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for my mother: Dmestic Arts, a Mother;s Day memoir

Domestic Arts revisited: Mother’s Day memoir, 2012



I have to hand it to my mother. She always really wanted me to have fun and also to be able to have practical knowledge, skills that would help me get through. She had me alongside her in our small, galley-like kitchen from very early on in my life, though it wasn’t an easy space to share with young children. It was much alter in life that I learned than many women of that generation, and before, considered the kitchen THEIR domain, not to be disturbed by any children, or dads; or anyone else who might mess with their seat of power. I also learned that there was a cohort of people who reached adolescence, or even adulthood, without the slightest clue of how to function in a kitchen. What is so complicated about these simple tasks? Wash a dish with bubbly dish liquid in a plastic pan set in the sink, rinse it, and place it inverted on a rack to air-dry? Boil water, salt it, add a dash of olive oil, and lower the spaghetti into the pot without breaking the long noodles? Tear up lettuce for a salad? (No, I did *not* say to CUT the lettuce– unless you are serving it with Mexican tacos, which benefit from the taste of the juice leaking out into the rest of your filling materials, salad lettuce should be torn by hand so that it doesn’t lose all its juices)? Score cucumbers into stripes with a fork, peel and grate carrots without throwing away an inch of perfectly good carrot toward the end? I tend to stare, rather rudely, at grown-up people today, who seem confused by the minimal demands of these simple tasks, and I think, “Didn’t your mother teach you ANYTHING?”



I had a co-worker, when I was a senior counselor in a group home for disturbed children, who astounded me one evening by washing the salad greens in hot water. “It’s a SALAD, Moira, you don’t want to wilt your lettuce!” I cared about this because it was not just “her” lettuce, but was OUR lettuce – we ate, and lived, in communal houses with the kids then, and room and board was a major portion of our pay. If Moira, who came from a family of 5 kids and who I thought should know better, cooked the romaine at the sink, well, we were eating, or at least looking at and cleaning up, cooked romaine salad that night. Probably her mother, who apparently never learned to drive but pulled her children around in a large Radio Flyer red wagon to go to the doctor or the Laundromat,, did NOT have the children in the kitchen with her.



As a wedding gift in 1951, my mother was given a cookbook written,, I suppose, for brides and others who had reached adulthood without having any instruction; it had the rather insulting title, “You Can Cook If You Can Read.” I have fond memories of that silly book; I can feel its brick-red cloth cover in my hand in my mind today. Well, I’d learned to read at a fairly early age (by second or third grade I made my mother very nervous, in fact, by reading the child psychology textbooks she had on our family bookshelf with a slightly guilty demeanor, as if I thought the grownups would be angry at me for spying on what they thought children think or feel) My mother did nothing to make me feel there was any reason I couldn’t cook, so my culinary training began. I could cook *and* I could read, and my parents encouraged me to do both regularly, for which I am unspeakably grateful to this day. Cooking and reading remain two of the most renewing pleasures of my daily life, and I sometimes unwind by reading a cookbook even when I am not planning to get up and fix anything to eat. Seven years ago, I entered a “Better than Butter” recipe contest sponsored by an olive oil company based in New Jersey with a recipe for a vegan chocolate-zucchini cake made with olive oil and anther for a rich-tasting onion soup ,, and I was thrilled to receive a third prize award that included pasta band olive oil samples and three Italian-American cookbooks.



When I became vegetarian at age 14, I was confident in my ability to learn to prepare unfamiliar foods by reading. In my family, had never eaten much of beans and lentils at home, except for garbanzo beans and sweetened baked beans out of cans, nor a lot of cooked green vegetables except for artichokes and asparagus and sometimes green beans.. My dad is a bit of a fussy eater compared to my highly omnivorous mother, though he’s nowhere nearly as picky as some. He liked big California-style salads with crunchy lettuce and raw peas and bell pepper and slices of red onion, and raw shredded cabbage, and baked potatoes and yams, and artichokes, but not broccoli and cauliflower or steamed spinach, and cold garbanzo beans and pickled peppers served as antipasto, but not hot dishes featuring navy beans, or Mexican-style pintos, or lentils.



