EDITING & BREAD

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This first challah is light and tender, soft, finer grained than this photo shows. I used some bread flour (“strong flour”) and no whole wheat, but I think I miss the wheat flavor.

I suppose this means I should complete my editing before posting.

On 8 February 2019, I found I had 100 followers. That makes my day. Seriously. This is true especially because I wrote about common-sense self care as part of countering depression. Every time I have tried to post anywhere about depression, I’ve been attacked. People who were friends and generally seemed to like me, went off on my comments have apologized for using language in response to my post. “You don’t know anything about depression . . .”

The thing is, I do know about depression. I am not as self-assured as some people seem to assume. I know depression. I won’t describe details here, but I have been depressed and I have a strong thread of serious depression and anxiety disorders in my family. Maybe I cover it better than most? Maybe I was told I should smile about a thousand times when I was six and I acted on that suggestion.

In any event, I am not writing a memoir, but a blog. I am not telling the story of my childhood here today. I write about myself too often as it is.

Most often I write as often in direct response to something in the news as to anything happening in my life. Friday I played Scrabble with a friend and in the afternoon I had challah rising. I used to make a huge braided loaf each week, but it’s been decades since I did that. Most of my life has passed with only occasional loaves cooling on the counter.

Baking bread each week was one of the things I swore to do now that I am mostly retired. And challah—in a dead tie with brioche for best bread in the world. (For now we can set aside cinnamon buns and panettoni, which are sweet breads rather than bread loaves.)

So the bread was in its first rise. I’d have taken a nap if it hadn’t needed to be punched down and shaped in about 10 minutes. I recall three rises (or proofing a sponge and then proofing twice, which is the same thing) before shaping, but fingers crossed. That first attempt on Friday would have only two rises, one in the bowl and the second as a braided loaf. Most of the kneading was done with a dough hook by my electric mixer.

I first learned to make bread from my mother who had a recipe for four loaves, lost now. [There was a typo here. I noticed it and fixed it five minutes after I posted. sigh] Though she never enjoyed cooking or baking, her loaves were marvelous. In college, I made whole wheat bread in a very large crockery bowl, stirring by hand with a wooden spoon (I broke a spoon one time) until I turned it out onto a board to knead. I quite liked kneading; it reminded me of wedging clay and as a Ceramic Arts major I had a lot of experience wedging clay.

My first job in Oregon was in the old Cannon Beach Bakery, which baked the “Haystack Loaf” in a brick oven, one of the last remaining fired brick ovens in the state and gone now. Harrison’s Bakery in Seaside, with its marvelous “Beach Bread” is gone too.

My old recipe for challah is also long gone. There were 7 cups of flour and 6-8 eggs and butter and honey and cardamom, as best I can recall. It made an enormous loaf, almost too big for my tiny apartment oven. I wish I had my old recipe, the one I used in college 45 years ago. I thought it came from the Tassajara Bread Book, the source of my ordinary whole wheat recipe, but I’ve looked and there is no recipe for challah. Challah is not supposed to have lemon peel, but I recall I put it in anyway and I will today too. None of the recipes I found online were quite right in other ways—not enough eggs, sugar instead of or in addition to honey, and oil rather than butter—so I used my best guess, and when I make bread again today, I will make any necessary adjustments. I used oil the first time.

“Like thousands of cooks of my generation, I have in my kitchen an ancient volume of The Tassajara Bread Book, its cover gritty with flour, its spine cracked from use, its pages stained with molasses, and dog-eared with decades of perusal. It is the book that taught me how to make bread and its simple wisdom has been present in every loaf I have baked. I will recommend it with enthusiasm to a new generation of cooks.” —Steve Raichlen, author of The Barbeque Bible

That’s the book. Sometimes, back in college, I made a loaf in two layers, a three-strand on top of a six, but I generally made a 4-strand braid, and that is what I did on Friday. It had a rest and second rise while I was writing this. When I took a break from writing, I preheated the oven, mixed an egg yolk and honey wash, brushed it, scattered sesame seeds, and baked for however long it took. Recipes I found recommended temperatures from 325° to 425° and times from 20 minutes to the better part of an hour. I aimed for someplace in the middle, and 25 minutes in a 350° oven seems to have done the trick. Maybe I was writing in between baking bread and not the other way around?

