under the broiler. The main thing is you want them to get all black and burned on the outside, but not too cooked. Afterward, you peel them and puree them.
In a soup pot, sauté the diced onions in a bit of oil, add the herbs. Add toasted pasta, pureed tomatoes, chicken, and add broth. Let simmer for about ten minutes or until the pasta is cooked. Adjust seasoning.
Let the broth cook until the pasta is done.
Accoutrements:
Must have items:
Fried corn tortilla strips
Quartered limes
Cilantro
Roasted and peeled peppers (green, jalapeños, serrano, fresno, or other spicy pepper), diced or cut into thin strips.
Optional add-ins:
Avocado
Radishes
Shredded cabbage
Sour cream or yogurt
Cheese
Salsa
Whatever else you think would be good
Peppers, lime, and cilantro are the most important add-ins for the table, but the sky is the limit.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, Book the First, Chapter I.
The clouds hung heavily upon us as we made the trip across the river to the election night party. I was already feeling gloomy, as just the day before, I had received a lay-off notice from my employer. Our whole research team was getting axed—we had until the end of the year to find something new inside the company. The radio blasted the bad news that was sweeping the country from East to West; Trump and his man, Pence, were winning. It seemed impossible. Already depressed, we climbed the stairs to the party, which turned out to be a wake, a sorrowful celebration of the previous eight years. A celebration of a dark-skinned man full of light and hope, now replaced by a light-skinned man full of darkness and greed. A pall of disbelief and grief settled across the subdued chatter. The newscasters sounded less chipper than usual. Thus ended 2016, setting the tone for the long winter months and endless year to come.
Zoe, ken, and I at the Women’s March.
By January, I had landed another job within the company. The hiring manager had been effusive with praise about my qualifications. In fact, she wanted to put me in for a promotion right away. It was going to be wonderful. I was moving to a group that needed me, and valued the kind of work I did, or so I was led to believe. We walked in the woman’s march, and I was feeling a renewed hope, in spite of the election loss.
By March, my new boss had lost her enthusiasm for me. I wasn’t going to make her look good. In fact, my incessant probing around the lack of quality of the research she had paid too much for was wearing thin on her. She suggested that I had an attitude problem, that I was arrogant, that perhaps I should start looking for a new job. She said that I was “not a good fit,” code for “I don’t like you.” She had said the same thing to a couple other of my colleagues, so I took solace in the fact that I was not alone.
For the next couple of months, I made an effort to be less arrogant, to pretend that the research we were doing was valuable; it was not meaningful. I tried vainly to carve a path of my own, putting forth research proposals that went unread, or at least unanswered. My career was wasting away before my eyes, and I could not have cared less. I skated along for the next couple of months doing almost nothing, knowing that my time there was almost up. Time to move on to the next chapter.
In June, I always give myself a mammogram for my birthday, and 2017 was no different. It wasn’t even different that I had to go for the follow-up ultrasound; I usually have to do that. When they said they wanted to do a biopsy I got worried, and when the next day, the doctor called to tell me that I had breast cancer, I was shocked, horrified, devastated. The words, “You have invasive breast cancer,” reverberated for days before I would learn that I had “the good kind.” It had been caught early, and was treatable.
A UPS truck slid down the hill in front of our house, narrowly missing all of our cars, but doing significant damage. Good thing: nobody was hurt!
I never would have guessed that getting cancer would have been one of the best things to have happened to me in 2017. Work was a shit-show, domestic and global politics were (and continue to be) a disaster, my mother-in-law was dying (and has since died), my own mother was in severe physical and mental decline, climate change has wrought havoc on the planet, and more immediately to our house in the form of a UPS truck crashing into it during one of the numerous ice storms we endured. After all that we had already sustained, getting news that I had “curable” breast cancer was relatively good news.
One of the truly good things that happened during 2017 was that Ken, my husband, was awarded an endowed professorship at Princeton. With all that was going on in our lives, it was uncertain whether we would/should/could go up until the day that we departed. My breast cancer was diagnosed in mid-July. I had surgery at the end of July, and because I qualified for brachytherapy, a much shorter stint of radiation therapy, I did that, wrapping up my treatment before mid-August when we left. I had sailed through, almost entirely unscathed, and in record time. No chemo, something else to be grateful about.
