Sharing Our Talents

I am more than my smile, my legs, and my career. I am a writer. Now, when on a date, I can talk about why I want to write and how I’ve learned to do so. It’s more entertaining to both of us than batting around flirty comments about high heeled boots. Finally!

My point?

What would your friends say about you if they were asked to write about one of your best talents? Take that thought and run with it. Hold on! I bet you’d look cute in an apron and heels, but that’s not the direction I want you to go. Give me something with a little more substance.

Your assignment (should you choose to accept it) is to pitch one of your shining talents to me. Go ahead; tell me what’s so wonderful about you. In the process, maybe you’ll start to believe it and then you’ll be able to talk to someone about something tangible.


Not long ago I was asked to do a friend a favor. She wanted me to write about her baking abilities. She’d grown weary of updating her online dating profile with new photographs and deep quotes from even deeper authors. She knew that where she did some of her best work was in the kitchen. She also knew that cooking for a partner would make her very happy, indeed. In the process, I learned a little more about myself. Here's what I wrote about my friend:


“An Introduction to ‘L’, Baker of Pies”

The woman is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.

I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of her creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.

She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. She is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother, I would simply rather let her do the baking.

She chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.

Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...

...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)

She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like vanilla ice cream with that peach pie?"

Yummy! Aren’t you hungry now? Get busy, would you? Start working on your self-descriptors. I’m anxious to hear from you. I have a feeling you’ll find that once you start thinking about how terrific you are you’ll have the start of something to talk about over dinner. Just make sure to order coffee and take time to enjoy the dessert.

We’ll talk a little about listening later.



Contact me at:

askthedatecoach@live.com








©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved

How Is Your Tenacity?

How is your tenacity? Do you hang on, or will you be shaken? I suggest you be shaken.

This morning I spent the better part of fifteen minutes pulling tiny burrs out of a picnic blanket. A group of us attended an outdoors performance of Puccini’s “Tosca” last night and when we arrived at the large grassy hill and claimed our spot I quickly realized that I’d carried with me several hundred hitchhikers from the Art Car Parade a couple weeks ago. After a quick glance at the little offenders, it became evident that they were dug in and wouldn’t budge with a shake of the blanket. The sweet grade-schooler in our party said they were only “bumpy” and didn’t really cause a bother. She was correct.

We enjoyed a beautiful late spring night in the park and I tossed the blanket in the laundry room when I arrived home, not thinking much about it until this morning when I realized I’d have to remove as many of the burrs by hand as possible before I washed it or it would end up a matted mess when it came out of the machine.



Removing them wasn’t unpleasant. They weren’t the big, pointy kind that pricks your fingers. It was just something that had to be done unless I wanted to throw the blanket out. I didn’t. Too many memories or fun times are wrapped up in that blanket. I keep it in my car for events just like last night. Houston is full of opportunities to share a meal outside with friends, or gaze at the stars while an orchestra plays, or just sit and talk. We live in a wonderful city for such things.

While I was picking those little burrs off the blanket I thought back to my own days in grade school when I learned how organisms and plants develop survival methods. Whatever seed was inside those heavily armored and pointy burrs had worked very hard to survive. Maybe I’d helped it along the way, carrying it from Allen Parkway and dropping one of its progeny along my route. Maybe it’s a noxious weed. Probably. One thing is for certain. It holds on.

Which brings me to Tosca, and me, and maybe you.
The character Floria Tosca (for those of you who aren’t familiar) carried herself as a strong woman. She was a prominent singer, even famous in her community. She fought off the advances of the Chief of Police and through the entire opera argued with her true love over her own jealousy which was oddly misplaced because the object of her affection was not cheating on Tosca. He was working on a religious painting, and if Tosca was anything, she was a church-going gal. She was one tenacious (read: “clingy”) woman. She held onto an idea and clutched it for all it was worth. She just kept going…and going. I won’t ruin the story for you, but I will tell you that if you want a classic opera experience, go see this one by Puccini.

Tosca, the singer, would annoy the hell out of me if she was my friend. I’d probably tell her to snap out of it. That kind of tenacity doesn’t get you very far. It doesn’t allow for optimal growth. If you’re lucky enough to fall into some random soil, great! Grow for all you’re worth but I think you may be in for being stuck, for being carried along on someone else’s blanket.

Today:
Letting go. Softening. Lying ON the blanket instead of being stuck to it – or worse yet, under it. That, my friend, is suffocation.


©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved

A New/Old Project

Here I go!

I'm knee deep in thoughts, ideas, enthusiasm, you-name-it! The DateCoach is off and running again. I'm revising previous articles and collecting subjects for interview. Hopefully I'll have six or seven pieces to submit on spec and someone will think my idea is as great as I think it is.

In the meantime:

MyDateCoach@live.com

I'm taking questions, suggestions, comments, concerns.

Thanks to my fellow writers for all the encouragement.

M

No Masks

It's been a busy weekend. Friday night started at the Houston Grand Opera. It was a work by Handel, Xerxes. I went with friends and we gathered here, at my apartment, for a late-late recap of the evening, filled with laughter and some serious talk, as well. I woke up three hours later to walk in a cancer fundraiser with office-mates and came home to fall into bed for a few hours. It was then off to a gallery tour.

