Five recommended ingredients for living

(my father was an ex-army cook, WWII, and when he cooked there were no small pots used in the kitchen)

This is something competely from my secular side.

This is a work in progress. Tastes change. Memories change. Recipes are always being revised.

I could not but help draw parallels between the flow of life and the use of metaphors to explain some things. No big book philosophy here. Just trial and error flavors, some empirical mixed in, along with spices derived from life's ebb and flow.

Doing some genealogical studies a few years back, I looked and looked on the Internet for a recipe for "chili sauce" that my great aunt Rose had assembled in her Nicetown kitchen (Phila.) Some fifty odd years ago during a long summer break in grade school.

My father had a vacation and little money. He also wanted Aunt Rose to share a recipe that his mother had used to make. Aunt Rose was getting along in years. We went to a farmer in the country, bought fresh veggies and assembled something like an Irish-American version of salsa. Then there was the "canning" of such into mason jars.

I lost Aunt Rose's recipe that my father had written down. The "chili sauce" that she had made resided in my stored memory until I found something close to the original in composition and after I made it - in taste. In retrospect the Quest or the end of the search was probably as satisfying as the food.

I found a recipe in the 1923 Fanny Farmer cookbook under the label "Celery and Tomato" relish on the Internet that fit my memory and visuals of those two long dead relatives, my father and great aunt Rose, on that day in the kitchen five odd decades ago. The Internet does in many small ways serve humanity or at least this human from time to time.

Now having had consciousness in this realm of mortal existence for close to half a century, may I share my own recipe and mention of ingredients for adding the (?) right measure of spice into a perhaps balanced life experience?


Five Recommended Ingredients :

Quest (seek). Respect. Management. Generosity. Joy (rejoice).

Interested in the Recipe ? Read on.
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Seek the Universe (quest):

Seek, question, study, learn, and interact with all things and everyone.
Find your comfort in the scheme of things.
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Respect Life:

Try to communicate with all living things (yourself included).
Recognize and respect that which is a living stem of the Tree of Life.
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Manage your Resources:

Micro and Macro - These to include small and big things including personal finances and intellectual concepts among others.
Do not let the world control you. You should control your world.
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Give:

And if not give, try to share. Be generous of yourself to others.
What you have is temporary; give back to society and to individuals real and abstract goods.
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Rejoice (joy):

Enjoy Life. Do not delay or postpone that enjoyment under any circumstances. Do that which gives you satisfaction provided it does no harm to others or to yourself.
Project proudly and freely the talents learned individually and those talents that are gifts of the Universe.
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(and of course the "chili sauce" recipe)

Tomato and Celery Relish

1 onion finely chopped
1 tablespoon salt
1 large green pepper, chopped
2 tablespoons sugar
1 large bunch celery, chopped
2 allspice berries
2-1/2 cups canned whole or fresh tomatoes
2/3 cup vinegar

Mix ingredients, heat gradually to the boiling-point, and cook slowly one and one-half hours. Cayenne or dry mustard may be added if liked more highly seasoned.

Sample Chapter 28

Tiberius is Dead!

Street graffiti is everywhere in Jerusalem as I enter the ancient town. That graffiti is such a Roman thing or used to be. I do not remember it as so prominent in my memory. Graffiti if any was small and anti-Rome and in the less reputable parts of the town, such as where taverns and brothels were the norm.

“Long live Gaius Julius Caeser” is marked everywhere.

The landscape in the lower city has changed. The streets seem more crowded and dirtier. I have seen this place at Passover and it wasn’t this crowded in the middle of the day. I get the ambiance of a place in flux with a lot of transients such as on a market day. Is this market day?

The dress of the people here seems different. Are these Jews from other lands in their native dress or are they simply foreigners?

Two of my agents met us outside the walls of the city. In fact where Jesus was crucified, the place is still there, but buildings are built along the road and in front of that old traditional execution place.

My agents have brought me credentials. No body can enter the city without credentials from the authorities. My servants must wear name tags. I must wear an ugly ring with the present city authority’s seal upon it.

I look back and forth as we walk and approach my old townhouse.

The building is a shambles and I am not allowed to enter.

“It is rented out Ma’am, per your instructions of many years back.”

