Dystopia

Andrea is her name. She’s fifteen and sitting beside me at a computer in a windowless room, at least for now. I’m only a volunteer and will have to leave her in an hour and go to my real job as a middle school secretary.

Andrea has gotten into trouble one too many times for fist fighting at her high school, so she’s been here in the “Achieve Program” for the last few months.

I’ve been trying to help her to pass 10th grade Language Arts, among other subjects.  Her work is funneled from the high school building to our district’s credit recovery program room via an orange folder; we’re in a building half a mile from the high school, so no actual face-to-face contact with Andrea’s real teachers can ever take place. Thus, I’m forced to guess at what they want—their assignments sometimes vague or open to interpretation.

She needs to read Ayn Rand’s dystopian novella, Anthem, and write an essay.  That much is clear. The main character, Equality 7-2521, is a young man living in an oppressive, totalitarian society that forbids the slightest instance of individuality, even banning the use of singular pronouns.

Andrea slouches at the computer, unmotivated.  “What am I supposed to write about this? I read it and I didn’t even get it!”  She starts picking at the peeling blue polish on her nails; her eyes dart around the room at the dozen other Achieve Program students, all kids who aren’t allowed back in their regular classrooms.

I try an empathetic approach. “In the regular classroom, would Mrs. Hall have a class discussion about an assigned book?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

“I mean, go over each chapter and kick around the main ideas and stuff?”

“I guess so.”  Chips of blue polish fall onto the knees of her jeans.

“And here, it’s just you alone, with no one to talk to about the book.”

She turns and glares at me. “Yeah, and that’s dumb.”

“It makes the assignment harder, not having the benefit of a group of people to bounce ideas off of.”

“Dumb ideas from a dumb book nobody wants to even read.”

“I know, Andrea.  I get you.”

Silence. She stares at her screen, at the blank Word document with “Essay: Anthem” at the top. I take the liberty of sneaking a longer glance at her right arm. The scars are thin white lines about an inch and a half long, parallel for the most part. They begin at her wrist and go in one row all the way up.  Today she has a short-sleeved top on, and I find myself counting the razor blade scars. Andrea is left-handed like I am. I once commented on how lefties are creative. Like Paul McCartney, Jimi Hendrix.  Leonardo DaVinci. Her fifty-fourth and fifty-fifth cut marks are fresh, a little bit bloody still, halfway up toward her shoulder.

“I hate this,” she mutters.  “I just hate it.”

“Yeah, studying literature is no picnic, but it’s just what you have to do.  You know, it doesn’t have to be complicated.  I mean, you can think about this guy, this Equality 7-2521.  His life.  How hard it is to be him.”

“It’s not even a real story.  It didn’t even happen.”

“No, it didn’t.  But what if it did?  What if there were a world like that, and you were Equality 7-2521?  Would you resist the oppression?  What would you do in his shoes?”

“I wouldn’t BE in his shoes!”

I pause then, bite my lower lip as I breathe.  Calm.  Remain calm.

“Andrea.  You have to write a personal essay to respond to this story.  It’s your homework for Mrs. Hall, to get credit.  You’re just going to have to try to relate to the characters in Anthem and come up with some discussion—”

“You’re as bad as Mrs. Hall!” she shouts, rising up from her chair and staring me down.  “You’re all trying to make me do stuff I don’t want to do!  Why do they give me this bullshit work?  Why do you sit here every day with your dumb secretary outfits trying to tutor me?  You’re not even a real teacher!”

She’s right.  I’m not a real teacher. But from the notes I’ve taken in each and every principals’ meeting these past two years, I’ve typed the following words into the minutes:  The Achieve Program lacks resources, volunteers especially.  Not able to find community members able to handle the kids’ issues.

Andrea is now on the other side of the room, fetaled-up on a bench, clenching her sweatshirt. Fighting the system, only not with Equality 7-2521’s righteousness.

I walk over to where she’s curled up. “Come on, Andrea. Get up from there. We have to try to write something for Mrs. Hall.”