Radiation therapy was not as horrible as I imagined it would be.
My psyche was intact. And then came the news that my mother had taken a serious fall, breaking her pelvis in four places. We all (including her) felt certain that the end was near. We loaded up our car, and set off on our journey eastward, which included several unplanned days in Denver to visit her.
We arrived in New Jersey at the end of August, and less than a week after arriving I boarded a plane back to Denver to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday. All of the siblings were able to make it. We celebrated with her as well as humanly possible at the rehab center where she stayed for many weeks before her release. I planned to return again in a few weeks, wanting to give respite to my sister, Liz, who has had the stressful and lonely job of primary caregiver, but the bad ju-ju of 2017 had still not been entirely spent. On the plane trip from Denver back to New Jersey, my breast swelled up like a balloon, and felt like the weight of a bowling ball on my frontside. I wound up admitted to the hospital for an anti-biotic resistant post-surgical infection. This was far worse to deal with than the cancer, oddly. I was flattened for two months by the sequential anti-biotic treatments, and experienced anxiety and depression like I have never experienced before.
Turns out that New Jersey is a pretty amazing place with plenty of natural beauty. Who knew?
The bright side of having to deal with these health issues, is that it forced me to give up thoughts of returning to work right away, or ever, for that matter. I was able to spend time unwinding, reading, doing yoga and barre, cooking, building this web site, writing, and taking long walks and bike rides with my husband and daughter. We explored New Jersey, and learned to love it, in spite of ourselves. Living in Princeton was like living inside a snow-globe, its own perfect little world without poverty, hunger, or ugliness of any kind. I could almost forget that Donald Trump had been elected President…almost. I was able to fully recover from all that had been 2017.
And just before 2017 came to an end, we left our Princeton bubble, and took the journey of a lifetime back to our Portland home, a story for another day. I ended the year feeling blessed in every way. Both my mental and physical health have recovered. I quit my job, and am ready to begin the next chapter. I am not afraid of you, 2018.
She is an old house with a granite facade, in need of repairs here and there, but still standing.
The Builder crafted her of the finest materials. Her interior, a warm blend of exotic woods–cherry, walnut, maple, oak–invites privileged visitors to stay a while, but not too long. Her inhabitants have a lot to do.
She overflows, like a kindergarten desk, papers sticking out willy-nilly, a house stuffed with words, drawing, ideas, books, an attic full of memories. Her inhabitants have tried to bring order to the chaos, but the universe within her walls keeps expanding, refusing the efforts of her most expert housekeepers.
The Gardener haphazardly planted her garden. She stands firmly rooted in that place as a lone bristle cone pine on a high mountain pass, surrounded by the fruits and flowers of the seeds that the gardener cast many years ago.
You stand firmly westward, built on a foundation of granite blocks, planted in the black soils of the Mississippi. The Builder placed you on a bluff above the only section of the river that flows from East to West, a place where you have a clear view of the land, the smooth waters, and the people who toil on them.
A quiet house, with thick walls and triple-insulated windows, you ward off the unwanted advances of Mid-western winter, settling comfortably under a blanket of snow, thwarting the harsh winds that tear at your roof shingles. When the floods come you are untouched, above the fray, and safe from the water snakes that hang from branches below in the aftermath of it all, snakes that enter only in dreams.
Within your walls, your inhabitants are industrious, always working on a project to improve the slightest malfunction. Never a burned out light bulb, a broken door knob; what gets broken is quickly repaired. And yet, your dwellers live in ordered chaos, stacks of knowledge that have been consumed, or will be soon. You are a thoughtful place with a clear view through large windows. Reflected clouds protect outsiders from seeing in.
Your attic is full, bursting with memories and objects left behind by those who have lived within your walls. Framed photos of Swedes you never knew from the old country, broken lamps, rocking chairs, the lathe that formed the spindles of the staircase leading to this cluttered and emotion-laden place.