But I had the skills by then to learn to cook it if I could read it. I taught myself to fix steamed cauliflower marinated a la greque, Greek pastitzio, vegetarian lasagna, and lentil soup with tomatoes and onions, and to bake while wheat batter breads from scratch. And my parents were good about letting me share the kitchen for these projects. To this day, I am annoyed with people who don’t know that the whole head of cauliflower is edible, such as the ones who cut off the buds of the cauliflower head and toss the remaining three-quarters of the edible head into the compost bucket r, worse, the trash can r down the garbage disposal. Wasted fresh vegetables bother me, and what do I mutter as I retrieve the sad discarded cauliflower from its disgrace alongside moldy or inedible parts of other vegetables and fruits; “what’s with these guys; didn’t their mothers teach them ANYTHING?”



Ah, the bags of Gold Medal flour. My mother DID have a use for them, at least when we were little; she made a salt-and-flour play dough. It was colored with those teardrop-shaped food-coloring bottles, by the gallonful. I remember the distinct feel and the salty taste. My mum wasn’t the cookie- nor bread-baking type, but she put in her hours in the kitchen making up salt dough. Again, you tend to think everyone’s like that.



My mother liked to do crafts, and she knitted us sweaters and made hooked rugs from wool scrap pulled through burlap, but she didn’t care for sewing much. Because of that, I’m doubly thankful, looking back, that she decided to get a sewing machine when I started junior high school. It was the late 1960s, and I was in the last cohort where students were sorted by gender’ all boys were required to take two semesters of shop classes (wood and metal) and girls were to take two semesters of Homemaking; cooking and sewing. The skills that young Mrs. QuareQuio (I’m not joking here either about her name) taught in cooking class were familiar to me, including the more arcane arts such as setting a]proper place setting (which my mother had also taught me.) But sewing; we had never done much at home besides basic mending, and had no sewing machine. My mother bought a Kenmore machine through Sears, and she helped me pick out Simplicity patterns and fabric and notions, and taught me the basics of pattern dress sewing. She even tried a little project or two on that machine herself, and some f the clothes she made me were pretty cute, I’ll admit.



Well over forty years later, the Kenmore is still in my possession. The tension tends to go out of adjustment on it and I am tired to paying sewing machine repair mechanics to fix it without a lasting change resulting; the stitches are still not quite right after a use or two when it has returned from the shop.. But I’m fond of that machine, which I used as a young teen to make Renaissance Faire costumes, and gathered peasant blouses with a yoke that helped hide my lack of curviness. That sewing machine, much like the imperfect but highly useful training I got in domestic arts in general, got me through when I most needed it. And it performed admirably despite its weaknesses when I needed to create Halloween and school costumes for my daughter thirty years plus years after it taught me what I’d need to survive Homemaking II at Le Conte Junior High, that delightful (now I AM joking) educational institution that my mother had also attended.



There’s a saltiness, like the modeling dough she made when I was little, to my mother that I could not fully appreciate as a child, but that I find refreshing now. I came of age around the time that consumer rights, as well as natural foods, were making its debut into the public consciousness in the US. When I was about 13 or 14, Center for Science in the Public Interest first reported that commercial baby food, the little jars that I had been raised on, had salt and other flavorings of dubious value added by the manufacturer, to please the taste buds of the mothers who wanted to sample their baby’s food before giving it to their babies.



I had a hard time imagining my mother doing that, putting her own spoon into a jar f processed pablum, and I asked her outright if she had indeed done that.



“Put that unappetizing crap into my mouth? You must be kidding!”



I think it’s hilarious now. Maybe as a teen, I resented learning, r being reminded, that my mother was indeed not even remotely the all-sacrificing sort who would taste her baby’s strained carrots or chicken or whatever was in those ridiculous jars with the Gerber baby cooing on them to be sure they were good. I should not have been surprised. I also think I know where I learned that the smell of most canned foods, and baby formula, is disgusting. And I think I know why I often had an upset stomach as a toddler. Shove that disgusting crap down my throat? I *hope* you’re joking.



I learned how to take care of myself from my mother’s guidance, even if we sometimes came to radically different conclusions about what was good to eat or good to sew and wear or good to look at.



