Mostly I stick to minimally processed stuff, but only most of the time. There's enough shame in the world. I don't need to apply it to food.

I also think we should be able to afford the food we eat. I don’t like snobbery of any kind and food snobbery just irritates me.

Food shouldn’t take forever to make – I’ll leave that kind of recipe to the professionals.

Rarely do I cook a recipe the way I find it.

I tend to be a fairly intuitive cook. Cooking for me is creative, joyful, playful, and kind of chaotic. (I come by this naturally – my father was famous for leaving splatters of spaghetti sauce on the walls and ceilings of friends’ homes where he had cooked.) Only when I’m baking do I really carefully measure. Otherwise, I eyeball it.

My parents were huge influences on my cooking. For my dad, cooking was about relaxation and hospitality. He cooked almost every weekend, and we almost always had guests. Food was a way of expressing love, open-heartedness, and generosity. I share that sensibility. Dad was a very spontaneous cook. He might look at a few cookbooks, but they were nowhere in sight when he got to the business of cooking. He would riff and jam and imagine. His upbringing in Fresno, the child of Italian immigrants who struggled during the Depression, infused his dishes. Sharing food was almost a spiritual thing to him. His recipes were from the heart and he made similar things over and over, but not always exactly the same.

My mother, on the other hand, really enjoyed finding new and different recipes and trying them out. She approached cooking with disciplined, but open-minded inquiry, like the scientist she was at heart. When she cooked, we had a simple, but effective, rating system we used with new recipes. Every person at the table got a vote: was the recipe repeatable, repeatable often, or not repeatable. Not infrequently, it got more complicated because someone would say “not repeatable as is, but if we made this tweak…” Liking or not liking a recipe was never seen as a personal affront to her. New recipes were a springboard for conversation and discussion. I love that. I live that.

Some examples of my approach:

• I don’t feel the need to routinely make my own broths – honestly, it’s a pain and time-consuming and expensive and I don’t particularly like the result. I use broth cubes or powdered broth or water.
• I’m not going to tell you to only buy authentic Parmesan Reggiano or prosciutto from Italy. Only rarely have I found that it makes that much of a difference. If you’re into it and can afford it, go ahead. Otherwise, just use the stuff you find in the refrigerator section of your supermarket.
• I don’t get fussy about appearance – my taste buds and stomach don’t care if it’s perfectly plated.
• I don’t think extra-virgin olive oil is a necessity in all recipes – canola or some other neutral oil works really well for me for most stuff (and, by the way, I have a real problem with supposedly Asian recipes calling for olive oil – just saying).
• More and more, I find myself tending toward simplicity - just a few flavors shining.
• The same for meal planning - one dish as the focus, then simple sides if needed. Steaming vegetables simply works for me. I like plain rice, roasted potatoes, orzo tossed with some butter and parmesan. But better yet is when I can combine things together.
• It's never about perfection - it's about the pleasure of taste, the pleasure of sharing, the pleasure of connection.

I was lucky enough today to do a guided meditation with my friend, body work practitioner, and fellow explorer Lars Kallman. I've been having a hard time identifying my emotions. I tend to say I'm just fine until I fall apart. So the intention we set for today's session was to help me with more clearly seeing my emotions. It led me to place filled with both peace and pain. I'd like to share that experience with you.

As Lars began to lead me into relaxation, I felt as though a bolt was screwed into the bone above my right eyebrow. This bolt, rusted and craggy, was part of a metal band that fitted closely to my skull and ran around my head, where it connected to the spot where my skull met my neck. The sharp sear radiated from my forehead to my neck, then spread across to my left shoulder. As I breathed deeply, the pain seemed to melt into a pool of sadness within me, below my shoulder and impinging on my heart.

The rest of me was open and peaceful. Wide open spaces reminiscent of the old DeYoung California gallery, but more Asian. Pebble floors. Quiet, restful, enough. Outside an early morning sun starting breaking through the swirling fog. It began to suffuse my body, spreading into my legs, which until then had been merely dark corridors. Suddenly I smelled something clear and green - like eucalyptus mixed with morning dew. I realized an indoor garden had sprung up from my pelvic floor. Beautiful and verdant, it formed a lush contrast with all the peaceful space, but welcome.

