April 23 Sharing a loaf with Chinese

I managed to produce a good quantity of bread last week, while trying two new things (a different flour, and a biga pre ferment).  What to do with it all?

The previous week, during Thursday night English corner, I presented to the large group the introduction written by Peter Reinhart in The Bread Baker's Apprentice.  The book had just arrived, and I was eager to read it, so I shared something of my excitement with them.

Peter describes reactions to bread tasting.  He explains about the five different types of taste buds spread across sections of the tongue.  He wrote the oohs, ahs, OH!s and the final WOW, as the flavors reached each section of the tongue.  I gave a dramatic reading, of course.  With a few minutes remaining in our hour, I asked the students if they had any questions or comments.

Yeah.  Where's the bread?  We want to taste it, too.

I saved one loaf of the biga batch for the following Thursday night.  As it turned out, another teacher had usurped my English corner time with a guest speaker from outside, who wanted to sell a summer English program.  So in the few minutes before the speaker entered, I cut and shared the loaf.  There were perhaps 25 adults there.  It was a sheer pleasure for me to watch them slowly chew, registering surprise and pleasure along the way, and reaching for seconds.

From the broken pullman loaf I was able to save a one-pound well-shaped loaf.  Wallace, a Canadian mulatto working here, had previously said he'd paid 20 rmb for such a loaf of bread.  I've been using imported butter in making these loaves, and its expensive.  So I wrapped a loaf for him and asked him to donate 10 rmb towards the butter.

The second, darker biga loaf I put in the freezer, as a gift to repay favors.  A few Chinese students and staff are always ready to help me when I ask.  I need to do something nice in return.

The other half of the pullman, misshapen and broken as you see it in the pic, seems to have disappeared!  I can't seem to account for it.  mmm yum

The second flour I chose was a hard spring wheat from the NE, from a big flour mill.  The taste is noticeably sour, the texture more firm.  It is the flour to use for artisan breads, whereas the other, the small grower's 'hard winter flour', seems best suited to the sandwich loaf.

Baked two batches today

Tuesday, yet another entry.

First batch: I set the bowl in the sunny balcony for the second rise, and when I retrieved it the dough was noticeably warmer. It took near

ly two hours for the second rise, as well.

When I shaped it, I failed to bring both ends to meet in the center. I folded them in, but not far enough. When I tried to get the bread out of the pan when it was done baking, it cracked into two loaves. It was in the long pullman pan.

It also stuck badly in one corner. It was a teflon pan, so I didn't grease it. I did line the bottom with paper. Next time I will grease the pans much more heavily. the next batch also stuck.

The taste was heartier and noticeably sour. This flour, a more expensive hard spring wheat, would do well in a hearty artisan bread with sun dried tomatoes and basil, or roasted onions and garlic.

the crumb on this loaf was too loose. The crust wanted to break off. I wouldn't call it dry, though. Maybe not as moist as last week's.

I started baking the loaf with the lid off, and a handful of ice cubes thrown on the bottom. Tried misting the sides, too, briefly. After ten minutes put the lid back on. Thirty minutes with it on, then I removed it again and switched off the top burner.

Second batch: This is the one with the biga. I warmed the butter up in the microwave on the lowest setting, but it melted anyway. I put together the dry ingredients--flour, salt, milk powder, yeast--and then added the butter. I mixed it in. The previous batch, where I cut the soft butter in with the wooden spooned, worked much better for even distribution. The end result of the liquid butter was tiny lumps of butter that was still there during the final

shaping.

After adding the butter, I cut or pulled the biga into about five big pieces, and added the rest of the water to the mix. It was not easy to mix it well. I finally used my hand. The batter was very wet and sticky. I kneaded it for about five minutes in the bowl, and got good results. I dumped it onto the floured board, covered it with the bowl and let it rest 20 minutes.

The weight of this one was even lighter than the previous one! 1159 gms

The rest of the risings went well. Finally, I shaped it into two loaves. I lightly greased the two pans. One was Teflon, the other was not. I covered the pans but for a crack, and let them rise in the shade in the balcony. I didn't see a significant rise, but I put them in the oven anyway after more than an hour.

They stuck to the pan as well, but as you can see they came out in good shape.

I baked them without lids and with steam for the first ten minutes, with the top burner on. Then 30 minutes with lid, then the last ten minutes without lids and with the top burner off.

I clearly remember that when I baked my loaves in Guza, with pans I brought from America, the bread pulled away from the sides and slipped easily out of the pans. These loaves are not doing that, and I don't know why.