At least my mother would never wash the lettuce in hot tap water. Happy Mother’s Day. And thank you for all this and more, Betty. I’m not kidding.
Sat, May 12, 2012 - 7:29 PM — permalink - 0 comments - add a comment

Domestic Arts: A mother's Day memoir



I have to hand it to my mother. She always really wanted me to have fun and also to be able to have practical knowledge, skills that would help me get through. She had me alongside her in our small, galley-like kitchen from very early on in my life, though it wasn’t an easy space to share with young children. It was much alter in life that I learned than many women of that generation, and before, considered the kitchen THEIR domain, not to be disturbed by any children, or dads; or anyone else who might mess with their seat of power. I also learned that there was a cohort of people who reached adolescence, or even adulthood, without the slightest clue of how to function in a kitchen. What is so complicated about these simple tasks? Wash a dish with bubbly dish liquid in a plastic pan set in the sink, rinse it, and place it inverted on a rack to air-dry? Boil water, salt it, add a dash of olive oil, and lower the spaghetti into the pot without breaking the long noodles? Tear up lettuce for a salad? (No, I did *not* say to CUT the lettuce– unless you are serving it with Mexican tacos, which benefit from the taste of the juice leaking out into the rest of your filling materials, salad lettuce should be torn by hand so that it doesn’t lose all its juices)? Score cucumbers into stripes with a fork, peel and grate carrots without throwing away an inch of perfectly good carrot toward the end? I tend to stare, rather rudely, at grown-up people today, who seem confused by the minimal demands of these simple tasks, and I think, “Didn’t your mother teach you ANYTHING?”



I had a co-worker, when I was a senior counselor in a group home for disturbed children, who astounded me one evening by washing the salad greens in hot water. “It’s a SALAD, Moira, you don’t want to wilt your lettuce!” I cared about this because it was not just “her” lettuce, but was OUR lettuce – we ate, and lived, in communal houses with the kids then, and room and board was a major portion of our pay. If Moira, who came from a family of 5 kids and who I thought should know better, cooked the romaine at the sink, well, we were eating, or at least looking at and cleaning up, cooked romaine salad that night. Probably her mother, who apparently never learned to drive but pulled her children around in a large Radio Flyer red wagon to go to the doctor or the Laundromat,, did NOT have the children in the kitchen with her.



As a wedding gift in 1951, my mother was given a cookbook written,, I suppose, for brides and others who had reached adulthood without having any instruction; it had the rather insulting title, “You Can Cook If You Can Read.” I have fond memories of that silly book; I can feel its brick-red cloth cover in my hand in my mind today. Well, I’d learned to read at a fairly early age (by second or third grade I made my mother very nervous, in fact, by reading the child psychology textbooks she had on our family bookshelf with a slightly guilty demeanor, as if I thought the grownups would be angry at me for spying on what they thought children think or feel) My mother did nothing to make me feel there was any reason I couldn’t cook, so my culinary training began. I could cook *and* I could read, and my parents encouraged me to do both regularly, for which I am unspeakably grateful to this day. Cooking and reading remain two of the most renewing pleasures of my daily life, and I sometimes unwind by reading a cookbook even when I am not planning to get up and fix anything to eat. Seven years ago, I entered a “Better than Butter” recipe contest sponsored by an olive oil company based in New Jersey with a recipe for a vegan chocolate-zucchini cake made with olive oil and anther for a rich-tasting onion soup ,, and I was thrilled to receive a third prize award that included pasta band olive oil samples and three Italian-American cookbooks.



When I became vegetarian at age 14, I was confident in my ability to learn to prepare unfamiliar foods by reading. In my family, had never eaten much of beans and lentils at home, except for garbanzo beans and sweetened baked beans out of cans, nor a lot of cooked green vegetables except for artichokes and asparagus and sometimes green beans.. My dad is a bit of a fussy eater compared to my highly omnivorous mother, though he’s nowhere nearly as picky as some. He liked big California-style salads with crunchy lettuce and raw peas and bell pepper and slices of red onion, and raw shredded cabbage, and baked potatoes and yams, and artichokes, but not broccoli and cauliflower or steamed spinach, and cold garbanzo beans and pickled peppers served as antipasto, but not hot dishes featuring navy beans, or Mexican-style pintos, or lentils.



But I had the skills by then to learn to cook it if I could read it. I taught myself to fix steamed cauliflower marinated a la greque, Greek pastitzio, vegetarian lasagna, and lentil soup with tomatoes and onions, and to bake while wheat batter breads from scratch. And my parents were good about letting me share the kitchen for these projects. To this day, I am annoyed with people who don’t know that the whole head of cauliflower is edible, such as the ones who cut off the buds of the cauliflower head and toss the remaining three-quarters of the edible head into the compost bucket r, worse, the trash can r down the garbage disposal. Wasted fresh vegetables bother me, and what do I mutter as I retrieve the sad discarded cauliflower from its disgrace alongside moldy or inedible parts of other vegetables and fruits; “what’s with these guys; didn’t their mothers teach them ANYTHING?”