“Yes. Quite right.” I say and remember my long standing instructions.
Why did I want to come back here? Yes. To start the breakup of networks and for the distribution of my assets.

My agents accompany me to a house some several streets down the way. It is no doubt the property of these agents and is small and comfortable. There is a small courtyard in the Roman fashion as well as a terraced roof. A trickle of water in a tiny fountain in the courtyard masks street noises.

I sit and am served refreshment. The agent asks if I want to visit the Temple mount. I am in such a strange mood and feel so disorientated.

“We did not know if you wanted to stay inside the city walls or outside them.” was his explanation as to tell me the present situation.

“We welcome you as a guest for as long as you need to stay. The place is small and your servants may have to sleep in the courtyard tonight while we find arrangements for them.”

“And what other arrangements can be made?”

“We had to get you credentials first. You cannot stay here or in an inn or even in your old abode if it was available without credentials. We must apologize for your temporary inconvenience.

“We have a villa outside the walls being cleaned and ready for your stay if that is where you would like to stay. In the meanwhile, this house is yours and for your entourage.

“We do not know you directly. Our uncle was your most humble servant in the past. He has passed on. We know that you are kosher and have supplied the kitchen as such. We do not practice the local customs ourselves.”

“When will the villa be ready you say?”

They looked at each other.

“Two, maybe three days. It has been occupied by a Roman officer for some time. It is quite a mess.”

“I will accept your hospitality for the time being and we must go over the books later in the week after I settle into the villa.”

“Books? Uncle said nothing about books.”

I might have to take them at their word until I can get settled in. I put full faith in some of my agents in the past. Things are changing. The few properties I have here I remember. My other business assets are likely not in the hands of these young creatures.

It was a full week before I could move outside the city walls to a very large comfortable villa with a courtyard. The reckoning of accounts from my town agents as to properties and expenses and profits seemed reasonable. I have since found out that they in fact were blood of my chief agent here and deceased. My son had been the one corresponding and doing business and receiving and sending payments back and forth.

Time to wrap up a lot of things. I tried to seek out my old friends Martha and Mary but they would not receive me at their villa. Their brother Lazuarus had been murdered some time back according to the gossip. I had not heard of it. They had been so devoted to their brother. The two are in permanent mourning of their loss. Poor dears.

I have since gotten back into the city since my first arrival. I did a little shopping. I also went to visit J.D. who has set up digs in a seedy part of town. His rooms are tolerable and I try to understand his tastes now that he is separated from my household. I stop in to see him to discuss matters.

“These two agents of my son. I call them Frick and Frack behind their backs. They seem honest enough but I do not know.”

J.D. responds with the old Persian adage about how you always give the other trader the benefit of the doubt. After you find out that they have lied or screwed you, then you cut their throats.

I confide in J.D. that a lot of gold and silver will have to be moved east and south. Did he want a well paid job in managing the transport? I give him the choice of going east to Persia or south to Arabia.

He confides to me that he is in Jerusalem to stay. This is where he will die with dice in his hands. I give him a look. He responds that he has contacts from the old days that he trusts and he will scope out a bunch of men trustworthy enough of the task that I am seeking. Considering the circumstances I am grateful for the thought and consideration from my former and faithful servant. He tells me to give him a couple of weeks to find a few good men for the job.

Rebecca has settled into a melancholy that reminds me of her lost man. I will have to see if she wants to stay and occupy the property of her townhouse when the present occupants leave it. At least with J.D. here in retirement, there would some sort of family connection to look out for her for the time being. A marriage would be more suitable for her. That and more children would ease my worries about her.

I went to the Temple platform, first to the Court of Gentiles and then to the Court of Women. I had to dress and act appropriately. I had not been there in ages. I paid for a sacrifice to be made to the Jewish god to look after me in my old age and for J.D. and Rebecca as well.

There was a great bronze statue of the late emperor Tiberius. It stood uncomfortably in the Court of the Gentiles. In this Jewish holy place, the statue did not belong. While visiting one day I saw slaves and workmen uncrating another object. The object was a marble statue of the new emperor Gaius Julius also known by the popular nickname of Caligula.

I overheard Roman soldiers telling the workmen that the marble statue was to be put in the Temple itself by order of the new emperor. I wasn’t the only one to overhear the soldier’s words. An unease in the air was felt immediately. Old men and young men were gathered about with fingers pointing and words uttered in anger but not easily discernable.