I haven't cut into the bread made with the biga yet, and the same flour as last week's bread. Hold on, while I do that.

OK, I'm back. Wow! The crumb is excellent, firm yet light. The flavor is sweet, nutty. Nicer than the pullman loaf I baked this morning.

I'll have to give the NE hard spring wheat another try next week, with more water and better greased pans. Very different flavors. But can I bake a firm bread with it? Gotta give it another try.

The end. A difficult letter

This is the reply to Sophia, after she said she and Mike decided to pull out of the business.

If that is what you wish, fine. When I said '10%' it was to make you realize that we have not yet spoken in concrete details. It has always been 'according to the investment,' but we don't know how much money is needed!

After thinking more about it, I realized that what I hoped was that Mike, if he moved here, would have enough money to live on without needing money from the business, for a year. But if he is expecting to get income from the bakery in the first year, then yes, we have nothing to talk about. That is just not a good model to work with. Perhaps it is the Chinese way, perhaps it explains why so many businesses open and close so quickly. I have seen it so many times since 2001, businesses opening and closing in a year or less, that I can almost predict now, when I see a new business open, how long it will last.

You are still telling me that I don't know the bread market. It is not that we don't understand each other, it is that we have totally different ideas about a bakery. As I have said over and over again, there is no market out there for what I am creating. It is not surprising that you are uncomfortable with doing something different, out of the mold, out of the ordinary. I understand the Chinese culture deeply enough to find this totally predictable. If I let you two have a controlling interest in the business, I will be wasting my time. The end result will be just one more 85 degrees or Dasalea with one or two specialties. That's not what I want. Apparently, I know more than what you think I know.

It is disappointing the way you have manipulated this situation. You brought Mike in without explaining to me what you intended, then you cut him out by interpreting to him your own misunderstandings of the situation. This is all too unfortunate.

Sophia, I really didn't want to have this conversation by email, as I said in my last email. I hope you will not be upset with me. I think you are amazing, I really do. You are my friend, and I don't want this to interfere with that. Yes, I am disappointed that it might not work out, and I know you are too. But we should still have our friendship. You have great, dynamic energy that will bear great fruit one day. You are a unique person, and I appreciate that about you.

April 17 disappointing people

I've put off writing about this part. Cross-cultural communication is fraught with landmines. Sophia is not your average Chinese person, either. She is divorced, raising her teenaged son on her own. She makes her living as a middle or high school teacher (not clear which), and on the side she wheels and deals trying to act as a broker between supplier and customer. She has an eager, abrupt manner about her.

Tim thinks her English comprehension is not as good as you might think, though she seems to speak with fluency (and a difficult accent).

I answered her email. I told her I was surprised that she was asking me the same questions again, wanting me to tell her what Mike's and her roles were, and when we write the contract what portion of the business would belong to each of them. We had discussed all this together.

I repeated what I had said during our meeting, about how things were meant to progress, what unanswered questions we had which made it difficult to talk about each person's investment. I said I feared losing control of the concept, because they had told me I'd have to do it the Chinese way. I resist that. The concept is my intellectual property, therefore I should maintain a 50% control of the business.

I said I felt they were pressuring me, when I already had my hands full.

Finally I said to her, just to illustrate how she has not been forthcoming, that Mike's cut would be 10% and all rights to franchising. I added, I knew she'd probably think that was insulting. But again, I said I needed her to tell me what she and Mike thought was fair.

And what about Blake?

I also told her that we should not be negotiating these things by mail. We needed to meet face to face, and mostly I needed to talk with Mike. He and I have a lot to talk about, but it doesn't get done when Sophia is translating.

Her reply was long, and negative. She was disappointed. She called Mike and told him I only wanted to give him a 10% share, and the upshot was that they decided not to pursue the business further with me. Mike would still act as my flour supplier, however. She included his phone number.

I wrote back. I will copy that letter here, rather than trying to paraphrase it.

I wrote a letter directly to Mike. I had another friend translate it. I said I was sorry that Sophia had encouraged him to drop out of the business. I said I thought we still had a lot of talking to do. I explained, once again, my idea of how things would work. I'd train myself during the summer, then in the Fall expand the business. Depending on how things went during the summer, I would either expand the business still working out of my home, or rent a space in September. And without Blake, the coffee side would have to wait.

I explained that the business would not make profit in the first year, and that if he were interested in continuing his involvement he must understand that he would have to have his own income, apart from this business.

Now I wait to see if he will respond. I kind of hope he does, because I like him. But I don't know if he 'gets' my concept.