Then a thin sheet of water began to spread in my body. With it came water lilies drifting through me. Except to that pool of sadness in my left shoulder. Life a hot tub connected to a larger pool, the sadness persisted and I realized it extended downward, seemingly into the ground through my left arm.

Both coexisting - peace and pain.

Perhaps biggest among them, for me, is to realize that it's okay to feel things - to feel grief, fear, anxiety, sadness, and frustration. And it's crucial to know how and when to move beyond them.

My therapist gave me great advice: set aside some time each day to simply feel whatever comes up. Go with it, sit with it, observe it. Just let it be what it is. Don't judge. Don't criticize.

When the time is up, do something totally different. Something active perhaps- take a walk, dance to a favorite tune, take a bath or a shower (yes, taking a shower is active for me!).

And if you feel stuck, bring yourself back to the present using a grounding technique Zoe shared with me. It's useful for panic attacks and acute anxiety, but I think it works really well when you are stuck in grief or your feelings are too overwhelming.

Sit comfortably. Close your eyes and take 3 deep breaths... slowly... inhale to a count of five, hold for one, exhale to a count of five. Then open your eyes and name out loud:

5 things you can see

4 things you can feel

3 things you can hear

2 things you can smell

1 thing you can taste (feel free to grab a piece of chocolate at this point)

Having personally used this multiple times, I'm a fan. It helps me remember that right now, right here, I'm okay. I am managing. I hope it brings some peace to you also.

Sometimes you fall off a cliff. And then do it again. And it's all your own fault.

I haven't been posting recently because in early February I fell off a cliff of grief. The one year anniversary passed fine. We had a terrific celebration of life (or death party, as Zoe and I preferred to call it) that was so true to Tom and to our family that it took my breath away. I was doing great.

And then I wasn't. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't stop the waves of grief from toppling me.

It turns out that in January, as we were planning the event and work was a little crazy, I just kept forgetting to take my little anti-depressant/anti-anxiety pill. And my other meds. I didn't do it on purpose, I just forgot. (And if I'm truthful, I didn't think it mattered that much because I was doing so well...)

It landed me in a program at Kaiser where I went in every morning for 2-1/2 weeks to learn coping skills, have access to a psychiatrist, and re-calibrate myself. I'm so much better, but it has taken 4+ weeks to get the meds back to barely operable levels.

So, as my brother Phil so eloquently put it, take your damn meds!!

It's been over a year now since Tom died and I've learned one really significant thing. I have begun to learn to love myself - truly love myself the way I want to be loved.

Mock me if you will, but it's hard to fall in love with yourself if you've always excelled at self-criticism.

It may seem an odd thing to raise with regard to grief, but my grief has taught me I need to adore me, to cherish me, to protect me. It also means learning to love me just as I am (in the words of Mark Darcy), not just my favorite parts, but to have patience with my flaws. It's about learning to forgive myself, cut me some slack, and believe that I am operating from the best of intentions. (And then making sure I do.)

Yes, it's self-centered, but in the best possible way.

By loving myself more, I have more love to share with others. I am less sensitive, less self-conscious. I am more me pure and simple and that's how I want to be in the world.

As a sign of commitment to myself, I bought myself a ring to welcome in the new year. It's silicone and flowers bloom on it. I like feeling it and reminding myself that I am worth loving me.

Try it. Love yourself.

"If we want our species to survive, if we are to find meaning in life, if we want to save the world and every sentient being that inhabits it, love is the one and only answer.

"Perhaps we are not yet ready to make a bomb of love, a device powerful enough to entirely destroy the hate, selfishness and greed that devastate the planet.

"However, each individual carries within them a small but powerful generator of love whose energy is waiting to be released.