Ah, the bags of Gold Medal flour. My mother DID have a use for them, at least when we were little; she made a salt-and-flour play dough. It was colored with those teardrop-shaped food-coloring bottles, by the gallonful. I remember the distinct feel and the salty taste. My mum wasn’t the cookie- nor bread-baking type, but she put in her hours in the kitchen making up salt dough. Again, you tend to think everyone’s like that.



My mother liked to do crafts, and she knitted us sweaters and made hooked rugs from wool scrap pulled through burlap, but she didn’t care for sewing much. Because of that, I’m doubly thankful, looking back, that she decided to get a sewing machine when I started junior high school. It was the late 1960s, and I was in the last cohort where students were sorted by gender’ all boys were required to take two semesters of shop classes (wood and metal) and girls were to take two semesters of Homemaking; cooking and sewing. The skills that young Mrs. QuareQuio (I’m not joking here either about her name) taught in cooking class were familiar to me, including the more arcane arts such as setting a proper place setting (which my mother had also taught me.) But sewing; we had never done much at home besides basic mending, and had no sewing machine. My mother bought a Kenmore machine through Sears, and she helped me pick out Simplicity patterns and fabric and notions, and taught me the basics of pattern dress sewing. She even tried a little project or two on that machine herself, and some f the clothes she made me were pretty cute, I’ll admit.



Well over forty years later, the Kenmore is still in my possession. The tension tends to go out of adjustment on it and I am tired to paying sewing machine repair mechanics to fix it without a lasting change resulting; the stitches are still not quite right after a use or two when it has returned from the shop.. But I’m fond of that machine, which I used as a young teen to make Renaissance Faire costumes, and gathered peasant blouses with a yoke that helped hide my lack of curviness. That sewing machine, much like the imperfect but highly useful training I got in domestic arts in general, got me through when I most needed it. And it performed admirably despite its weaknesses when I needed to create Halloween and school costumes for my daughter thirty years plus years after it taught me what I’d need to survive Homemaking II at Le Conte Junior High, that delightful (now I AM joking) educational institution that my mother had also attended.



There’s a saltiness, like the modeling dough she made when I was little, to my mother that I could not fully appreciate as a child, but that I find refreshing now. I came of age around the time that consumer rights, as well as natural foods, were making its debut into the public consciousness in the US. When I was about 13 or 14, Center for Science in the Public Interest first reported that commercial baby food, the little jars that I had been raised on, had salt and other flavorings of dubious value added by the manufacturer, to please the taste buds of the mothers who wanted to sample their baby’s food before giving it to their babies.



I had a hard time imagining my mother doing that, putting her own spoon into a jar f processed pablum, and I asked her outright if she had indeed done that.



“Put that unappetizing crap into my mouth? You must be kidding!”



I think it’s hilarious now. Maybe as a teen, I resented learning, r being reminded, that my mother was indeed not even remotely the all-sacrificing sort who would taste her baby’s strained carrots or chicken or whatever was in those ridiculous jars with the Gerber baby cooing on them to be sure they were good. I should not have been surprised. I also think I know where I learned that the smell of most canned foods, and baby formula, is disgusting. And I think I know why I often had an upset stomach as a toddler. Shove that disgusting crap down my throat? I *hope* you’re joking.



I learned how to take care of myself from my mother’s guidance, even if we sometimes came to radically different conclusions about what was good to eat or good to sew and wear or good to look at.



At least my mother would never wash the lettuce in hot tap water. Happy Mother’s Day. And thank you for all this and more, Betty. I’m not kidding.
Sat, May 12, 2012 - 7:22 PM — permalink - 0 comments - add a comment

moment in the odd life of an herbalist

I went to organize my cupboards a couple weeks or so ago. There were a couple of quart/liter mason jars filled with some tincture/elixer. I had to squint at the fading labels fr a little while before i culd read them; ah, Long Term Asthma Care and COPD Maintenance formula, and the ingredients, barely legible.