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The first rise was in a bowl, the loaf shaped and allowed to rise again. Here is my 4-strand braided loaf ready for baking.

I have a couple of dozen blog posts drafts saved that I will never finish. I begin posts and never go back to them. But after I’ve posted, I do always go back. I correct typos, add a link or another photo. Sometimes I correct information or even add an entirely new paragraph. With so many people reading (I hope), it’s about time I corrected typos before posting, don’t you think?

There is a second baking scheduled today after our walk, and I want to celebrate. Over a hundred people have chosen to receive my posts. That is worth celebrating. It also reminds me of that bad habit I need to change. I write fast and post, and almost immediately people receive my blog post as an email. I am grateful when they “like” my post because that gives me a sense of the success of what I have written.

Finding those “likes” on my posts is something like my husband asking for a third and fourth slice of bread, fresh out of the oven. Except I get to see him smile.

WELLNESS

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Early in the first episode of season 14 of Silent Witness, a hospital doctor completely loses it as he observes patients in an outdoor lounge smoking dope and cigarettes and drinking beer and soda. He knocks smokes and cans out of their hands, shrieking: “What is the point?!” They will not regain health if they continue their unhealthy behavior.

There are all sorts of magical diets and pills available for people looking to live healthier lives. In the mean time, they avoid addressing the obvious: sleep, diet, exercise, focus. Someone I know ate a restaurant salad, had an “allergic reaction,” and concluded she was responding to tiny bits of cheese she ate by mistake. Maybe it was the lettuce? About 20% of E.coli infections come from leafy greens. Most of us cannot be troubled to change our behavior unless we are offered that change as a near-magical cure for what ails us.

Sometimes we are depressed because our lives are depressing. We can’t always do anything about that. Sometimes only time will heal us—everyone is depressed when a loved one dies. Taking a pill might not help at all, though we have faith in pills.

Improved health for most of us is simpler than medication. It might come down to getting enough sleep, eating better, avoiding soft drinks and alcohol, taking regular walks, and stilling our minds.

Until there were anti-depressants and an irrational percentage of Americans making Big Pharma billions, nearly everyone with clinical depression recovered with or without treatment within a few months. Medication today has its role, but most anti-depressants need a couple of weeks or months to become effective. While we wait, we might try taking better care of ourselves. This might not be the only answer, but it is a good place to start. And for most of us, it is exactly what we need.

A minimum of eight hours of sleep a night was considered normal for at least a hundred years. That recommendation has dropped to a range of seven to ten hours, and may continue to drop in response to the amount of time we actually sleep. We want to believe our sleep patterns are “normal” and theories seem to evolve in order to support our desires. Is it natural for anyone to “need” only a few hours of sleep? Perhaps not.

A hundred years ago and more, we slept more because it was dark at night. Today we sleep less because we are on our devices with electric lighting. For a long time the belief about sleep was that it kept human beings out of trouble. Except for our intelligence, the reasoning went, we are a harmless and relatively defenseless species. We do not see well in the dark compared to most predators. Curling up someplace safe and sleeping, biologists assumed, kept us out of trouble. They were wrong.

Some medications, advancing age, and brain damage all impact sleep. But sleep does a great deal more than keep us out of trouble. Research into Daylight Savings Time revealed a connection between that one lost hour of sleep and an uptick in heart attacks. We now know that the various stages of sleep allow us to sort and save information (remember), cope with daytime concerns, repair the synapses in the brain, and heal. Lack of deep sleep contributes to dementia. Lack of REM sleep makes us fractious. Lack of sleep can lead to weight gain by making us hungrier, but also has an impact on depression, anxiety, and suicidality. “Add the above physical and mental health consequences up, and a scientifically validated link becomes easier to accept: the shorter your sleep, the shorter your life.” (The Guardian)

Get your sleep. Stop eating a few hours before bed. Turn off devices. Avoid caffeine and other stimulants. Make the room dark and go to sleep at a decent hour.