10:45 a.m. The first rise was done. Fingers pressed into it remained. I turned it out on the bread board, gently pressed it to degas, covered it with a towel and let it rest for five minutes. Then I flattened it further, gently, squaring it, and folded each side into the center. I put it back in the bowl. I don't yet have a thermometer, so I don't know the internal temperature. But it felt so cold to the touch, that I decided to sit it out on the balcony in the sun. I covered it with a light cloth to avoid direct rays.

what is a biga and poolish sponge?

Tuesday, my Sunday. Tomorrow, back to work at 10 a.m.

I started the sponge first. I mixed half the flour and yeast with all the water and honey. I beat it really well, to the smooth consistency of a thick pancake batter. Until now, I have then blanketed that with the remaining flour, a bit of milk powder, and the remaining yeast. I would let it ferment, as below, and then add in the oil/butter and salt when I was ready to begin the bake rising cycles.

Peter Reinhart doesn't use the blanket, so I tried it his way this time. Covered the bowl and let it ferment for four hours. It almost filled the bowl, with lots of big bubbles in it. I put it in the fridge overnight.

Around 2 p.m. Monday I mixed a biga. It was a bit of work, doing the math. Both books use different quantities. His is for a ciabatta, but I don't have a baking stone yet so I'm not doing that. RLB (The Bread Bible, Ruth Levy Beranbaum, 2003, WW Norton Publisher) just tells me the percentages. So I had to break it all down, then I used Reinhart's instructions which were more convenient to follow.

A biga is a small dough, using proper flour and water mixtures to get a dough. It has more flexibility in using it; it can be used after 12 hours or within three days. It is then cut up into big chunks and added to the rest of the bread recipe. After I mixed it I put it in a bowl and let it rise at room temperature for 4 hours. I put it in the balcony, but the cats (ChuChu, the little dickens) didn't molest it.

The reason for using either of these is to develop flavor. This is where my experiments get interesting. Which of the flour samples I'm working will yield the 'nicest' flavor. The sponge or biga is the way to draw out that flavor.

The sponge mixture has been completed and is going through its first rise. I measured out the flour, yeast, milk powder and salt and mixed it well. Then I cut the butter into the flour using a wooden spoon. Last, I poured the bubbly sponge into the bowl and started mixing. I was a bit concerned, because I held back about 20 grams on the water. The sponge mix seemed wet enough without it. Now I was worried it would be too dry.

I mixed the wet and dry mix together in the bowl with a wooden spoon, then switched to my hand in order to get the butter worked in fully. The instructions call for putting it out on the floured board to knead for five minutes, but I did it in the bowl. It was pretty sticky, but not really wet.

Since I'm using bran and germ, I was anxious not to overwork it. I had taken a one-day class in whole grains at King Arthur's Bakery in Vermont. The instructor said the key to getting a good rise out of a whole grain dough is by working it minimally. The more you work it, the more the rough bran cuts the gluten strands that are essential to height.

I waited only ten minutes. Had it been a wetter dough, I would have rested it twenty minutes before dumping the dough on the board for the first knead. I did more squeezing and patting then folding and twisting, kneading it less than five minutes. It rested while I washed out the bowl and greased it. Then, using the bench scraper to help lift it, I put the dough into the greased bowl. I flipped the dough once, covered the bowl with saran wrap, and put it in a covered storage tub (cat-proofed). It should take 1 1/2 to 2 hours to fill the bowl

Again, I felt that the volume was larger than what I remember when using the local flour.

RLB says the weight at this stage should be 1258 gms. My dough weighs 1191. I suspect the difference is in the bran and wheat germ, which is lighter than flour.

The biga is in a plastic jar with lid, in the fridge. It has expanded and fills the container now. As I have only one large glass bowl, it will wait until the other dough gets into the baking pan. Then I'll start the second loaf. Argh! and I'll have to do the math again.

April 16, breakfast

Today Mom would turn 99, had she not passed away 7 years ago. Happy birthday, Mom.

A day off! It has been a long week, for some reason. I am exhausted. I finished work at 9, bought some fruit on the way home, and got home just before ten. I tried quickly to get ready for bed, because I had planned with a friend in Italy to Skype around 10. I went online while I was still changing into my jammies, when the Skype melody chirped. Good thing it wasn't a video call!

He is thinking of coming to work in China, so he updated me on that. Not looking good.

Shortly after we hung up, Tim Skyped. He lives about 40 minutes north, here in this city. He is a talker, has been here about a month, from New York City. Another call came in about ten minutes into our conversation.