It was prudent to leave immediately. I sensed an air of unrest. I had not felt that feeling since the day that there were riots on the Temple mount, the afternoon before they came and seized Jesus.

True to form a riot soon took place. I was outside the city gates but I could hear screams of men as Roman steel struck the life out of many.

The city was on lockdown. I could not get back into the city for days. When in fact I did get back into the city, there was an unease that I did not like. Perhaps lockdown was coming back at any moment. I went to J.D. for some gossip.
The old man informed me that many people were indiscriminately rounded up and executed. Officials had checked J.D.’s credentials and he no longer felt comfortable in his retirement place. He had reconsidered my offer of employment. He would perform one more task for his former master.

If things were getting bad in Jerusalem, then there was an option of selling a lot of assets at a discount. For this I considered approaching the son in law of my old business acquaintance Joseph of Aramethea.

Before I could make arrangements for a trip to Caesarea, I ran into another old acquaintance. Matthew the tax collector was now part of the local civil authority in some capacity. It had taken some time, but my credentials had finally ended up on this bureaucrat’s desk.

Sample Chapter 1

The “way “.

It has called that in many places and by many cultures long gone. It is been called that by people presently. It may be called that in the future or by some other name.

The syncopated beat of the foot of the camel, that desert beast, through the eternal sands reaches a tone, a resonance that only a chosen few, those who can listen and who are blessed, and can truly hear.

Our lord Zoraster heard and understood it a thousand years ago, this magic sound, this mystical undying message.

Those who attain the perfection, the ultimate state of being that a mere mortal on this spec of dust can achieve…understand the “way” and only by example can try to explain.

My focus on the “way” drifts to a memory. As a child, my father, my adopted father, stood next to me at the foot of the great pyramid in Egypt.

“The visitors come in the day” he began to explain to me. “They see the rising sun’s golden light on the polished white stone. The feel of warmth, the golden light and some see evidence of a sun god. Many see the geometry and measure the angle of shadows and record them. Then they try to predict the meaning of the universal symbols that accompany angles and shadows…”

Oh, how my father gave me such a headache at times. He delivered the full truth and on knowledge of so much on everything he knew. He shared with this four-year-old girl the full truth of everything that he knew. Thought I did not understand all at the time, I remember every word and every moment in his magnificent presence.
For it was he who came from the east and bought me from my real parents. I see a blur in my memory of them. I remember some of their language and have had some use of it through the years.

Though I was born near here in that eternally troubled strip of stone and desert, I have only rested on that soil since then at night when the caravans stop to rest.
The sun is setting outside the shaded covering of my cloth enclosure atop this camel companion. We will be stopping soon and I will begin another chapter of this long life of a child born a prodigy.

A pang of anxiety fills my heart for the fear of the unknown of things to come and the loss of familiar comfortable things.

I need to meditate. Breathe slowly. Focus on the center of energy that the great master Buddha from the far east has taught us.

For it is written in the sacred texts I possess handed down to me only from my father. That first came the great Zoraster, a caravan owner who sailed the goods and shared the knowledge of the “way” from place to place in the desert.

A caravan is like a mighty fleet of ships at sea that needs the skills and mastery of a great admiral over many good captains. The years of experience of the captains and the admiral are too many to count.

Like the great masters of the past, only one or two have the skill in a generation or a generation of generations who can know of, or seek the handle of the sacred door, the door behind which holds all knowledge of the universe…

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Not the best place to be doing the breathing on top of the living boat of the camel. Its breath should be the dominant breath, cadence, a signal, and a coach to follow. Reach the calm. Touch and see the light. Attain the wonderful nirvana.

I am back in focus, back in time with my great teacher.

“There is an opposite to everything. The yin and the yang they call it in the lands beyond India. There is white across from the black. There is life; there is death. There…”

My mind merges with the image of the light of a full moon rising and reflected on the marble surface of the great pyramid. The cold of the night still sends shivers up my spine from many years ago.

The whole of the moon, grey on white, the iridescence of light, is a connection to the dark sky. My mind’s eye view is a staircase to the stars.

