One Whole Pie

Equity is a concept always prevalent in my mind, but recently moreso. In just this past few months I transitioned from working for the wealthiest of people in the catering industry, to some of the most marginalized - adults with disabilities, in the non-profit sector. I had experiences with young people with intellectual and developmental disabilities as a student participant in Best Buddies at Georgetown University. The individuals I encountered were spirited, engaged, and shared their infectious joy so willingly and without conditions. This change in work would be a welcome one; I was certain I would be well equipped and thrive. 

 I reported to my new position with images from Best Buddies of happiness, inclusion and youth in my mind. I was granted the chance to combine my love of service with my strategic and entrepreneurial skills. This union had been a goal of mine since graduating from a Jesuit institution that instilled a personal urgency to place service well before myself. It was finally coming together. 

My initial reactions were different than I anticipated. There I was arrogantly believing I would have every answer, flourish in my role, and adapt with ease to this new opportunity. I met some of the individuals the organization supports on my first day and had difficulty communicating. I was discouraged. How would I bridge the gap that significant barriers and impairments have placed between us? How can this be fair?  My mind began to wander, panic ensued, and I felt helpness. I was not familiar with atypical behaviors as I hadn't experienced them in abundance before. My ignorance was manifesting as sorrow. I was saddened by what I perceived to be an unfortunate circumstance, to be an adult with multiple disabilities, to be entirely nonverbal, to be deaf as well as blind. I labeled reliance on other people as some sort of tragedy, my own ableist prejudice clouding my vision. As much as I would like to deny that prejudice exists, it does exist. Our society all too often reinforces it; just pick up a magazine or watch the news. Differences are not publicized. Instead we strive for beauty, sameness, and the predictable. Whatever is typical and safe.  From this vantage point, I saw only the negatives and the can'ts. Gone were the images of youthful students participating in activities on Healy Lawn at Georgetown, grilling hamburgers, singing karaoke. This was unlike anything I could have expected. 

In the days that followed, I got immersed in the lives of the individuals we support. I asked for help, figured out how to communicate, and asked endless questions. I read articles, watched publicized talks, consulted my priest, bought books, and interviewed my peers. I extended my hands and opened my heart. I am embarassed to say that for a brief moment my heart, in a well-intentioned fashion, was closing me off to all the possibility in the situation. I learned basic Sign Language, I broadened my understanding of developmental disabilities, intellectual disabilities, and deafblindness, and became educated on how to handle potentially difficult situations.

My unfounded fears became knowledge, my sadness and misguided compassion became power.

People I encountered, my now role models, told me that there is no right or wrong: disability is neutral. We just learn as we go, and help to ensure the best possible outcomes. We embrace that every human being experiences the world in a different way. 

Unrealistically so, I decided in my mind a long time ago I would never be able to work with truly vulnerable people, in nursing homes, shelters, or hospitals. I told myself I was too sensitive, and these experiences would undo me. All along, I was making assumptions about the vulnerable's quality of life. It was not premeditated malice, more likely it was automatic - cultural norms forming the basis of my understanding of the world. This reasoning grounded in emotion was damaging and it skewed my perceptions. I transformed my discomfort with inequity to faith in diversity. I've seen firsthand that sadness is debilitating and helps noone. The same goes for pity. Hope however, hope begets action. Compassion. Compassion sparks change and inspires inclusion.  

I've stopped trying to fix things in my mind. Fixing doesn't readily happen. Through my daily encounters, my belief is affirmed that anything worth truly having would be available to everyone. There are no conditions for fitness or value.  A prestigious job, lavish home, an abundance of friends, self reliance, and beautiful possessions while all appealing are not prerequisites for worthiness. The sum of our things does not equate to worth as human beings. or we would be human havings. Alas, our only requirment is to be. 

We are all equal parts of one societal whole. I conceptualize in food so I am envisioning this abundant pie, bursting with tender apples. We all reside as parts of this pie, slices if you will. No one person is truly self-sufficient, and if we perceive that we are, we are mistaken. It is our interdependence that makes us whole. Not strength, nor power, nor wealth.

I no longer believe that reliance on support is a tragedy. I think reliance enhances our compassion, and broadens our connections as a people.  Together we are an intricate whole. A perfect pie.          