I love hushpuppies! They remind me of my childhood. My mom used to make them whenever we had red beans and rice or Jambalaya. Like cornbread, there are many ways to make hushpuppies; some people prefer them savory, and others sweet, like in North Carolina. I like them every which way. This savory version is excellent.
1 Cup Corn Meal
1 Cup All Purpose FLour
2 Tbsp Green Onions, finely sliced
2 tsp Kosher Salt
1 pinch Cayenne
2 tsp Baking Powder
1/2 Cup Buttermilk
Instructions:
Put all the dry ingredients into a bowl, mix together. Make a well, and add buttermilk. Stir until just mixed. In a heavy pot, pour about 2 inches of vegetable oil, and heat it up to about 375 degrees. Test with a drop of dough. Your dough should bounce to the top very quickly. Using a tablespoon measure, drop spoonfuls in the hot oil a few at a time. When they are browned a bit, pull out and drain on paper town. Put in the oven to keep warm while you make the rest.
I make my Jambalaya partly on the stove, then finish it in the oven, although it takes a bit longer to cook, I find the even heat yields a better result. This recipe calls for tasso, which can be hard to come by, but bacon makes a suitable substitute. If you have time, you can make your own stock with chicken bones and shrimp shells. I don’t always do this though, since I usually make Jambalaya when I want to have a one pot meal in a hurry.
1/2 cup diced fresh tomatoes (you can also used canned instead)
1/2 cup tomato sauce
3/4 cup long grain rice
1 3/4 cup chicken stock (optionally homemade with a shrimp shell infusion)
1 Tbsp Worcestershire sauce
2 Tbsp minced fresh garlic
1/2 cup diced chicken (great way to use leftover chicken)
1 1/2 cup raw medium shrimp, peeled, tail on.
1 Tbsp finely chopped Italian parsley
3 Tbsp finely sliced green onions
Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Onion, celery, and bell pepper are called the Holy Trinity in Cajun and Creole cooking. Mix these ingredients together.
In a cast iron dutch oven, melt the butter over medium heat, add the andouille and tasso, and cook until it just starts to brown. Add half of the Holy Trinity, cook until the vegetables are tender. Add the diced tomatoes and tomato sauce, and cook for a minute or two until bubbling. Add the rice and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring constantly. Add the stock, the remaining Holy Trinity, seasoning mix, Worcestershire, and garlic. Adjust seasoning to your liking. Add the chicken, stir well and pop the pot into preheated oven. Bake uncovered for 25 minutes. Stir in the raw shrimp, parsley, green onions. Cook until shrimp are done–about 10 minutes. Serve with a crunchy loaf of French bread. Garnish with green onions and parsley.
I like to have a simple green salad with this, but it is really a one-pot meal.
I have good bones, the sort of house that will remain standing through earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornadoes. My bones are hewn of ancient white oak, rescued wood from an old barn in Pennsylvania. I am built traditionally, with mortis and tenon joinery, despite my modern design.
I am a modestly proportioned open-architecture house with airy rooms and many windows, oriented to the south-west, overlooking the sea, or perhaps it is a desert. I have a view far into the distance, and those who are near to me can see plainly within, all except the hidden interior rooms, which few people ever gain sight of. I am more than meets the eye.
I am furnished comfortably and simply. Nothing is overly planned or decorated. I am graced with splashes of color, a bright rug thrown here and there over the cool polished mud floor. My inhabitants gather around my hearth, and in my kitchen on cold nights. In the heat they take comfort in the cool breeze that I pass through from transom to transom. During more turbulent times, my job is to protect, to adjust my inner workings to the unexpected events that come from outside.
Many live here—human, spirit, canine, feline, insect, bird, and rodent. I am nothing without those who dwell within. If I had no life within my walls I would cease to exist, for a house is nothing if nobody lives inside of it. In this regard I am high maintenance, requiring constant upkeep, the reassurance that I am loved, needed. While my bones are strong, the rest is rather fragile. One thrown stone would shatter my glass walls.
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