“I hate this fucking place!”

I have a three-year-old son at the daycare center down the road from here. He’s there all day because I work. He sometimes curls up like this in his little bed when he doesn’t want to have to get up and go to the center. I have to get stern with him, or else I won’t make it to this building in time to tutor the Achieve students.

“Come on, Andrea.  I still have forty minutes.  I can help, but you have to help, too.”

She doesn’t get up. I return to my chair by her computer and look at the blank document on the screen, wishing Andrea could instead write her right arm’s story.

Her anthem.

Bonnie Ditlevsen is a foreign-language enthusiast who lives in the Pacific Northwest, her base for homeschooling/roadschooling with her two children. The founding editor of Penduline, she’s currently at work on a sequel to her beach read, an expatriate-themed Costa Rican noir mystery The Wasp’s Nest Piñata.

Aloo Saag

by Jill Elliott

We work together well, my son and I, moving around each other in the kitchen. He finds the recipe for Aloo Saag, pulls spices from the rack and cupboard, places them next the stove. He chops onions until he has to rinse his eyes, dry them with a paper towel, and get back to his chopping. I start the rice cooking, cover the saucepan and set the timer. He pours a glass of wine for me and opens a beer for himself.

We began cooking together when he was twelve, the year after my divorce. That’s not strictly true; I have photos of both my kids ‘helping’ me in the kitchen from when they were toddlers, sticky-fingered, flour-splattered with huge smiles. But it was after the divorce, after the kids and I had moved to a house with a kitchen large enough to cook in, that he really helped. His teenage years were not easy. He was often angry, rebellious and moody, but he gentled while he was measuring, sautéing and stirring ingredients. We created calm while we cooked.

Today, conversation floats between my son and me while I wash and chop spinach. Nothing profound is said, but his relaxed presence fills me with ease. I like him being in the house. He doesn’t have to be in the same room, he can even be sleeping but I have a sense that all is right with the world when he visits. Even though he’ll be twenty-seven next week, this morning I checked that his shoes were by the front door; a habit begun when he a teen and driving. If I woke in the early hours, I’d go downstairs and check for his shoes. If they were there, I could go back to sleep. If not, I’d make myself a mug of peppermint tea and settle in to wait and worry, clenching at the sound of every siren. My mood immediately changing from worry to anger when I heard his Jeep pull into the drive.

Jill Elliott resides, writes and gardens in Portland, Oregon. After she completes her first book, she plans to learn to play the harp, study Latin, continue to write and nurture her organic garden. Solitude is her best friend. Her work has appeared in Poet in the House, VoiceCatcher, The Ink-Filled Page’s Charcoal Anthology and The Sun.

You’ll need:

1 lb fresh spinach
3 medium potatoes (about 1 lb), peeled and cut in 1-inch cubes
1/4 C oil or clarified butter
2 tsp mustard seeds
1 lg onion, peeled and thinly sliced (about 1 1/2 cups)
2 lg garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
1 tsp ground coriander seed
1 tsp paprika
1/4 tsp ground cardamom seed
1 Tbs peeled, minced, fresh ginger
1 tsp ground black pepper
1/4 tsp cayenne
salt to taste

Chop your washed spinach coarsely and put in a large pot. Add potatoes, cover with water, and bring to a boil. Simmer until potatoes are tender. Meanwhile heat the oil or clarified butter in another large, deep saucepan. Add the mustard seeds and cook them until they start to hop and pop. Add sliced onion and garlic and saute quickly over fairly high heat until translucent, stirring often. Add all the spices except salt and saute a minute more.

Remove from heat. When the potato mixture is tender, drain it in a colander over the sink. Reheat the onion and spice mixture, add the potato-spinach mixture, and gently stir to blend. Taste and add salt as desired. Simmer over low heat about 10 minutes, until the mixture is fairly dry and the spices have been absorbed by the vegetables.

Delicious served with rice, garlic naan and raita. Yum.