I no longer feel like we deseve a gold star or pats on the back for being decent human beings. I no longer believe in patronizing behavior. While I always knew the individuals I met in Best Buddies were serving me far more than I was serving them, this understanding has been dramatically expanded in light of my recent experiences. Individuals that we all too easily dismiss have taught me these lessons. They have reaffirmed that love is the only currency worth measuring. To me that is true power.  
The most vulnerable among us enable those all too often distracted to see that simply being is enough.

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I have furthered my understanding in writings, talks, and the wisdom of others. Here are some resources I highly recommend...

This book, by a teacher from my high school. I discovered his work through my research, and was overjoyed to make this connection. 

This article, by a woman who has dedicated her life to empowering individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. 

This TedTalk about acknowledging that our speech may stigmatize disability, breed judgment, and divide us.  

If you found any glimmer of truth or comfort in this piece, follow along with our organizational progress here, and to donate to our mission, join us here.  

Anxious

She is a vicious little SOB. Anxiety that is. Unwavering in her pursuit to knock you down and make you feel small. She feasts on your insecurities and takes great joy in breaking you until the web of rushing concepts that used to be your brain is exhausted, irrational and dismayed. At its core, anxiety is fear, or at least I think she is. A fear of something we may not even be able to identify. A fear of not being good enough, a fear of not loving yourself, or not being worthy of others' love. A fear that you're squandering away this one special life that you have been given because your mind is preventing you from any productive action. You're immobilized. A numbing feeling sets in, as if you're broken but not necessarily sure how to remedy said brokenness. 

You want to find the right reassurance, the perfect string of consoling words, a helping hand or some sense of tangible progress. You all too quickly forget that these things are already within you. Still, it's difficult to make peace with the disarray, to dance in the storm, to have patience. The perspective you have, in abundance. "This doesn't feel right. These feelings are not representative of my true sentiments. This isn't how I want to be spending my time." The tears well up in your eyes and you silently count your breaths, willing the sobs to stay away. There are brave souls fighting terminal conditions, children starving, men and women fighting overseas, you say. These are true burdens, to try to remind yourself of perspective. These circumstances warrant tears, and yet the brave endure. Worsening feelings of guilt set in because the absolute logic is no match for your buzzing frenzy of a brain. 

What is wrong with me? I am stronger than this. At times, counting helps; other times it's futile. Someone you love with the best of intentions tells you to "suck it up" or to be tougher. Grow a thicker skin they say. Shake it off. Rationally, you understand, this is not necessary behavior. Emotionally, it is unyielding. The logic falls to the wayside and the feelings of helplessness rush in to fill the voids where your confidence and reasoning should reside. "I'll get you my pretty", she says. Anxiety that is. 

The right combination of reasoning, exercise, eating well, rest, and distraction eventually send her back to reside in her miserable place. She is dormant at least for now, until she decides to feast again on your vulnerabilities. To blow them out of proportion, to grab hold of your mind. To tug you lower. And when she comes next, I will be a little more prepared, unwavering in my pursuit. 

Pop goes the Pop Tart

I love pop tarts and I cannot lie. And it appears I am not the only one. 

To Prepare:

To prepare, fix your homemade crust or use a favorite pre-made variation. I am still trying to get my Nana to write her recipe down. She often says she doesn't use recipes. She just knows when the product is in her hands. I love that sensibility and I endeavor to develop the same as I progress. That aside, one sure winner is this recipe from Williams-Sonoma. 

While the pie dough is setting in the refrigerator if homemade, preheat the oven to 350 degrees and prepare your fillings. Find below a few suggestions but anything goes!

Roll out the dough to 1/8 inch thick on a generously floured surface. Cut into desired shapes; here I used tiny rectangles. Arrange equal sized bottoms and tops on a baking sheet lined with parchment. Spoon a little less than a teaspoon of filling onto the center of your bottom. Seal the pie with a rub of water around the edges. Crimp with a fork. Coat the top of each pie with a light coating of egg wash. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden, and bottoms are lightly crisped. 