I opened the one that said Long Term Asthma Care. sprinkled a little into my palm and tasted. some grindelia (gumweed) and some elecampane and some osha. not unpleasant, alcohol bite not that overwhelming; must have been a 60.50 mix of 80 proof something and filtered water.

well, must have been 20 years ago I was working on respiratory tincture combinations, following ideas from the book Breathe Free. the two main people for whom i formulated the stuff have died, one from really serious COPD (but she gave my medicine rave reviews, one from causes unrelated t his chronic reactive airway disease.

stuff;s meant for support, not for acute life-threatening conditions, so anyone who'd like to sample and maybe t experiment fr a few weeks t see if it helps, ;ask me. there are 64 one-ounce dropper bottles per quart jar.
Sat, April 14, 2012 - 12:07 AM — permalink - 0 comments - add a comment

On Romanticizing Great Granma's Dinner table:

has it occurred to anyone else that "don't eat anything your great-grandma wouldn't recognize as food" is terribly culturally biased? I know, it really means "eat foods cooked or prepared in a manner that doesn't call for major industrial-cultural modification." but I know my great-grandparents never ate a spicy-hot vegetable curry, nor fresh green salads with avocado, nor Szechuan eggplant, nor popcorn sprinkled with gomasio or nutritional yeast and tamari soy sauce. Michael Pollan, and/or whoever else thought this one up, seems to be clinging to some romanticized version of rural Caucasian-American 19th century food-ways. If your great-grandma is mexican, she ate plenty of corn tortillas and soft-simmered beans and salsa ranchera with tomatoes and cilantro and lime juice and fresh chiles; if your great grandma was German, she made noodles and such but never saw a bean taco in her life and might not recognize do these Slow Food folks even consider great-grandparents who might be from China or Thailand, India or Ghana, Japan or Turkey? they promote naturally raised pastured-pork sausage as if some Jewish grandma wouldn't shudder at the thought of stuffed pig intestines being considered a beneficial, healthy food. shudder nothing; she'd do her level best to throw you out of her kosher kitchen and do you bodily harm if you showed up with a home-grown ham. mark my words. it's happened, probably to someone you know if not within your own family, on one side or another of the "look what I brought you!" divide.

I get what they mean; I really do. I'm well within the same continuum of wanting high quality foods from natural ingredients. but I eat all kinds of (nutritious and tasty) stuff that my great grandparents wouldn't recognize or relish, and I'm sure it works the other way around. I've also been told that my Hungarian Jewish great grandfather, refuse to eat cabbage strudel or anything else containing green plant matter, griping to his wife that "green vegetables are for four-footed animals and god only gave me two feet."

let's be honest and culturally competent here; leave those romanticized and racist concepts of "great-grandma and great-grandpa" out of it and learn to prepare the wonderful stuff from the farmers markets and the garden or eat it fresh off the vine, even if your great-grandpa would have turned up his nose. and when your friend's twinkle-eyed Chinese or Vietnamese grandma serves up steamed chicken feet as part of a welcoming fest - don't say I didn't warn you. you THOUGHT you ate like grandma would understand, but "grandma" is a state of mind in the kitchen...
Tue, May 17, 2011 - 2:07 PM — permalink - 2 comments - add a comment

Got two flats of slightly smooshed strawberries through FNB yesterday and,,,

sure goes better with a friend. note on strawberries and other fresh, or nearly-fresh, fruit needing to be cleaned and processed: there is a reason that farm families worked together during harvest season and/or held canning bees etc with the neighbors. it was me, my paring knife, and two stainless steel pots last night, and I spent most of the evening cleaning, coring, and slicing and I'm a little over 3/4 through the two flats of berries. when possible, find a friend to chat with and to slice with, shell with, etc, when working with flats and lugs of produce! and always remember, ripe fruit is like running water; it does not wait around for a convenient time. I got it down to manageable levels, cleaned and composted the residue, that could be stored overnight in the refrigerator and will freeze some for later and make some preserves today. . think of these things when you spread your bread with homemade jam, my friends...
Wed, April 27, 2011 - 6:42 AM — permalink - 3 comments - add a comment

first clause of the Code of Conduct for tribe.net

I just took the last version of this down, as there are two individuals who've had online conflict who were getting started there.

but here's the nuts and bolts of how we are expected to behave on line:


1. Conduct and Content

While using or accessing the Service--directly or indirectly--you agree to take a constructive tone and practice good etiquette and courtesy and you agree NOT to:

1. threaten, disrupt, inflame, intimidate, libel, stalk, defame, or defraud any individual, entity, or group on any basis
Thu, March 10, 2011 - 2:06 PM — permalink - 2 comments - add a comment

everyday wisdom from an "old" Internet friend...

I want to acknowledge the wisdom I have borrowed from someone I met 11 years ago or so on line, Kya Rose...