I purchased a painting yesterday. It's by Houston artist, Patrick Palmer. The title is "Tribal Mask and Spirits, II". I've admired Mr. Palmer's works for some time, visiting his studio space, not thinking I could/would make the leap from visitor to collector. I'd never taken the initiative to speak with him before, although I'd walked through his space at least a half dozen times. Yesterday I felt a strong pull toward one of his paintings and decided I wanted to have it for my own. He told me what it means to him, and I'm so happy to have it.

Winding down at dinner last night, I was able to tell two of my best friends just how tired and confused I remain about relationships between men and women that go beyond friendship. It's fitting because the painting is really all about that, per Mr. Palmer. He included what he calls his "Latin" in it. It's a made-up language, barely visible, that represents the words we say to each other that aren't heard. He told me the painting is about balance between men and women, but he felt women had a better grasp on that (balance), in general. I'm not so sure.

Anyway...it's nice not to wear a mask, not to have false language, to be myself - and I love the painting. During times when I'm fatigued by enjoyable activities with people I love, I sleep better and I feel a sense that I'm wrapped in a blanket of caring. This is a protection - not a defense. There is such a difference between the two.

Consent for Continuum

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Expecting A and receiving R, sending L and understanding that it was perceived as D. Do we stay stuck at our point on the line or adjust toward that where we actually landed? Events happen that are beyond our wants, our controls, our expectations. We are not firmly planted on any singly point. We may attempt to shore up a foundation around us and pile anything that may anchor us to our claimed positon, but the winds may blow, the waters may rise, or if we're lucky, we may spot something interesting on the horizon that lures us to venture further down the road and take a look, leaving behind that which held us firm.

The new point of landing can be unfamiliar and uncomfortable for a time. Nothing seems to fit, the temperature isn't right. I choose to examine my place on the continuum and learn from my new position. I give consent to move along the continuum, knowing that there are hazards and risks, but the benefits exceed the complications of such.

Great Words

I've been trying to wrap up the financial aspect of my father's life. Most of the pieces are falling into place. The taxes are done. I've figured out that there will never be enough to pay the bills. So that's how that goes. I spoke (again) today with the woman who works in the Benefits Office at his former employer. I asked her (again) to give me an update on one of his policies. She hemmed and hawed (again) and finally told me that she'd lost his death certificate.

Silence from me. I could hear her clear her throat on the other end of the line. I finally told her that I was flabbergasted.

Isn't that a great word? Flabbergasted just about said it all. I could have said flummoxed, but flummoxed doesn't roll off the tongue as easily. It kind of gets stuck in there behind what could be an impending pucker and then comes out as a guttural something or other that doesn't pack that much punch. No, flabbergasted was perfect.

She told me she'd fix this mistake as soon as I get another copy to her. I will - tomorrow.

After I hung up the phone, I decided to come up with a few more words that I like today. They are, in no particular order:

slink,

ashram,

hullaballoo,

fizzle,

and

clobber.

Risk Beats Fear (grown up paper/rock/scissors)

“Loving can cost a lot but not loving always costs more, and those who fear to love often find that want of love is an emptiness that robs the joy from life.” Merle Shain

This morning I am aware of pockets of emptiness. I suppose that is better than the gaping hole, a seeming unfillable void, I've felt in the remote past. I wonder, as I type this if I'm even feeling "empty" so much as "ready". I'm thinking of the measuring cups in my cabinets. There is a feeling I get when I reach to pull one out and know that I will fill it with something - flour, or cocoa - some ingredient that will combine with the others to create a rich product after I've stirred it properly and allowed it to bake long enough. I have potential to fill these places in me, I'm not empty. Not really.

I took a risk last week and allowed myself to admit that I was attracted to someone and I went on one of those things that seemed to be a real date. You know what I'm talking about: wine, dinner, conversation over a couple of hours. A proper hug ended the evening and there was talk of seeing a movie the next week. This was no stranger. This was someone who was part of my circle of friends and we'd been slowly getting to know one another. Our other friends seemed to think we'd be right for each other and were watching from the periphery to see if any sparks would fly whenever the gang got together. I thought they did. I guess I was wrong.

Despite texts the day after the dinner, even meeting up to look at art the very next day...last night's movie didn't happen. At least it didn't happen between him and me. It happened with another friend and me. I feel bad about our other friends. I feel like they're going to feel awkward. I feel bad about my thinking there was more. I felt bad about wanting more.

But then I read the quote by Merle Shain (above). I DO want more. I can't apologize for wanting a life with someone who is a great guy. (He is, after all - a great guy.) I can't feel bad about wanting to be happy. That would really be silly in my books. The thing is, if I don't try, I'll never succeed. If I settle for less than what works for both of us, I'll end up in my remote past right here in my present. That is void and that is impossible. I move on and I live in gratitude for the friend who understands me and spent Friday evening with me. I had a wonderful time at dinner with someone who, like me, couldn't figure out why the girl who took our orders couldn't make eye contact. I was able to tell him (before the movie started) that I was disappointed, but not despondent, and that getting older and being alone is one of my biggest fears. I watched the movie with a quirky person like me, who leaned over and whispered to me at the times when the dialogue was the very funniest. I have a well of strength to draw from in my small group of friends that is deeper than I can even begin to imagine. They know that they can expect the same from me. I am fully aware that not everyone can say that. I have the ingredients for a successful and happy life all around me, in fact I am living it. I cannot dwell on those little pockets of emptiness for they are simply places of potential that lie in wait. Patience, Michelle. Patience and recognition of the grace that has already filled the void.