Fillings and a Basic Glaze:

Strawberry (berry): 1 cup of strawberries or desired berry, finely chopped. If you are making a larger pop tart, they need not be chopped so finely. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently. Meanwhile, whisk together 1.5 tablespoons cornstarch with 1.5 tablespoons water. Add to the berries and continue to stir until thickened. Add sugar to taste. Let cool before assembling tarts.

Apple: 3 Granny Smith apples, chopped to a small dice. Toss with 1 tablespoon fresh squeezed lemon juice, and cinnamon and sugar to taste.  Cook your apples along with1/2 teaspoon vanilla and two tablespoons of water over medium heat, stirring often until tender. I tend to top these with a glaze and crisped bacon! 

Glaze: Whisk together 3/4 cup confectioner's sugar and 1 tablespoon liquid. I've used milk, but lemon juice works as well. 

A few other of my favorites are pumpkin pie filling, simple fruit preserves, nutella, peanut butter, cinnamon and sugar and even Shepherd's Pie. If you are lacking inspiration, Joy the Baker probably has some to spare. The world is your oyster. Enjoy! 

Pent up and Popovers

Some of the time, I value dessert more than how I will look in my wedding gown, but only until dessert is finished. Once it is gone from my plate, I forget why the pull of chocolate lava was so strong. The dilemma arises yet again when dessert and I come to a crossroads. Catholics have a lot of guilt, and so do Italians but I don't want guilt and food to mix. In moderation, there need not be guilt.  My best friend's mother is a physician. We shared a meal together recently and she dug in with much fervor to a hot antipasto, a smile across her face. She said "if you want something, eat it, just not every single day. Even french fries." These doctor's orders I will adhere to. 

While a student at Georgetown, I worked as a hostess at an Italian restaurant called Filomena. It was a grand place; Presidents eat there. It's where I met my future husband (woah husband sounds so, well, momentous- I have not yet written the word where I was the bride in that equation.) It was there I also solidifed my love of tiramisu, wore my first cummerbund, made dear girlfriends, and ate far too many portions of Gnocchi della mama. I still recall my Saturday evening ritual of working dinner service, purchasing a piece of cake from the mammoth dessert case, and trapsing up Wisconsin Avenue at the end of my shift in my Dansko clogs, cake in tow. Sneaking quietly up the stairs, I would strip off my uniform and cozy myself in bed. You bet I ate that cake with a plastic fork, watching Netflix in my jammies. I managed to lose a bit of weight that year, despite this ritual. And moreso, that one slice of cake a week made me abundantly happy. 

Just as soon as I am certain I've made some progress navigating young adulthood, a circumstance yanks me back to reality, to humble and shape me. Self criticism abounds alongside waterworks and doubt; a chocolate fudge sundae and a hug from mom follow suit. I often wonder how my mom puts up with my incessant nagging and anxiety. Nana too. I crave her reassurance, reassurance in general -whoever can provide some. Only half joking, I tell her often I am grateful that she never sent me back down stream in a basket for someone to find, like Moses. She said, "mothers never send back their babies." I took great comfort in that. My greatest vulnerabilities tend to be self-made. What I would give to be apathetic for a couple of minutes a day, to stop analyzing and wondering about the normative, but then that would be changing my fabric. A mentor once told me "every quirk is another thread in your tapestry." The challenge we are afforded is to figure out what we can learn from those threads and the impact we can make despite them, or maybe more importantly, because of them.

When I was little I wanted to be a cashier. I liked the way the items sounded when they were scanned. I wanted a conveyor belt of my own. The foods in motion inspired me; bite after bite, meal after meal would come from those ingredients. At age eight, I received a working cash register for my birthday. I dreamt of small enterprises and made sweet little tags to "scan" and store in the register. My parents entertained my fixation and I had a substantial collection of plastic food to play grocery store. I never actually worked in a grocery store oddly enough, but that register is still somewhere in the recesses of my mother's attic.  

My second greatest aspiration as a young girl was to be an ice cream scooper. What life more dignified than to bring people joy by way of an ice cream cone. And oh the forearm muscles I would have. Those forearms would spark conversation. Onlookers would say,  "those forearms scoop ice cream." I would walk with pride, rainbow sprinkles affixed to the bottom of my shoes. I never worked in an ice cream store either sadly enough, but it's never too late.