"When we learn to give and receive this universal energy, dear Lieserl, we will have affirmed that love conquers all, is able to transcend everything and anything, because love is the quintessence of life."

(The mural pictured is about 100 feet from my office at Stanford. It infuses me with love and joy every time I see it!)

Find the full letter here: ,https://monoset.com/…/a-letter-from-albert-einstein-to-his-…

In the throes of grief, you just put one foot in front of the other. Goals, as goals, cease to have a lot of meaning. You've just had proof positive that life is temporal and the future is only a supposition.

But I still celebrate. Every day forward is a good thing. My primary goal has become letting everyone I love know that. Making sure that I deal straight with people and don't hide behind a stoic face or get passive aggressive. Getting as clear as I can about how I really feel and what I really think.

So, on this eve of a new year, I am letting you all know that I care about you. You wouldn't be my friend on FB if I didn't. I hope I've had the chance to tell you that in person or in a personal message. I'm very very thankful to be a part of a great community of friends here. You've all been immensely kind to me this past year. Blessings on you!

Just when I was patting myself on the head. "Good little griever. You really have this grief thing down!" Thinking myself as acing the grief section of the test of life. Then, wham! I just stumbled into a cavern of grief. That'll show me.

The proximate cause? A row of glowing, golding, lemoning gingko trees.

Tom and I used to lie in bed on fall afternoons, cuddling and chatting as we admired the gorgeous gingkos. And this year, I don't have have him to share them with.

Suddenly, I was falling into a place I hadn't seen before. Or at least not since the days soon after Tom died. Overwhelmed by a sudden panic, I texted a friend. He called me right away and helped me breathe my way back to myself. (Thank you, ,Lars Kallman!)

It reminds me a little of being on shipboard. (Not these huge megalithic cruise ships that barely seem to move, but old fashioned cargo ships or passenger liners.) You had to find your sea legs to stay stable. Your knees had to stay soft to handle the rolls. Well, you need grief legs too. They too have to be soft and labile. You need friends and sensei. They really help you ride out the storms.

Yes, I'll have a new normal. Whether I like it or not, and it's normal to fear I won't, I will grow in new ways. It's terrifying on a lot of levels because I don't want to change. I was really quite happy. So there's an internal struggle in me. But I realized I have a choice of how I grow and shift and change.

I've actually been thinking about this a lot recently, as I've been stretching into the netherworld of my comfort zones. I've purposely been trying to stretch - to stretch my experiences, my activities, my interactions with friends and family - really to stretch to authenticity. Stretch wide, then reintegrate into my center. So many stretches lead to comfort, calm, and better connection.

But sometimes I venture too close to the edge, my orbit gets a little too wacky. My center starts to slide. I begin to wonder if I ought to panic. That's okay. It's actually a good thing. Because it's at those outer reaches, sometimes, that I learn the most. I learn what I really want and need, the person I really want to be.

I've had a real note of clarity, a vision of what my future normal might be. And it doesn't look that scary. A little fun, actually.

No other way to say it. The birthdays, holidays, and special days just the two of you shared are flat-out painful. I keep forgetting this.

I want to think I'm a stoic (I'm not), so leading up to the day, I always think, "I'll be fine. I'm doing okay. I think I have this." Then the day arrives and I'm a total mess (what a surprise!).

We just went through our season of birthdays. Tom's birthday was the day before mine, and Zoe's is six days after me. I had planned everything for my birthday (dance at The Stud with a bunch of friends) and Zoe and I had discussed her birthday. But I hadn't made plans for Tom's birthday.

Zoe and I ended up going paddleboating (something we used to do as a family when Zoe was a kid), That was great, but I cratered after. So, I called a friend who was going to the theater that night and met him and his family there. His mom very kindly gave me a red rose as I left and reminded me to remember the good times.

I sobbed on the way home, but it was right for me to be with people that night. I needed it. But I can also see how sometimes I might need to be alone and draw inward.