My thoughts connect with a timeless time. Reconnect with this sight frozen in my memory as we stood alone at the base of this man made mountain. We stood there and shared with unknown others, through thousands of years gone by, this same experience . That memory somehow grounds me in times of anxiety.

Those others, those countless others, priests of the pharaoh, pharaohs, those of the “way”, are in some strange fashion still there. In my heart I feel the sensation of the master who stood in the same place and in a different time and saw the same moon make a similar sight…it is the touchstone of my spiritual being, one of the touchstones, the other few are perhaps too secret to share with anyone, anywhere, and bridging times.

Historians write that they visited the pyramid. They never describe the mathematics or the geometry. Perhaps they fear secret societies or secret priesthoods who would jealously protect and kill to protect the secret mathematics or geometry of the great universal marker.

The trouble with secret societies is that secrets can die with a head priest who has not taught or selected well the apprentices who might one day succeed to head a family or a clan of the guardians of trust.

Truth, universal truth, cannot be hidden forever.

The Greeks figured out the mathematics and geometries that built those ancient Egyptian temples and monuments. Now the Greek claim to have invented mathematics and geometry. Such a crock of camel piss!

I know the secret – the spiritual secret of the great man made mountain of stone. I know of the spiritual gate to the stars. I have felt the presence of others not of this mortal realm, here on this sphere in a void of not so godly aspirations.
The camel has stopped.

I must pause for a few seconds before regaining orientation to the vulgar world of the living and the flesh.

Fama, my camel driver gives a call. I reply. Our camel is about to descend. It would not be seemly for a man no matter how loyal and respected to enter the privacy of this woman’s realm of a small tent structure upon the back of a camel. The warning was to hold on. The camel always moves from side to side as it kneels and rests on the ground.

I draw a cloth cover back to see the beginnings of night and others disembarking from their means of travel.

Faint starlight and a few lit torches are visible.

My maid greets me and I disembark. I pet the camel on the nose out of respect. She responds in cantankerous fashion. One must show respect for all living things spoke the great master.

I walk a short distance and sit upon a chair. In front of my chair has been placed a small rug. As I sit two long wooden poles go into the desert sand and are parallel and behind me.

J.D., my eunuch, has great strength and has no need to pound the poles into the desert sand. A cloth with slots in it is fitted on the poles. At last I am invisible and away from the others in the caravan who are tending their beasts. Privacy is the hardest part of any caravan journey. The men are crude and basic. They say vulgar words. They relieve themselves where they stand after getting off their camels.
I stand.

My maid and eunuch help me bend my knees onto the rug in front of me. My evening prayers are due to the creator. I kneel and pray and meditate and rethink things. A small tent is erected about me. More privacy. Room for a place to sleep. The space within is large enough for a few trunks out of which come clothes, lotions and other personal items.

My maid, though technically she is my slave, prepares the sparse sleeping place. She will share the tent with me this evening and my eunuch will sleep outside the entrance to my tent.

Although I personally know the caravan master and many of the drivers, there are those hired at the last minute to drive the camels and cargo that one cannot be sure of.

My maid brings a lit lamp into the tent and places it on a small table. My prayers are at an end. I would prefer to assume the lotus position and begin a few moments of meditation in the style of the Buddha.

These cross disciplines of the prayers of one belief system mixed with the rituals of another might seem not right to some. I know how the “way” has changed over the ages. These caravans touch the distances and bring gossips of what is new and different from elsewhere.

Things have changed at this end of the caravan map’s destination. A thousand years ago the Greeks and Romans were still living in caves and were nothing more than shepherds and goatherds.

Back then, Persia was at her zenith and a navel of a whole world. To the east lay what? The unknown territories lay there and the great Alexander had yet to be born and conquer them. He and his Greeks were yet to absorb and steal other ideas and beliefs.

The secrets continue. We, the priestly class of Zoraster, no longer have Persia. We still hold the truth of our great prophet.

Rome and its marble temples and marble gods in marble cities is a culture of stone. No true blood within. Only the bloodshed from with out. The Romans have great drive. They have no great passion except to imitate a dominating male culture of animals, their dogs. Man and woman in nature are indeed a notch or two above the animals and the so-called Roman Empire.

A light meal of dates and yogurt is served to me and a cup of wine saturated with medicinal herbs. Traveling does such a number on my internal organs. Travel on camels is for the young and the hearty.