Lit Star Training
The 8-Week Class Starts in January

Taught by Ariel Gore

The New Year’s Workshop runs January 21 – March 17

This class is the creative jolt we all need — for writers wanting to work on either memoir or fiction — we’ll make time to write, create new material with weekly deadlines, and improve our craft with practice and critique. Appropriate for writers working on longer projects as well as those who want to write to assignments and produce short essays and stories. The pace is quick and energizing–you won’t even have time to worry about creative blocks.

Class consists of online discussion/critique. Class size is limited, so please sign up early. $275

$90 deposit saves your spot – balance due when class starts

Ariel Gore is a fabulous workshop facilitator; I’ve been taking classes from her since 2001. In each of the workshops, she brings together a diverse group of writers with varying degrees of competency; and, whether the writer is seasoned or a beginner, she understands exactly where each person is coming from and she meets them there. Not only did I find my unique voice, I learned how to be a thoughtful listener and how to provide insightful critique. I would recommend her workshops to anyone interested in memoir and the art of a good story.

—Lani Jo Leigh

Ariel’s workshops jumpstarted my psyche. I’m back into looking at the world as a writer instead of as a would-be writer. I have her to thank for that. Workshops are almost at your own pace. Always encouraging. She has a knack for assembling a great group of writers together every time.

—Margaret Elysia Garcia

Ariel Gore’s writing workshop pushed me past the borders of my creativity and into an exciting unknown place of writing within myself. If you’ve ever put to pen to paper and wondered what you were really capable of Ariel’s workshop will take you there.

—Gabrielle Rivera

I throughly enjoy Ariel’s workshops. Writers from a variety of backgrounds gather together, bringing in work with all kinds of themes, and as each piece is workshopped, Ariel’s ear for the crucial aspects of great storytelling kicks right in. Her feedback is thoughtful, insightful, precise, and multilayered.

—Bonnie Ditlevsen

When I started writing with Ariel I had zero idea how to write for audience. In work shopping with her, I have found my voice and with practice have found different ways to formulate story. I have learned how to incorporate dialogue and am so much more confident with my work. I recommend this work shop to all aspiring, practicing, and practiced writers.

—Krystee Sidwell

Grandma’s Couch
by Breezy Barcelo

I think I remember this couch from my childhood. It’s scratchy, and I used to think the color scheme was awful. Now at 19, I have an eye for “vintage” color schemes like brown, orange, and yellow plaid. Thank god it opens into a bed. That’s all I can think about right now. I’m so damn sick of sleeping in that bus with two dogs, twelve puppies, and a boyfriend that offers me farina for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’m five months pregnant and I feel like shit from morning to night. We trekked across the country from Eugene, Oregon to Lancaster, Pennsylvania so I could sleep on this couch. My grandma thinks my diet is crazy. She hates that my boyfriend wears long skirts while I wear overalls.

Neither of us wears shoes.

But my grandma loves me and when I called her from a payphone in Oregon to say I was puking morning ’till night, she said to come and stay for as long as we need to.

I sit on Grandma’s couch for hours watching movies. It’s a luxury after living in the Volkswagen for a year and a half. I never just sit, though. I draw. I macrame. I make earrings. I’ve been supporting myself for a year, so my hands are always busy. My sewing machine is set up on the kitchen table, so I go back and forth—to the kitchen to sew, and back to the couch to rip out stitches that were mistakes. I make lots of mistakes.

The kitchen isn’t far from the couch in this trailer. And we’re as packed as we were in the bus, with my grandparents, my aunt and her occasional truck driving boyfriend, my six-foot-tall teenage cousin, my boyfriend, my two dogs, and pregnant me. All of us burst out laughing the other night at dinner when Grandpa said, “Today my friend said, ‘Frank, I don’t know how you can stand all those people living in your tiny house,’ and I looked at her and answered, ‘These are the best times of my life.’”

Grandpa is so nice. I’ll never be THAT nice.