What we eat makes a difference too. It is amazing to me sometimes how readily people accept that sugar impacts the behavior of small children, but how resistant these same people often are to the impact of what they eat and drink on their own mental state. Sugar, too much meat, refined grains, alcohol and other drugs—all these impact mood.

“Eat food. Not too much. Mostly vegetables.” advised Michael Pollan in The Omnivore’s Dilemma. He’s right about that. Though Pollan does not have the formal training to be considered an expert in nutrition, he has earned his prestige. Because I am largely vegetarian, people like to call themselves “carnivores” when we eat together. No. No, we clearly are not. Look in the mouth of a cat, research the structure of their digestive system. Cats are carnivores. Humans do not have the mouth, teeth, digestive chemistry, or other physiogomy to survive on a meat-based diet. Peoples in the far north such as the Inuit can because 98% of them have a genetic mutation allowing them to exist on fish and mammal flesh. They are genetically adapted to the cold and a meat-centered diet.  For most human beings, nothing about us is adapted to eating that way, though many of us have one of the several genetic mutations allowing us to consume milk after childhood.

Wheat has been part of the human diet for at least ten thousand years. We have been cooking foods for at least hundred thousand years. (There is no physical proof yet, but many anthropologists and evolutionary biologists believe that cooking foods, especially foods that are easier to digest such as legumes, is the reason humans became the smarter, smaller-toothed species we are today.) The wheat found today is somewhat genetically different from what our very distant ancestors consumed. The animals we consume today are also very different genetically, far removed from what our distant ancestors consumed. They are also fed and raised differently. There is nothing remotely Paleolithic about today’s beef, pork, or chicken.

Of more significance is that most of our food (not to mention our water and air) is contaminated. All foods, domesticated plants and animals, are weighted down with chemicals our ancestors could not have known. Pesticides, herbicides, and broad-spectrum poisons that were invented only in the last century. Our drinking water in major cities has trace amount of antibiotics, anti-depressants, and other chemicals as well. You already know about the lead.

Eat better. Save sugar for a rare special occasion. Avoid alcohol and refined foods, packaged foods, “foods” containing chemicals, most meats and conventionally raised food.

There is overwhelming evidence that regular exercise results in improved physical and mental health, less disease and longer life. Fifteen minutes a day could do it.

Meditation or even just sitting quietly for a few minutes each day lowers blood pressure and relieves all sorts of symptoms. The mental rest disconnects us from day-to-day stresses. Turn off social media and stop stewing over things we cannot control. “Relax!” they tell us.  We hear it all the time, and it is excellent advice.

Social interaction is healthy and so is reading a cheerful book. Maybe turn off the news, social media, the gloomy or horrific Netflix movie. Watch something funny. Read a hopeful novel (honest, it’s a proven-effective therapy), and refuse to discuss politics with your raging-reactionary uncle.

Getting enough sleep, eating a healthy diet, moderate exercise, and giving our emotions a clear break from day-to-day stresses and demands absolutely result in improved mental and physical health. Seriously. No doubt about this at all. Trusting that making such healthy changes also triggers hope and hope is another essential. It is likely the primary benefit of most anti-depressants. Taking that little pill each day triggers hope that we might feel better tomorrow. That impact will wear off if the problem is actually untreated mental or physical exhaustion, or if the underlying problem is grief. Everyone feels depression and reveals the symptoms of clinical depression after a beloved family member dies. Such grief mostly needs time for a cure.

SLEEP. DIET. EXERCISE. REST. TIME.

All this is hard if we are depressed. I get that. Depression means it is hard to care much about anything. It’s hard to get out of bed. But if we can care enough to take ourselves to a doctor, perhaps we can care enough to listen to soothing music or take a walk, eat a little better or have a conversation with a friend.