"There are enough people in the world who will treat me with respect so I really don't need to waste 10 minutes of my precious life on anyone who doesn't."

thank you Kya.
Tue, March 8, 2011 - 12:03 PM — permalink - 0 comments - add a comment

they eventually get bored and move on...

been too busy (and still a little sick; this was one STUBBORN cold! or more accurately , a series of colds) to write much here.

my little troll is still bugging with me here (and with someone who wanted to post in support of me) despite Note: Tribe is a respectful and considerate community". but wot-the-ell, I'm just lovong my busy and demanding life, not putting much energy into this, for her to find another hobby. let the evidence stand for now...
Mon, March 7, 2011 - 6:34 AM — permalink - 0 comments - add a comment

kinda funny again...

person who couldn't wit to get away from herbal medicine 'cuz she doesn't like the way I manage the group is following me around here.
someone has too much time on her hands? check out the last blog comment...

hey friends of my real writing, I'll try to get something up here soon for your amusement or delectation...been utra busy lately, and still fighting a very stubborn preschool-acquired cold.
Fri, March 4, 2011 - 8:51 AM — permalink - 2 comments - add a comment

perseverance furthers on Tribe.net too...

tee hee... I've been working on being respectful and reasonable but allow me to indulge in some semi-private gloating. patience and persistence vindicate me and the pebble in my Herbal Medicine Tribe shoe says she's gone. we'll see...TL:DR is webspeak for "too long' didn't read." here's her latest missive about me, on the thread where she proposed deposing me as moderator. no one seemed intersted in following through but I got a few private support messages, a few public ones, and a few "well, I do think you don't need to delete stuff."

Re: New Moderator.
Yesterday, 7:53 PM
in response to: Re: New Moderator.
TL;DR
Don't care.
Outta here.
Have fun pushing around and boring to tears the 3 people left in this tribe.

And, don't forget to delete this.
\******* wonder who wants to "push people around?" here's m,y last statement on it all.

now, back to work on my real life to-do list.

posted to HM on Monday:
let me explain a little more about my approach. one of the things I learned through over a decade of co-moderating the Dreamshare group through yahoo! was, as one of our former mods put it "insights are worth little if they attack the person to whom they are directed."

to be candid, I haven't deleted very much, recently or over time. I made a decision to eliminate a thread that seemed to be getting more and more into provocation for its own sake and less into herbal medicine. and I deleted one or two posts that seemed to be personal attacks.

I consider maintaining a respectful and reasonable tone to be critical to doing (nearly?) any kind of useful communication-based work. my decision making.

I think there's a need to understand what "censorship" really means. it doesn't mean the person charged with maintaining the editorial content is obliged to rubberstamp any and all posts or other material. let me give an analogy if I submit a manuscript to a publishing house, or to a periodical, for possible publication, the editors are free to either do a rewrite/edit on it, or to send it back saying it does not meet their present editorial needs. I am then free to submit it elsewhere, to do my own rewrite and resubmit to the same publication,, or to self-publish in one form or another. as I understand it (I'm not an attorney), the First Amendment to the US Constitution does NOT grant me the right to have my work published everywhere, nor the right to scream "Fuck you!" at people with whom I disagree or who I find annoying.

now if someone tries to stop me from publishing a newsletter or a blog about why I don't like those people, or to throw me in jail for disturbing the peace or something if I give a speech in public about them - THAT's censorship.\

I've been moderating Internet groups for over a decade now, and I've made a point of sticking up for those who seem to be the recipients of ad hominem attacks or general nastiness.

what i came to a few weeks ago is the old Buddhist adage that I, too, count among all beings as do every one of you, and that I am no more obliged to allow people to dump on me, or to work at cross-purposes to a reasoned and intelligent discussion,of, in this case4, ehrbal medicine, than I should tolerate those attacks on anyone else.

it doesn't make for the kind of atmosphere that is conducive to mutual self-help, and thus... I'm going to use my best judgment.

as I say, anyone who would prefer a different type of group is free to start one...and if you want a discussion about what a shithead that Judith gal in Berkeley is, that's entirely your business too. there's someone I know through yahoo!groups (in an entirely different topic-field) who was warned by the moderator of that conversation to avoid the ad hom attacks on me. she posted a bunch of stuff on her blog about how I am a "moron" who need to have my "brain switched turned to the ON position" and she did her best to make sure my curiosity would get the best of me and I'd get to her blog to read the insults.

and she's entitled to do that. it's HER blog.

as a friend who grew up half-Japanese on a US Air Force base Post WWII likes to put it when people say stupid and insulting shit..."consider the source."
Wed, March 2, 2011 - 10:16 AM — permalink - 6 comments - add a comment
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