I had tried to call Deb, in Saudi Arabia, after my talk with Michael in Italy, but she wasn't on line. I left her a note on Skype. She called me back! I don't know how to do the 'call hold' thing you do on phones when another call comes in, so I just added her to my call with Tim! He got the message, and went off to do his dishes while I talked with her; he hung up.

Deb's father has cancer, is terminal, so she is spending her summer break in Texas with the folks. She needed to talk about it. But it was time for prayer in Riyadh, so the reception was bad. She said that usually happened at prayer time. Our call was dropped and reconnected a few times before we decided to just end it.

I called Tim back, and he kept me on the line for 1 1/4 hour. It was past 1 a.m. when I finally broke off the conversation.

On the one hand, I needed my sleep. On the other hand, I desperately needed to talk with other westerners.

I stayed in bed this morning until 8, though I woke at 6:30. Tired, but it's a new day. So, to treat myself, I made a special breakfast.

It may not sound special to you people with American kitchens, but I can guarantee you that the average ex pat living here would drool with longing.

I made pancakes. Big, fluffy big-holed pancakes. I used fresh unstarched runny lumpy yogurt (sweetened, since I didn't make it myself) instead of milk. I thinned it with a little milk in the end. Fresh butter, cinnamon and a grating of fresh nutmeg. They came out thick and fluffy. I drizzled a little honey on top, then spread them with fresh crushed strawberries that I bought the night before. Just-picked Changzhou strawberries.

I ground some coffee beans (not the freshest, but they had a decent taste, Blue Mountain) to wash down the pancakes.

I was thinking, maybe this could be a way to thank my Chinese helpers once I'm in business. For those who won't accept payment for their information-gathering services. Have a special breakfast gathering once in a while on Sundays, and serve them western treats like that.

OK, time to get moving. I'll experiment with a biga today. Usually I do a poolish sponge for my bread flavor. A biga sounds so much more practical, so I'll see what it's like to make one and use it. More on that, and the breakup, next time.

Bakery April 15 night, all falling apart

My business plan is falling apart. Blake is a flake. A sweet kid, a dreamer. Turns out he doesn't have any hard cash, only about as much as me. There are some ifs attached to further supplies of his cash, as with mine. IF I sell my house in Florida, I could bankroll this business by myself. IF his father sells the business office cleaning business, he'll have $30,000. IF he can broker a rice deal he'll reap $30,000 (but he hasn't put any cash into the deal, so it is suspect)

While I am busy doing research and studying up for the bread making, and also asking my adult students to help gather information necessary for my pro forma business sheet part of the Business Plan, I'm needing someone to do the same for the coffee side of it. He's not doing anything except dreaming.

Without an ex pat partner, I really don't think I can pull it off. Meanwhile, I've managed to alienate the two Chinese people who wanted to 'help' with the business. Actually, they felt more like vultures, flapping their wings around my head while I'm trying to make forward progress.

I'm exhausted, going to bed. More on the break-up tomorrow, when I'm fresh.

Bakery April 15 headache full of options

Just realize I have to date things, to help the reader find the sequence of events.

Got an email from Sophia. We met last Tuesday, and yet this email sounds like we never had that discussion! She's still asking me what I want Mike's role to be, and what I want her role to be. Quite frankly, I don't see that I need either of them just yet. I do need Mike to be my flour supplier, but in this email her remark was something like, how could you just expect him to supply you with flour, taking his profit share, after all he's done for you.

All he's done for me? So who asked him.

I want to write a professional Business Plan. I need hard data. How much does a license cost? Insurance? What kind of licenses and permits do I need? How much will rent be? How many employees will I need to pay? Will I have to register them with the government and pay payroll tax?

This is what I need Sophia and Mike's help with, but they are not offering this help. Mike is far away, in Suzhou, and Sophia works full time.

On the other hands, I talk with my students often. Most are business people of one sort or another. One lady offered to be my accountant. She and her husband own a factory. So I asked her these same questions, as above. she researched and came back with ballpark figures, which are much much lower than I had feared. She said it was not common for businesses to take out insurance!! And that payroll taxes were not a consideration. Nuff said about that.

You don't run a business in China like in the States. The comparisons give the feeling of a free-for-all environment here.

If I want to serve food, it gets complicated. But it sounds like if I don't actually COOK on premises it's easier. I'm thinking, I need to serve sandwiches so that people will have an excuse to sample the breads. But why not just cold cuts and cheeses? No cooking involved, no special 'sewage disposal' for which a permit would be needed. Of course, cold cuts are not common here.