“Dorian Deshauer, a psychiatrist and historian at the University of Toronto, has written that the chemical-imbalance theory, popularized in the eighties and nineties, ‘created the perception that the long term, even life-long use of psychiatric drugs made sense as a logical step.’ But psychiatric drugs are brought to market in clinical trials that typically last less than twelve weeks. Few studies follow patients who take the medications for more than a year. Allen Frances, an emeritus professor of psychiatry at Duke, who chaired the task force for the fourth edition of the DSM, in 1994, told me that the field has neglected questions about how to take patients off drugs—a practice known as ‘de-prescribing.’ He said that ‘de-prescribing requires a great deal more skill, time, commitment, and knowledge of the patient than prescribing does.’ He emphasizes what he called a ‘cruel paradox: there’s a large population on the severe end of the spectrum who really need the medicine’ and either don’t have access to treatment or avoid it because it is stigmatized in their community. At the same time, many others are ‘being overprescribed and then stay on the medications for years.’ There are almost no studies on how or when to go off psychiatric medications, a situation that has created what he calls a ‘national public-health experiment.’ ”—“Bitter Pill” The New Yorker

We have survived as a species for 200,000 years, and we’ve had anti-depressants for only the past few decades. Today, one American in five is taking medication for something no one had access to until recently. Suicide rates have been going up instead of down ever since the introduction of anti-depressants. Let that sink in.

Toward the end of the episode, Nikki is exhibiting symptoms, which a doctor diagnoses as depression: “My soul has the flu.” As it turns out, her brain is not sick nor is her chemistry out of order. Something in her life causes the problem. She experiences anxiety and sadness, and even depression as part of the normal range of emotions every human experiences in life. She does not need medication. Mostly Nikki needs some sleep, a better diet, regular exercise, some mental rest and decompression, and a little time to recover.

We all do.

 

 

LOVING JONI

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As a child I hated green olives and blue cheese. Today these two foods are among my favorites. Coffee. And napping—once resisted absolutely. Brushing my teeth. Boredom. I have changed my mind many times and about a lot of things.

Sometimes what we love and who we are seem to be at odds. There is a disconnect that might last for an instant. Perhaps for a lifetime. Sometimes that relationship between aspiration and daily life shifts and our point of view shifts with it.

Zadie Smith has written of this in an article in The Guardian, with an unfortunate title that uses the words “political correctness.” (I have been at pains to explain to students that the term “politically correct” is a pejorative.) Smith insists that change is inevitable and desirable.

“In an essay in her collection, Feel Free, she investigated one such change in herself, when she fell in love with the music of Joni Mitchell, a singer she had despised when she was a mixed-race teenager growing up on a London housing estate. ‘The reason for hating Joni Mitchell was that I didn’t listen to classical or “white” music,’ said Smith.

“ ‘Then I had an epiphany, and suddenly realised that her voice was beautiful. It’s a responsibility to be as open as you possibly can to the world as an aesthetic object.’ ”—The Guardian

Smith speaks about risking characters in her novels who are dissimilar to herself, and the risk of “collective identity.” That last is a new term to me, but Gary immediately recognized it as a term used in social psychology, also known as “referent group.” That is the term I learned.

“Polletta and Jasper defined collective identity as ‘an individual’s cognitive, moral, and emotional connections with a broader community, category, practice, or institution.’ ”—Wikipedia

The term has changed, the existence of identity has not gone away.

Joni Mitchell is Canadian, famous, a musician, a visual artist, and very ill. She is still alive and I am deeply grateful for her music. No one in my college writing class had ever heard of her. I played “A Case of You” for them and they were unmoved, blank and staring.

Maybe later.

I knew I should have played one of the early ones they were more likely to know. Instead I played the song from Blue because I heard her debut that album in Seattle back in the day. And because although I do not like change any more than anyone, I immediately fell in love with that particular reinvention of Joni Mitchell. “Michael from Mountains” is still stunning, but I moved on to new sounds right with Joni Mitchell.

We change our minds. We reinvent ourselves, and we sometimes do this over and over as experience and people around us push us along. Such changes are not always desirable. PTSD might inspire unwarranted responses to previously harmless situations or people. But growth is a complicated thing. We might need to twist with the wind or bend around obstacles in search of the light.

We are allowed. We are allowed to be ourselves and for that self to be re-framed throughout a long life as many people, as Chicana and then Latina, as artist and then song-writer, as woman, citizen, ally, professional, parent, sister, daughter, as elder, crone, as they, and ancient. Our referent group is not stable throughout our life because we ourselves change and find connections, we shift, slide, and reform.