This may be my last journey. It was taken in great haste. A power struggle had developed between my evil brother in law and my son for the hearts and minds of those few last hard-core followers of our faith.

Zoran, the by blood high priest of our religion, has of late been campaigning to eliminate my son’s claim as a rightful heir to the high priesthood. Zoran’s claim of my impure blood mixed with the son of the last high priest, my husband, wants only his sons to succeed him. Pity that my husband died at such an early age and pity my father was not here to work his potent language and magic on Zoran.

The secret brotherhood of Zoraster is a pale reflection of its past self.
Percepolis, the once mighty capital of Persia has been in ruins for centuries. The center of our faith is a small town some distance to the north of Percepolis. It is a town of mud huts and not so grand palaces of the dying priesthood.

The center of pilgrimage is still the ancient city. Though abandoned, one mighty temple in ruins if where we gather twice a year to do ancient rituals, rekindle the sacred flame and read from the sacred texts.

I smirk. I am amused. I have the knowledge of many sacred texts. I know the places of secret repositories of writings. Deserts are wonderful places to hide the sacred writings in jars buried in the sand or hidden in secret caves.

Zoran thinks he knows all the secrets. He is wrong. My magic is merely insight and intuition. Perhaps Zoran is right about my impure blood. Perhaps only blood of blood can invoke the ancient magic of the Magi. Who am I to say?

I had hoped that at this late stage of my life to entrust documents to my son. My father and husband had entrusted them to me. It is a great burden to have so much potential power and not be able to use it. Not once has any official priestess of Zoraster ever been elevated to the role of high priestess. It is that old cultural male, female thing.

Though if I were younger and more ambitious, I might have tried for such a role in the hierarchy of my religion. But Zoran is right. I am an outsider. It is not likely for myself to succeed but my son has the blood of many great masters in his veins. He is rightful heir to the high priesthood and only to a true high priest can I bestow the ancient legacy of secrets and sacred writing.

I drink another cup of wine. This is mixed with the ground up seeds of the cannabis plant. I need my rest and my aging bones ache after being bounced around on the back of my sister camel all day long.

How many more days until I reach my destination?

Zoran wants the Romans to rebuild Percepolis. He has invited them into Persia. They are not likely to come. They have to conquer and rape and dominate cultures and environments and reshape them into their image of the grand Roman city.

Zoran waits for a miracle and help from the Romans to resurrect the grandeur and glory of our religion. It is perhaps a dead religion now if it depends on the likes of the Romans for help.

The Romans cannot measure or conquer the desert sands. They cannot build roads that will be stable in the sands. They cannot keep the sands away from hiding their marvelous roads. Roads are their lifeline and also their limit.

Here in the desert, these few hearty souls, these camel drivers are more powerful and more respected than a hundred Roman legions.

I drift off to sleep. I regret leaving my son alone in his quest among the brethren for the trust and respect to gain the high priesthood. My presence was a sore point for him. I decided to disappear for a while. I had some loose ends to tie together. I needed to discover my true roots near here in that land near the coast of the great sea, great sea…

I dream.

I am in a boat. It not unlike the boats that took my father and myself up and down the Nile. We are not on a river but a much greater body of water. The wind comes and the darkness, then thunder and then lightning.

I am alone on this boat. No sailors are present to guide the boat through the storm. I will probably perish in the storm.

Then there comes a calm in the middle of the storm. With the calm comes a warmth felt within the whole of my body. I see a distant light and I hear a voice.

A male voice speaks. “I am the way.”

The dream ends.

Sample Chapter 2

Life awakens.

There are stirrings in the camp. Darkness is still dominant. A man or two or animal or two or three are waking and are making the guttural sounds of being awake.
I hear the distant sounds. Have always been an early riser. Have used the silence still in the household to make mental notes of tasks to be done first and in descending order.

Here in a caravan, nothing to do but lie and make notes of aches and pains of my aging body. That the creator gave great resilience to the female body. That he gave that resilience to a younger child bearing age female. Myself passed the childbearing years, and in the declines of internal ethers, it makes me reflect on the sum of days possibly left me.