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Ingredients

• butter for greasing popover pan
• 3 slices pork roll (Taylor Ham)  ou can also substitute 2 sausage links, 3 slices canadian bacon or 3 slices of center-cut bacon. 
• 2 cloves minced garlic 
• 1/2 cup mixed shredded cheeses I've used Parmigiana, Asiago, and Mozzarella. 
• 2 eggs, at room temperature
• 1 cup milk, at room temperature
• 3/4 cups flour
• 1/2 diced red onion
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper 

To Prepare the Popovers 

This recipe makes six popovers and was adapted from Giada De Laurentiis. 

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Butter your popover pan, or muffin tin. Dice taylor ham and cook over medium heat until browned. Add minced garlic and cook about 30 seconds longer, tossing until aromatic. 

Spoon 1/6 of your meat and garlic mixture into each popover cup. Sprinkle an equal portion of cheese into each as well. 

Blend eggs using an emulsion blender or mixer until fluffy. Add the flour, milk, red onions, basil, salt and pepper and mix until incorporated. Pour the batter into popover cups , right below the rim. Top with more cheese if desired. Bake in the oven until puffed, about 35 minutes. Do not open the oven or they may deflate. Let cool and enjoy.

Apples to Apples

Each person is given their own set of circumstances, habits, desires and reserves of strength. We react differently, carry burdens uniquely, and look at the world with a perspective solely ours. Commonalities are prevalent, sure, but at the most fundamental layer of our composition, each person is one of a kind.  While I'd rather report that I am impervious to the feelings of longing, uncertainty or envy, it is not so. The questions abound...

“Did I make you proud?
Are my thighs too big?
Why don’t we hold hands like they do?
If only I had ...
I shouldn’t eat this cookie, but I want to eat this cookie. What will she think if I eat this cookie?
Why have we lost touch?
What’s the point of it all?”

 The pattern is seemingly endless, the mind a powerful engine that will not stop revving. Falling deeply, unchecked and alone with our thoughts we churn. Speaking of churning, now I want ice cream. Maybe later, first let me get this out. Over time I have realized that comparing is futile and there are no absolutes. It's never apples to apples. People aren't fruit. 

Maybe the ruminating is a bi-product of struggling with a compulsive need for evenness, and there looks to be so little today. But whether a prince or a pauper and despite the stark gaps in culture, each is only counted once by the Census Bureau. A sobering fact for any who ever thought his or her life was worth more than the next. 

Each day I make a vow to try, yes try, to never fixate on what is lacking so much so that I overlook the grace that is already around me, in abundance. My hands are not your hands. Happiness and self worth for me does not detract from the happiness and worth of another. I look at it like a pie - and there are plenty of slices to go around. 

Oh wait, did you say pie?

To prepare, fix your homemade crust or use a favorite pre-made variation. My utmost favorite is this recipe from Sweet Paul Magazine. It comes together effortlessly in a stand mixer. The apple filling is made of 3 Granny Smith apples, chopped to a small dice. Toss with 1 tablespoon fresh squeezed lemon juice, and cinnamon and sugar to taste. Nanny never measures. She says you have to feel it. So feel and taste, feel and taste. Cook your apples along with1/2 teaspoon vanilla and two tablespoons of water over medium heat, stirring often until tender. The consistency should be comparable to a chunky apple sauce.

Meanwhile, crisp up some chopped bacon in a skillet. Once desired crispiness, remove to a paper towel to drain excess fat. Let apples and bacon cool while you roll out your dough. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Roll out the dough to 1/8 inch thick on a floured surface. Cut into desired shapes; here I used 2 by 2 squares. Arrange equal sized bottoms and tops on a baking sheet lined with parchment. Spoon a teaspoon of apple filling onto the center of your bottom. Seal the pie with a rub of water around the edges. Crimp with a fork. Coat the top of each pie with a light coating of egg wash. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden. 

Once cool, dip each pie into glaze made of 3/4 cup confectioner's sugar and 1 tablespoon liquid. I've used milk, but lemon juice works as well. Top with crisped bacon bits.