We are allowed.

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CREDIBLITY

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Normal human beings want to take care of the people they love. Poor children, asked to imagine what they most want, most often want to buy their mother a house. Normal people, given more money than they need, share. If their best friend is hungry, they offer half their sandwich. If they see them hitchhiking on the road, they offer a ride. If an old person falls in the crosswalk, they lift them up. If I child falls in the lake, they jump in after. If a person is unconscious on the floor, they carry them out of the burning building.

Normal people care.

But human dragons . . .

SANDRA CISNEROS

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“Sandra Cisneros, the Mexican American novelist whose books “The House on Mango Street” and “Woman Hollering Creek” are widely considered contemporary classics of American literature, has won the PEN/Nabokov Award for Achievement in International Literature.

“Cisneros is the third author to win the annual award, after Syrian poet Adonis in 2017 and Irish novelist Edna O’Brien in 2018.”—LA Times

Literary critic Claudia Sadowski-Smith has called Cisneros “perhaps the most famous Chicana writer.” She has long supported other Chicana and Chicano writers, notably using much of her MacArthur Fellowship and other awards to fund programs and has been instrumental in building a strong community in San Antonio among other artists and writers through her work with the Macondo Foundation and the Alfredo Cisneros del Moral Foundation

She has long been one of my favorite people. I talked to her when she visited WordStock in Portland. I told her how I taught Mango Street and she urged me to share that approach, which I did. She held my hands. She was marvelous. She is a marvel.

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RUN LIKE A GIRL

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We had an unusual snowfall, about 4 inches. This ambitious woman skied on the narrow strip of snow-covered sand.

I always want to coach them. Relax your hands and use your arms to reinforce the work of your body. Step light as you can, without tensing anywhere. Chin level to keep your airway wide open. Walking breaks are fine. Find a better sport bra, better shoes, better gear all around.

Instead I walk on. They have not asked, these runners on my beach. I do not know them; they are visitors. Only once a novice runner took a puffing break and greeted me. We talked and I asked if she was new to running. [I knew she was.] I asked if she would welcome advice. She did.

Most often, a hundred times, I mutter to myself and wave a greeting.

For a few years I was a cross-country coach. I began running myself because my older son was running with the high school team. I admired the team’s camaraderie. I began running on April Fool’s Day, a bare half mile, and needing walking breaks even so. I built my distance through spring and summer until I could run the six miles north to Cannon Beach. By fall, I ran with the team and then for years after, I ran with them and coached.

The male coaches were most concerned with the boys and I often was left alone to coach the girls. They deserved better. One year I chewed out my team, “You’re running like girls!”

They laughed, of course.

But here is what I mean: hands fisted in front of their breasts, no use of arms which should swing easily with hands relaxed and back nearly to the hip and then forward with each stride.

There is more. Only the muscles necessary to the work are tense. The jaw relaxed, the hands relaxed. A head tipped too far forward or back compresses the throat, the jaw should be level to the ground. “Quiet feet are happy feet,” one varsity runner liked to quip. He was right. Reach out with every stride.

But I keep this to myself.

The runners I see may need my advice but they likely do not want it.

The writers I work with are not so different. I am not so different. What we all want to hear is that we are doing splendidly. Perfect. Powerful.

We also want that to be true. My writing students are like young runners. They need a long period of training and of coaching to reach their potential.

Instead of flabby muscles, their sentences are flabby. They do not proceed with powerful, purposeful strides. They waste energy clenching words they should not be using at all. They do not relax into their pace and look for ways to improve efficiency.

They do not often actually want my coaching at all. They do not all have faith they can carry on faster or stronger. They think they have already reached their potential. But like the un-coached runners on the beach, they have the potential to be infinitely stronger.

Like an athlete, they become stronger by both working and forcing themselves to work beyond themselves. Not to hurt but to stretch beyond themselves.

My young writers need to sweat.

MEASLES

There is currently a measles outbreak, mostly among people about 80 miles east of me. I wonder about being revaccinated. If I liked my new doctor better, I would go in and have my titer tested to find out if I am protected. I probably should do that anyway. Despite having had both kinds of measles as a child, serious cases, and more recent vaccination as an adult, it is possible that I have no immunity.