Christmas is coming soon. Last year was fun; Christmas on the road. Soup kitchens serve great meals at Christmastime. This year, I’m glad to be warm and with family.

Back in June in Salt Lake City, I went into a little place that had a sign posted: “Free pregnancy tests.” An awkwardly nice woman sent me into the bathroom with the test, and she seemed almost scared when she told me it was positive—and then shocked when I was happy! My relatives around me say things I don’t understand, like, “Are you going to be ok?” and “I’m sorry you’re so young.” I don’t feel that young, or at least not too young to be a mama.

I get to sit on the couch more that anyone around here. Everyone works long hours. My boyfriend works at a pig farm for our new friend’s mom. We met the new friend at a potluck, and she heard we were looking for a place to store our school bus until the baby comes. She introduced us to her mom, and she and my boyfriend came to some agreement with storing the bus and him getting paid. But holy shit, I never knew what a pig farm smelled like. My grandma complains every day, and my boyfriend takes his clothes off outside the house every day, bags them up, and puts them straight into the wash! I try to ignore the complaints.

I just keep sewing.

I’m excited to have this baby and have my own bus again; my own space. I may not have a couch, but I’ll have a wood stove, a big bed, a table to craft on, a big stainless steel sink, and I’ll have my baby.

For now, I’m going to enjoy this couch, the movies, the time to sew, and the homemade food. My belly is getting big, and I am going to give birth in Amish country. I’ll find a midwife to help me at home or at a birth center–that’s what all these Amish women do.

I sit on my grandma’s couch and watch my belly grow. I watch the latest Cranberries music video. I watch my favorite movie, “Edward Scissorhands,” over and over.

I sit on my grandma’s couch and read Spiritual Midwifery by Ina May Gaskin.

I want to travel to their farm, give birth naked in a tent, and become a midwife.

I sit on my grandma’s couch and macrame hundreds of hemp necklaces to sell at the next farmer’s market. They’re my best seller.

I sit on my grandma’s couch and write in my journal, doodle flowers, and make lists of baby names.

I sleep on my grandma’s couch like a log, whether it’s folded or opened, whether the television is on or five people are talking, cooking, laughing…

My grandma yells at me from the kitchen, “What on earth stained my counter yellow?”

I call out from the couch, “Turmeric, Grandma—so sorry.”

Months later, I lay on this couch feeling my first contractions. I’m shocked by the pain. In two days, after I’ve labored for 36 hours, after I’ve made my way to the birth center and given birth to a big baby girl with the Mennonite midwives (one speaking German the whole time), I’ll lay on this couch with my baby asleep on my chest–filled with love.

Breezy Barcelo lives with her kids and her cat in Evanston, Illinois. A writer and postpartum doula, her work has also appeared in Hip Mama.

Ok, I know this isn’t vegan, but the chickens won’t stop laying eggs and somebody’s got to eat them. We also had a huge bag of sage… What to do with it all?

We used non-dairy cheese and “original” Silk creamer and Earth Balance, and even the dairy-fools at the table asked for seconds. Still, I’m sure you could substitute cow-dairy stuff if you had to.

Half a white onion, diced.
One or two cloves of garlic, chopped.
1 tablespoon Earth Balance or oil
6 – 8 eggs
1 tablespoon grated parmesan–we used Galaxy Nutrition Vegan Grated Parmesan
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella–we used Daiya mozzarella style shreds–the best
1/4 cup almond milk or unflavored Silk creamer (or whatever kind of milk you like)
A big pinch of salt
About 14 sage leaves, chopped

Now, preheat your oven to 375.

Saute your onions and garlic in Earth Balance in a big iron skillet. Once the onions are translucent, you can turn off the heat. In a separate bowl, beat your eggs and add the rest of the ingredients. Pour that over your onions and pop it in the oven for about a half an hour, or until set.

Of course it never hurts to serve it with a little hot sauce.