So my advice: Plan a few flexible options. You may not know what is right until the day arrives. That's okay. Check out what your friends or family are doing that day and find out if you're welcome to tag along if that seems right. Think about a project or two you've meant to get done. Think about a favorite movie or two to watch, or look and see if there are any new movies you want to see. Is there something fun you can think of to do? Go to park, go for a drive, there are so many possibilities. Just think up both social and solitary ideas. Then listen to yourself when the day arrives.

I've been thinking a lot about circulariy lately. Lots of time to think, since I've spent well over a month now, either on leave from work or working remotely. I haven't been to the office in almost 6 weeks. My thought have moved from tiny circles, plashing round and round in sadness, to wider ripples bringing joy and calm..

And yet, in the world around me pandemic is striking. I don't know if we're at the end of the early phase or the beginning of the middle phase, but we're certainly not in the calmer waters. It seems so psychologically fitting that one of the first big panics was over toilet paper. I just can't get that worked up about this. I recognize it could get really bad, but we're an incredibly resilient lot. We may need to pull out the skills our parents and grandparents used to get through World War II.

My mother was about 20 when World War II began. Her mother had died two years before and her father was in the Philippines as the Japanese captured it. She was the here in California with her sister and brothers - 18, 16, and 14. No parents, no chaperones, no family but themselves. Within a couple of years, she would have her medical degree from Stanford and be practicing in San Francisco.

I can hear my mother's voice, calmly saying, "Calm down. Yes, it's serious. Just don't be stupid. But, equally, don't panic. It won't get you anywhere."

She was an oasis of calm intelligence. She rarely lost her cool, although she often said she was pulling her hair out. Damn, I miss her at times like this, her and bone-deep practicality and common sense. She would have been fascinated by the science of this virus and the medical response to the pandemic. She would have looked over her shoulder, told me to calm down, and then turned around to continue whatever project she was working on. And I would have relaxed, at least a little. The benefits of childhood...

Anyway - circularity. We've been here before - in little bits and pieces. I usually extrapolate from my experience and my best information. Have I ever been quarantined because of a health concern? No. But I have lived through serious earthquakes, floods, typhoons, the establishment of martial law in the Philippines, and civil unrest.

So, I'm ticking through the basics.

Do I have food and drink? Yes. Plenty. Will I run out of fresh food if I don't go out at all or have anything delivered? Yes. But do I have food to make reasonably healthy meals? Yes. For a month? Yes. Check.

Do I have a roof over my head that isn't going anywhere in the near future? Yes. And I am working remotely, so I still have income. I am very, very blessed. Check.

Do I have medicines on which I rely for decent health? Yes. Do I have a few months worth? Yes. Check.

Do I have a support system of family and friends to video chat, call, and play online games with? Yes. Do they love me and I love them? Yes. Okay, super-blessed I am. Check.

Do I have things to challenge my brain, entertain, and energize me? Yes, to all. Did you know the library often gives you access to music files. Really good music. One of the services my local library connects me to is a jazz music archive that is pretty amazing. I spent this whole evening listening to Art Pepper albums I've never heard. I have Netflix, BritBox, Acorn, PBS, Amazon Prime, and YouTubeTV. I have both Alexa and Google Home. I have art supplies. I have a camera to take photos of the world, which I'm really taking the time to see.

I'm circling back to the things that make me feel safe and comfortable. Every afternoon at about 4 or 4:30, I'm having a coke with a couple of crackers and cheese. It's what we did in Manila. Mom would sit down with us, have a coke, crackers, a cookie perhaps, and pause before starting in on dinner cooking. I've got a set of crackle glasses with thumbholds, just like we had when I was growing up. I sit and look out at my patio and the setting sun behind.

And tonight I set up my study like a typical college dorm room for one. That's what it feels like to me. This could have been any one of my rooms at college. It feels like a refuge, a hug for me. I'm draping myself in this room.

Every great time has some calamity they have to face up to and conquer. Let's circle back, both to our personal history to find our comfort, but also to history writ large to capture the lessons that will help us now.