Immune systems do not respond identically to vaccines and some fail to respond to some vaccines. By vaccinating everyone the so-called “herd immunity” offers protection to those too young (under 1 year) or otherwise unprotected.

The immune system responds to disease, but a vaccination gives it an essential nudge in advance—the vaccine tells the immune system: here is a disease, recognize it as dangerous and prepare now to fight it off.

Sometimes this alert lasts in the body for a lifetime, but sometimes only temporarily. Sometimes the immune system forgets. This is not the fault of the vaccine, but simple variation in ourselves. Sometimes the body fails to retain protection against a disease despite vaccination or previous illness. Titer falls to zero over time. 

That happened to me with measles. I had very bad cases as a child, but by my 20s my immune system had “forgotten” and lost all antibodies to fight the disease. I was asked if I had had measles as a child the first time I was pregnant. I remembered being sick, but I called my mother to confirm. “Oh, yes, you were terribly sick for a long time.” I told my doctor I was certain I’d had measles. As a result, my immunity was not tested. My doctor and I assumed that my childhood illness meant I was safe from the disease, and we were wrong.

When my blood was later tasted despite my assurance, I was pregnant with my second child. I had no protection from measles at all! I did not know this until it was too late to do anything preventative. It meant that I could have contracted the disease while I was pregnant, and it also meant that my baby Ian had no immunity inherited from me during his crucial first year until he could be vaccinated.

We were lucky not to be exposed, but then I was careful and we lived in an area where nearly all people do vaccinate.

Of the dozens of new cases of measles in the Vancouver, WA/Portland, OR area, only one was an vaccinated person. The remaining cases are all unvaccinated people.

Too many people are now making decisions about vaccinations without any understanding of the dangers of these diseases. Everyone of my generation and before knew of someone crippled or dead from polio, perhaps a cousin blinded by measles, an uncle people whispered was sterile from mumps. I experienced most of these diseases. I knew a girl who had missed her polio immunization and had survived, but had 17 surgeries by her late teens, merely to allow her to walk with braces and canes. My husband had a school friend.

I had a severe case at age 7—almost lost my vision. My younger sister was able to get the new vax and was spared. During the same “epidemic” our neighbor’s grandson was born deaf from complications of a different strain. The anti-vaxxers need to understand all of this. Just because MTV or your yoga teacher ‘feels’ it might cause autism is not really an adequate health plan.—Nina Gaby, on my Facebook page (posted here with permission)

Vaccines work.

Some understanding of “vaccination” dates back hundreds of years. We have known for a very long time, for example, that exposure to cow pox might make a child sick, but that illness offered protection from smallpox. And smallpox would kill them in agony. People chose a short illness over death.

Some generally less lethal diseases are trickier still. Influenza, for example, is always around and it mutates so that every season there is a new version, or an old version returned. Vaccines must be developed well in advance of “flu season” based on the best guess of what the disease will be like when it arrives. Sometimes the guesswork is spot on, sometimes it misses. The vaccine may protect me against the flu by accurately stirring my immune system to create the antibodies to prevent disease or merely shove them in a likely direction. At worst, the vaccine reminds my body to prepare and I likely have a milder case than I would otherwise.

I recall being told that, yes, we do develop antibodies to protect us from colds and flu. These antibodies may even stick around (the body remembers), but there are so very many variations and mutations of these pathogens that immunity to one does not protect a person much or at all from the next. The first year I taught grades 6-12, I suffered from 17 separate colds, each lasting a very short time. The next year I had none.

These days, if I fail to have a flu vaccine, I not only catch the flu but also develop a complication such as pneumonia. In 2014 I missed my flu shot and I was sick literally for months over the following school year. The flu shot sometimes gives me a sore arm for a day or so, and it has meant that I have regularly been exposed to flu in the past five years without contracting the disease. For me a vaccination means that even if the influenza vaccine is not very effective and I got the flu, I would not get as sick as I would have without it. It also means I do not develop complications.

That means I get my shots.