COMFORT FOOD (In Person!) INTENSIVES with Ariel Gore

Iowa City – Balitmore – California Sierra Mountains

You only need a few things to stay alive: Comfort food made with love, hot tea & creative work. We have all three… join us for a  weekend writing workshop with Ariel Gore in Berkeley, Iowa City, Baltimore, or Plumas County…

In these writing intensives, you’ll get that creative jolt, produce new material, get feedback on stories new and/or in-progress, and remember why you wanted to be a writer.

Inspiring, creating, writing, eating delicious vegan comfort food…

IOWA CITY February 17-20

$175 includes your homemade vegan comfort food

Friday, February 17, 6 – 8 pm

Saturday, February 18, 1 – 4 pm+

Sunday, February 19, 1 – 4 pm+

Monday, February 20, 10 am – noon

Class size is strictly limited, so please sign up early!

$55 deposit saves your spot

*   *   *

BALTIMORE (Hampden)

March 16-19

$155 includes your homemade vegan comfort food

Friday, March 16, 6 – 8 pm

Saturday, March 17, 1 – 4 pm

Sunday, March 18, 1 – 4 pm

Monday, March 19, 10 am – coffee and cocoa writing & wind-down

Class size is strictly limited, so please sign up early!

$55 deposit saves your spot

*  *  *

MOUNTAIN WORKSHOP (Plumas County, California)

April 13-15

$155 includes your homemade vegan comfort food

Friday, April 13, 6 – 8 pm

Saturday, April 14, 1 – 4 pm

Sunday, April 15, 1 – 4 pm

Class size is strictly limited, so please sign up early!

$55 deposit saves your spot

CLASS FULL – EMAIL TO BE ON THE WAIT LIST

Pst! Wayward Writers! The Literary Kitchen Presents an exclusive online class with Inga Muscio, author of Cunt: A Declaration of Independence, Autobiography of a Blue-Eyed Devil, and Rose: Love in Violent Times

January 8th – March 3rd
A Study in Decerebralization
With Inga Muscio

Thinking is nice. I think we can all agree that thinking is an important part of writing. To write from your heart, however, a lot of the thinking business has to be set aside. How to achieve this when everything we have learned about writing involves thinking? This thinking business also eventually gives you false expectations that you and your writing can probably never live up to.

For everyone who can churn out reportage, no problemo, but struggles with just letting go and belting out some genius from your heart and soul, for everyone with a mean-spirited bitch of an inner editor, for everyone with a so many truckloads of memories that you constantly set aside until they gridlock the byways of your heart, our Study in Decerebralization if for you.

This class will involve a significant number of highly creative writing assignments, but there will also be a big focus on having delirious fun writing and on learning to view your “non-writing” time as a vital part of your creative process.

Most of the writing assignments will require pen and paper. Some of them you will have to mail in to Inga, with no editing allowed.

Class size is strictly limited, so please sign up early

$275 for the 8-week online class

An $80 deposit saves your spot. Balance due just before the class starts.

This gf vegan mac n cheese is, I’d venture to say, better than the real thing.

My roommate put tuna on hers last night and said it was Just like grandma used to make! I guess that ain’t vegan anymore, but still 100% yummy.

Mac & Butternut Cheese

You’ll need…
A large butternut squash
1/2 cup almond milk
4 tablespoons nutritional yeast
the juice of half a lemon
4 tablespoons smart balance
4 cloves garlic or 1 teaspooon garlic powder or onion powder
1 teaspoon salt (or to taste)
a little pepper
A box of quinoa macaroni or shells — 8 oz. for a decadent amount of cheese, a pound for less cheese love.

So you’ll preheat your oven to 350. Put the butternut squash on a cookie sheet in the middle & bake it for about an hour or an hour and a half. Let cool slightly, then cut in half.

Scoop out the seeds (these can be roasted just like pumpkin seeds if you like) and then scoop out about two cups of the butternut flesh into a food processor or a blender or your big bowl.

This is going to leave you with about half of a cooked butternut squash. I don’t know what you’ll do with that. Probably make more mac and cheese tomorrow.

Anyway! To the butternut, add the almond milk