I know. I'm Pollyanna. But right now I'm singing "You've Got to Accentuate the Positive." Hang on. Don't panic. Human beings are remarkably adaptable. We just have to give ourselves a chance to live up to the moment.

I hope i'm right. I hope calamity doesn't strike me and those I love. But all I can really do is take care, stay safe, and stay calm. I hope you are able to do that as well.

Oh my gosh goodness, great balls of fire. I have just had an exquisite, I do say exquisite meal. At the fashionable hour of midnight, of course. Anyone who is anyone eats at midnight.

It started with the purchase of a Cook's Illustrated best of magazine. I flipped it open to find a recipe for Tuscan Grilled Ribs. Now I have a deep and abundant need for pork. Blame it on being raised in the Philippines, where the pork is fragrant and fresh and hallowed. I need pork.

Wouldn't you know it, though. The recipe was for GRILLED ribs. And I'm not allowed to have a grill at my apartment and too cautious to fire up the one I have anyway. So an oven option was needed. And I was, without question, going to fiddle a little with the recipe, because I just can't help it. (If you want the original, I refer you to Cook's Illustrated.)

After a restorative three hour nap, I finally got to work on the ribs. They were absolutely worth the wait. And I can't wait to make them again for others. Scrumpdillydicious.

Trish's Tuscanish Ribs

1 rack extra meaty baby back pork ribs

Coarse salt

Freshly ground pepper

1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary

Juice from the bottom third of a lemon (squeeze as you go)

1 tablespoon olive oil

1/3 cup olive oil

1 clove garlic, pressed

2 teaspoons minced fresh rosemary

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

6-8 grindings white pepper

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1 teaspoon Maggi sauce

Cut the rack into two rib sections. Start at the thicker end and if you end up with a section of three ribs at the end, that's okay. Place them meat side down on a rack set in a rimmed baking sheet. Liberally salt and pepper, then flip and salt and pepper the meaty side. Let sit at room temperature, uncovered for about one hour.

About 30 minutes later, preheat the oven to 450oF. Place the pork in the oven on a high rack. Bake for 30 minutes. Take them out of the oven and reduce the temperature to 375oF. Sprinkle the ribs with the minced rosemary, squeeze the lemon juice over the ribs, and drizzle on some olive oil. Return to the oven for about 15 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to sit for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine the olive oil, garlic, and rosemary in a small pan on the stove. Over low heat, gently infuse the oil with the garlic and rosemary. After about 10 minutes, remove from heat, add the mustard, white pepper, lemon juice, and Maggi. Whisk to combine.

Cut the ribs into 1-rib portions and serve with the lemon vinaigrette drizzled over the top.

Serves 4-6

You find that you are easily able to breathe under water. You feel relaxed and your breath flows smoothly. As you breathe out, visualize bubbles starting to rise to the surface. Imagine that each bubble contains a thought. Actively put a thought into each bubble. Watch the m rise through the water and then release that thought as they break the surface of the pond. Continue to do this, putting every thought you have into a bubble, no matter how silly or mundane.

As you mind calms and empties itself, slow the rate at which the bubbles percolate through the pond water. Focus on the bubbles, how beautiful they look drifting slowly upward. Slow your breathing down to keep pace with the bubbles. Do this until there are bubbles with no thoughts. Take a final cleansing breath and begin to swim to the edge of the pond. Slowly reemerge into the real world, feeling refreshed and relaxed.

You can return to your pond whenever you need.

I just got back from an Open Floor Dance night. Sometimes they call it meditative dance or ecstatic dance. It was astonishing.

At the end, we sat in a circle and were given the opportunity to share what the evening meant to us. For a portion of the night, we followed broad instructions to dance YES and then dance NO. One of the people there shared that the NO was a statement of grief. The dance helped her physically express her thoughts and needs.

It was powerful for me as well. And I feel so much more peaceful and full right now. The group was amazingly welcoming. You don't need to know how to dance. Jump, walk slowly, bounce, lie on the floor. It's all good.

I texted Zoe that I've officially become an old hippie. It's taken me enough time to get there. Power of the dance!!!