I spoke with Angela in Tagong, whose daughter Somtso recently had a birthday which brought back memories of her home delivery in Kangding. She said she can supply me with fresh yak butter, which I have consumed lots of and attest that it will work admirably in the breads. That would save me lots of money. Otherwise I'd be using imported butter. The Chinese butter available in the supermarket is low quality, with (people say) additives.

So why not also Yak meat? Why couldn't I get choice pieces of yak and make roast beef. I'd cook it at home and bring it into the shop.

Next, if I could figure out how to smoke chicken, or maybe honey bake? That would be my second choice for cold cuts.

And then there are cheeses, and I'm sure I could concoct some yummy veggie sandwiches with sprouts and things.

Actually, there are sliced meats available at the Fresh Market. There's a vendor who sells roast duck, and chicken, and parts, and spiced meats. These are usually cold dishes, I think, that one takes home for the family table. I wonder if I could get away with serving one or two of their selections. But not at the price they charge! I'd have to figure out how to get it wholesale.

I'm feeling down in the dumps. As the Bible says, 'hope deferred makes the heart sick.' I want to jump forward in time, in the middle of my baking kitchen.

Instead, I have to be moved by May 23 to a new apartment. My work contract runs until June 30, so I have only one day a week to bake.

Meanwhile, I hear that there is a good bread shop up in Xin Bei (north Changzhou, almost an hour bus ride from here) across from Starbucks. Why didn't I hear about this sooner? Is it serious competition?

Two nights ago during my dinner break I ate at a new German restaurant that opened upstairs from my workplace. I met a short large American woman dressed in black, who introduced herself as 'Prof. Williams'. She caught my attention because what snatches of conversation I heard sounded like she knew about starting a business.

Turns out she works at one of the two-year colleges, next door to the one I worked for when I first arrived in Changzhou. Doing the same work I did, teaching conversation English. Her business card says MBA, but not PhD.

In our brief conversation she said she is exploring the possibility of opening a coffee shop! She has not been in Changzhou for long, and I think she hasn't been in China longer than that. Which gives me the edge.

All of which puts more pressure on me, to get up and running as quickly as possible and as carefully planned as possible. Thank heaven I have my Web (my employer) students to guide me through the business process. I wish Mike spoke English, because I think he could really help out a lot.

If only he would give me assurance that he is self-supporting, and would be willing to take a minority share in the profits. He has dreams of creating a franchise brand. I'd gladly give him majority ownership in that, should it come to that. But for now, I absolutely have to have creative control.

On the plus side, my bread book arrived from Amazon. The Bread Baker's Apprentice. Mastering the art of extraordinary bread, by Peter Reinhart. This will be my summer crash course in artisan bread baking.

I've been up since six. Doing the night shift today, finishing at 9. It's going to be a looong day.

Bakery April 10, the second loaf

The second loaf. Baked on Tuesday, April 10.

On Monday night I made the sponge. Instead of 341 grams of flour, I used 300 gms of flour and 47.6 grams of a mixture of fine bran and wheat germ. I reduced the water slightly, to 355 gms instead of 405. The honey I used is low-grade quality, but it's all I have right now.

The blanket was 298 gms flour and 15 gms fine bran and wheat germ (instead of 311 gms flour). I had some extra yeast, so I put in an extra 0.3 gms.

In the morning I added the 15 gms salt and 128 gms of soft unsalted butter. I mixed it with the wooden spoon for a while, then finally with my hand. I kneaded the wet sticky mess for as long as I dared, a few minutes anyway (Rose says five minutes in the bowl), then dumped it out on the dusted bread board. I covered it with the inverted bowl and let it rest for 20 minutes.

Next I kneaded it very gently for just a few minutes. I then washed out the bowl and greased it. The dough went into the bowl, which I greased with soft butter. I patted a thin layer of oil on the top, as I patted it down flat. I covered it with saran wrap and put it in a plastic storage tub, so the cats wouldn't be tempted.

Without breakfast, I grabbed my bus pass and headed out to collect my ebike. I had brought it to the shop where I'd bought it, to get the headlamp working. He had sold it to me too quickly, hadn't quite finished all the repairs to it.

Yesterday, on the way to delivering the bike, I stopped at the restaurant equipment store behind the honeycomb swimming pool building, for another bread pan. I wound up buying a long loaf pan, and another 500 gm pan slightly shorter and longer. Both are Teflon. I was spooked by my recent experience of a stuck loaf. I looked for muffin pans, but they had only very shallow ones. I saw cute little tiny loaf pans, I thought I could use them for muffins. I bought 4 of them and one six-cup muffin tin. Spent 148 rmb altogether.