There is a stirring outside my tent. “Little mother”, the caravan’s boss’s first wife, has brought both a lamp and a vessel of steaming tea. J.D., without question, lets her pass into my tent after announcing aloud. “Mistress. The boss man’s lady wishes entrance.”

I am eager to rise and greet a visiting face. My maid reluctantly awakes and leaves the tent after preparing “little mother” a place to sit near myself still seated upon my bedding materials.

“Forgive my boldness dear lady but Ahmed says that you will soon leave us upon the trail.”

Without further prompting I reach for a scroll and begin a quick astrological prediction for her unborn grandson –

“You say it is a grandson lady?”

“Yes. The chart speaks of one strong and dominant. If not a boy, then a very powerful woman.

The old woman began to laugh and then replied.

“Better a weak son than a strong daughter goes the old saying.”

While I did a lot of work on the chart, the sex of the child or any child unborn is in the hands of the fates or the gods and not totally within the realm of mere mortals to decipher or to command.

I take my first sip of the tea. We begin to gossip. First we talk of those on the caravan with us.

Little mother begins.

“Those boys with the last three camels are a bad lot. They gamble and argue amongst themselves. Ahmed is always telling me to keep an eye out for anything missing from our meager campsite when they are about.

There are four other women on the caravan. If they are wives, mistresses, or slaves, she cannot state. Their men never let them out of their sight.

“It is not for me to question these things. At least none of them are big in the belly. I will not be asked to be midwife in the middle of some night on the run of the caravan.”

Her eyes were dark and reflected the light of a single lamp light, so beautifully. That wrinkled skin and missing teeth took nothing away from her present beauty. No doubt she was a beauty in her day to attract so strong and cunning a man as her husband.

I am reminded of my faded looks and gone forever youth. Little in the sacred writings reflects upon or gives comfort to the act of aging.
That the blessing to live to see your children’s children is the most powerful blessing the creator can bestow.

There was a shouting outside our tent. Little mother’s husband was awake and unattended.

“I must run lady or he will beat me.”

“If he beats you, he will eat a cold supper full of sand tonight.”
She gave a great toothless smile in response before departing.

Dawn had arrived.

Any day now they would arrive at a predetermined place. I waited for the arrival of four horsemen with another six horses. Our departure from the caravan was quick. Our three camels stopped to unload passengers, goods and supplies. I first determined through J.D. and Ahmed that these horsemen were of the “way” and my journey’s end would likely be a safe one.

Four armed horsemen and J.D. and young fresh horses seemed adequate protection from random thieves along the trail. Anything larger than a dozen organized thieves in the hills and on horseback could be negotiated with or traded with. My status as a Magi would carry weight in many quarters. With a horse or two and a pouch or two of silver and the honor of a trade, a trail bargain, and a trail oath would likely settle any dispute.

Besides, these days on the frontiers of the Roman empire, large organized gangs were not too likely. Roman patrols were always looking for a fight with anything that represented backbone or balls and in any way shape or form challenged Roman authority.

If anything, an organized trail gang would be giving kickbacks to a local Roman centurion stationed in this god forsaken land.

I had enough power with languages and customs that my negotiations would recognize and respect trail signs and we could survive any few close encounters so close to my destination.

The horsemen took us for a trip of three days to the south before arriving deep into Roman territory. The horsemen seemed glad to be leaving no doubt out of fear of the Romans. I gave them a special blessing for the journey home.

It is strange sometimes when I play the part that I did at the side of my long dead husband, that the blessing of the master still meant so much to the horsemen or the camel drivers. The world was changing. The world was becoming ugly and alien. So much of the world was now Roman.

The long, long journey took its toll. I stayed at what could be called an inn for a week before traveling further. Of course I demanded the best that the innkeeper could provide. I put him and his family out into their stable while I had a whole room to myself along with my possessions.

I had to change from the role of grand lady to that of middle class pilgrim.
I brought my lesser clothes with me and began to wear them about the inn as I took my daily walk. There was a need to acclimate myself to the culture here abouts.
Time to adjust and time to reflect. This was all so sudden. The departure from my son’s side and his struggle for power I saw in my stars. Still, it was a closing chapter.

All my life I was someone’s daughter or wife or mother. My roles were written for me. I never had too much to say or to do. Mostly I was a useful ornament and a walking repository of memorized sacred scripts.