At Windhover Contemplation Center on the Stanford campus

I've spent an incredible amount of time this past 10 months watching Jeeves and Wooster, Poirot, Miss Marple, Big Bang Theory, Schitt's Creek, as well as old movies that make me feel whole. High Society, Pillow Talk, Bird Cage, and so many other films that make me laugh, smile, and sing along. Did I mention almost anything with Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Colin Firth, Emma Thompson, and Doris Day?

I found this really helpful when I was depressed in Chicago. And it's especially true as we enter winter, with colder temperatures, rain, snow (if you're lucky), and other mucky weather.

I think we tend to be more solitary as the night comes earlier.

So entertainment that fills you up with goodness is nourishing for your soul. For me, that means nothing depressing and nothing scary. Shows I can lose myself in.

You, on the other hand, might revel in slasher movies, rip your heart out by the heartstrings movies, and ponderous documentaries. Do what makes you feel better. That's really what this is all about.

But that's the thing about death. He will always be a part of me, but physically he isn't here. Without our partnership to define me, who am I? While I've never been a faded flower, hiding under the bright light of my husband, it still takes a little rethinking. The last time I was on my own I was 23 years old. That's the same age my daughter Zoe was when her dad died.

So I embarked on a quest. My goal: to stretch toward authenticity. To throw my arms wide, trying out all kinds of different things that catch my fancy, and then release those that don't feel right. To figure out what I like to do, be, and think when I'm just with myself.

I have to admit that I've loved this exploration. It's been a shiny nugget of gold in a river of grief. It's been fun, it's been a little exciting, it's been funny. I've not turned my back entirely on the things Tom and I did together, but I have been focused more on the new. My worry has been that I'll be stuck in way of being that really no longer exists with Tom gone.

So the photo below is apropos. It was taken during a night swim on Miami Beach. I feel like I'm emerging into a new world that's kind of scary but also interesting.

Is it only me who thinks a fabulous gift to bring to someone grieving is several boxes of kleenex?

I can't tell you how many I've gone through in the last seven months. I'm constantly running out and resorting to toilet paper or paper towels (definitely the worse of the two).

For the grievers among us: Give yourself the gift of tissues. Lay in a serious stock of kleenex. Be outrageous. Buy a bunch. Just do it. You'll know why eventually. And if you turn out not to be the crier I am, it doesn't go bad. They're soft.

Get a thorough cleaning. Go ahead and rearrange things the way you want them organized. Give yourself permission.

One of the greatest presents that Zoe has ever given me was cleaning and organizing my place in the weeks right after Tom's death. And not just Zoe. Ryan put in so many hours helping her. We sorted. We culled. Not Tom's stuff so much as my stuff, our collective stuff. Just too much damn stuff (and I keep hearing George Carlin in my head).

Then I hired the wonderful Fanny to come in and do a complete cleaning job. I can't tell you how much better it made me feel to have a sparkling clean house and dishes at my height. Silly stuff, but it buoyed my heart when I needed it most.

It's a beautiful spring day in Japan and you are entering a park to see the cherry blossoms in bloom and other trees just budding out. As you stroll, you smell fresh new green growth, the faint scent of blossoms in the air. A slight breeze is blowing, lifting your hair and brushing past your skin.

As you continue deeper into the park, the temperature turns colder, the breeze whips past a little faster. Clouds begin to gather in the sky, soon blanketing the sun. You smell a metallic whiff in the air now. Snow, you think!

In the distance you see a small shelter and begin to wind your way through to the paths to it. It's an open-sided wooden building and in the center is an old metal brazier with coals glowing. When you duck under the wooden beams to sit on a smooth, ancient bench, the heat from the brazier begins to warm you. As you glance out, you see a bridge right in front of you. People are hurrying across the bridge, heading home, to work, or out to play. Just as you get comfortable, you see the first snowflake flutter down.

In the distance, people on the paths begin to unfurl their umbrellas. You are safe, warm, and dry in the shelter.