Did I mention the blender? I've been salivating for a blender. With that I could pick up odd grains at the supermarket and grind them, and add them to doughs. I also wanted to start experimenting with frozen yogurt smoothies, of which Blake has been raving. The cheapest ones I'd seen at the local appliance stores was just under 300 rmb, and seemed plasticky and cheaply done, though they had a lot of attachments. I went online to Taobao and found one for 128 rmb. It arrived. It has a large thick glass pitcher, the motor casing looks like it holds a powerful engine, and it also has the smaller cup and blade for grinding beans.

This time the first rise was almost a full two hours before the finger-press test was successful. I took it from the bowl and held it in the air. I let it ooze down, stretch itself out. I ever so gently pushed it to a square on the board. The texture was rough with all the bran; lovely. I was careful not to damage the air pockets. I folded each side in towards the center, then returned it to the bowl. The next rise took about 1 1/2 hours. I shaped it into a long loaf, and put it in the one long pan. It seemed to come up the side just about 1/4 of the way. I let it rise with the cover 3/4 closed, on the sunny ledge of the balcony. After an hour it had doubled. It looked ready, though I thought it looked small. I closed the lid and put it in the preheated oven at 190 degrees C. I forgot the ice cubes, at first; added them later. I had the solid pan set in the lowest slots, less than an inch from the bottom heating rods.

After 40 minutes of baking I removed the lid, turned off the top burner, and reduced the heat to 180 C. (the recommended baking temperature). Ten minutes later I removed it from the oven. It slipped out of the pan easily. I used the oven rack to cool it, as I haven't yet found cooling racks.

The bottom of brown, one little spot was dark brown but not quite burnt. The top looked quite lovely toast brown.

I had invited Lori over to celebrate the new loaf. The loaf had cooled over an hour, so I sliced up the whole loaf and divided into about six slices each group. Maybe two dozen slices altogether, maybe more. I set the end crust and few slices on a plate for when Lori arrived.

She called to say she was on the bus just then. I still had one more task to complete before my 'weekend' break was over. So I quickly shampooed my hair and set to with scissors, to trim off an inch on the top and sides.

By the time she arrived I had moussed and blown it dry.

Ah, the loaf. You want to know how it turned out. Lori brought a bottle of Cava pink bubbly. She said she felt like new beginnings were in the air and were to be celebrated.

We dove into the bread, slavering it with soft unsalted butter. The smell was fragrant with aromatics of almond and sweet healthy smells. The crumb was excellent. It was firm, yet airy. It was an explosion of tastes on the tongue. Realizing that we were eating bread and drinking wine on empty stomachs, I pulled out some cheese and olives. But by then our bread allotment was done! I still had some of Sundays bread, so I sliced and toasted the last of that. Yes, it was good, but it couldn't hold a candle to this lighter-than-air heavy whole grain bread.

My only regret is that I have to wait a whole week to do it again.

I sent Lori home with a packet of slices, to share with her colleagues, advertising this new product. I will bring a few slices to work today. I hope to get a packet to Oliver and Blake down at the CZU. The last packet I hope to send to my new Australian friend, Vicki, who lives a block away. Slowly building the business, one loaf at a time.

Bakery setting things straight with Sophia

Same day, an hour later. Wednesday:

Monday and Tuesday are my days off. This is the logical time to do some serious bread experiments. But Monday got eaten up by other errands. Sadly, life must go on with all her mundane chores.

In the afternoon Sophia came over, and we had a serious talk. I explained to her that from our previous meeting with Mike and Blake I was getting an image of what the wanted, and that it amounted to just riding the wave of the current trend and expecting to make a big splash by adding a small twist.

What I had in mind was something new, a whole new concept. Maybe it would start a new trend, maybe it wouldn't.

She told me Mike was eager to sell his home in Suzhou and his current business, and move to Changzhou to take over the 'bakery'.

I said that was entirely too much pressure. If he did that, he would soon be forcing us to conform to the existing successful model in order to earn him some money.

Our model needed time, at least a year, before we could expect to see any kind of growth and profit.

In China, people open up new shops without market research, following a trend, and quickly the business folds. If the person has a large circle of friends and family, the business has a slightly better chance of succeeding. At the shopping center area where I work, there are five shops in a row offering coffee in one version or another. All are espresso based, and the customers probably seldom actually order coffee. That's another story.

Sophia said Mike wanted to know what I expected his role to be. Sophia also asked the same question about herself. Mike's message to me was: will he be the manager of the shop, or do I simply want him to be my supplier of bread flour, in which case of course he'd take his profit.

I said, for the moment, the latter.

After she left I made supper. I was very tired, but I forced myself to put together a sponge for tomorrow. I put it in the cat-proof microwave, and crawl between the sheets. I hoped I'd read for an hour and then transfer the sponge to the fridge. But I fell asleep after a few pages.

The phone on my nightstand gave a chirp. A text message arrived. It woke me; it was from Tim, "I'm still up, you wanna Skype?" It was 11:15 pm.

I didn't answer the message, but did retrieve the batter and put it in the fridge, well within the four-hour limit. Thank you, Tim.

Bakery first loaf, results

Wednesday, April 11, 7 a.m.

Sunday's dough was slapstick. On the good side, when I dumped the dough onto the board after the first rise my eyes were bulging. The dough had risen amazingly high, the holes were large, I knew this new farmer's flour would be a very acceptable choice for the business. It is the lowest cost of the samples, and very acceptable results.

But I couldn't allow it a longer rise than about 70 minutes. It sprang back when I pressed it, the finger hole filled in quickly, but I had no time to wait. I had planned to meet with Traci for an Easter morning breakfast.

I gently pushed and pulled it into a haphazard square and folded each side over. Put it back into the glass bowl, turned it over, pressed it flat, and covered it again. I left it to rise in the microwave so the cats wouldn't attack it. I jumped on the ebike and rode out to the TV tower, near my Web school. On the way I noticed that my battery was running in the red when I throttled, and only showing half power when resting.

She showed up two minutes later, and we walked to the Manabe Japanese cafe where, a friend told me, we could get a western breakfast. It was locked! The hours posted on the door said it should have opened a half hour ago, but it was locked. Is it, too, like so many other Chinese businesses, folding after less than a year in business?

I invited Traci back to my place, where I would make our breakfast. We left the bike in the Yonghui Shopping Center lot and took the 69A bus back to the Renmin Rd stop. A five minute walk and we were in the kitchen.

The dough had risen nicely. I eased it out of the glass bowl and put it back on the board. I looked at it, looked at my one bread pan, and knew I had made a two-loaf dough. I hadn't thought about it; it has been too long since I've done this. Last year when I was cooking the bread as flat rolls on the stove top, as far as I can recall I didn't halve the recipe and only got a dozen rolls.

What to do? I cut the dough in half, and shaped one into a loaf. I gently made it into a rectangle, folded the long ends in, and then from the long side rolled the dough towards me. I pinched the ends and tucked them under, and put them into the pan.

This pan I bought has three raised holes on the bottom. It also has small openings in the corners, where the sheets of metal had been folded. Not like American pans, that to my recollection are all of one piece. So I cut a piece of parchment paper to fit along the bottom, and covered those three holes. I greased the whole pan with olive oil.

I pondered whether or not to experiment with putting the remaining batter in the fridge, baking it another time. I've never done that, read it could be done, but am leery of what it would do to the rise.

I looked at the loaf in the pan, before covering it, and it looked awfully small. I cut the remaining dough again and awkwardly blended it into the already shaped loaf. I tried to flatten the larger piece out again, flatten the new piece, and roll them together.

I covered the pan with its lid, to keep the cats away from it, and put it on the sunny ledge of my balcony. Now, what to do with the remaining quarter of the batter?

No worries mate! I resorted to last year's technique of cooking the bread as rolls on the stove top in the wok. They would be our breakfast rolls. I shaped them into three hearty rolls while Traci and I chatted away. She is such lively company!

I made us a simple omelet with some frozen sliced onions, eggs, a dash of milk, and a covering of Irish Kerrygold Dubliner, which is close to a very mild cheddar.

She was very gracious, complimenting the simple repast as a treat.

I put the loaf pan into the heated oven at 11:45, along with some ice cubes tossed onto the bottom of the oven. I normally walk out the door at 12:30 to catch the bus for my one o'clock shift. The bread needed 50 minutes in the oven!

As Traci and I chatted away at the table inches from the little oven, we watched the bread dough oozing out of the corners of the lid, dropping like pale worms onto the pan below.

Traci left at about 12:15, and I started getting cleaned up for work.

I decided that on this day I would have to be late for work. After all, I knew my first class wasn't until 2:00.

I took the lid off the pan about ten minutes before it was due to be done. I was so rushed I never thought to turn off the top burner. Luckily, the finished loaf was not too dark.

At 12:35 I took the pan out of the oven. What a mess! I had little time to let it cool. As soon as I could touch it, I started chipping away at the encrusted pan, trying to free the loaf. I slammed it on the bread board to loosen it. That used to work, with my good pans years ago.

Next I took a thin knife and started slicing along all sides of the loaf. The first cut didn't do it. It took a long time to pry it loose. I dumped it on the board. One side had a paper-fine sliver the length of the bread, from two passes with the knife. The color was pale.

I bundled it up in parchment paper, along with a bread knife, and took it to work. I set it out to cool, while I prepared my classes.

As soon as I could, I went across the street to grab my bike and bring it into the office, where I hooked up the charger.

During a break between classes I sliced the loaf. I wrapped a couple of pieces and put them in the freezer, so I could later compare them with other experiments.

The crumb was way too moist, and crumbly. It was useless for sandwiches. I buttered up some slices and had the staff sample it. They gave detailed comments.

Rena: I like the feel it leaves in my mouth after I swallow it.

Of course, the excess moisture and lousy crumb were the results of a) rushing the rise, and b) patching in the third quarter of the raw dough.

My strongest criticism was the taste of the olive oil. It was much too strong! I suspect that last year I used less oil (because I misunderstood the markings on the side of the rice measuring cup), and the flavor of that oil was not as strong as this Spanish oil.

Last year I measured everything by volume, I didn't have a scale.

Conclusion: Entirely too many firsts at one time, combined with insufficient time for the whole process, yields one weird loaf of bread.

Bakery Easter Sunday, preparing the first loaf

Easter Sunday

I've been trying to find a baking stone on Taobao. So far no luck. Sophia has sent me a number of links, but haven't found it yet.

Last night about 14 ex pats gathered at a local Chinese (Cantonese style) restaurant for an Easter Eve dinner. We all went our separate ways upon leaving the restaurant. But I was still wound up, so I decided to start a sponge with my new dough.

I had forgotten that Traci and I had agreed to meet Sunday morning for breakfast. Whoops.

Using Beranbaum's The Bread Bible, and a recipe I've done a gazillion times, I chose the hard wheat from the small Hebei farmer. It's the one I'm rooting for, since it is the least expensive.

Weighing carefully on my new digital scale, I started with 341 gms of flour (I included some fine bran, maybe 1/4 cup, didn't measure), 405 gms water, 45 gms honey (not the best tasting I've had) and 2.4 gms instant yeast.

I beat that together, and it seemed quite thin. Usually I use less water, when I was using the local soft wheat flour.

I covered it with a blanket of 2.4 gms yeast, 311 gms flour (I included another 1/4 ~ 1/3 fine bran), dry milk (fat included).

I let it sit for an hour, then I refrigerated overnight. At 6 a.m. I removed it from fridge so it could warm up to room temperature. At 7, I add the oil and salt ( 40 gms, olive oil 128 gms, 15 gms salt), and another 1/4 cup flour. I was afraid it would be too moist.

Mixed it as best I could with a wooden spoon. It always has streaks of oil in it after mixing that way, which bothers me, but through the different rises it all seems to get incorporated. I worked it as long as I had energy, a few minutes once it was coagulated, and then dumped it on the floured bread board. I covered it with the mixing bowl, while I checked the instructions again. It has been a while since I made an actual loaf. More recently, without an oven, I've been limited to making rolls like English Muffins on the stove top.

Following directions I gently kneaded it a few minutes more (not the full 5 called for, since I've got rough bran in it), then let it sit 20 minutes again under the inverted bowl.

Washed out the bowl, coated it with oil, put the dough in it. Flattened it out and turned it over. It seemed huge! I had read that fresh dough rises better, and this certainly seems to be what I am observing.

Because I'm meeting Traci for breakfast, and also because I have to be to work sooner than all the rises and baking calls for, I'll just let it rise for a little over an hour. Before going to breakfast I'll flatten it, fold the four sides in "like an envelope", and put it back in the bowl. After breakfast I'll shape it for the loaf, and hope it rises enough to bake before I leave for work.

Bakery April 6, a talk with Blake

Friday, April 6

Blake came in early for his evening shift, so we had a chance to talk. He'll spend the summer in the States, plus a trip to Guatemala to take care of personal family business. He'll set up contacts through his parents to meet with 'coffee people' in Costa Rica. 'Everyone drinks coffee in Costa Rica, they all know about coffee.' He thought he'd try to get three roasts; regular, french and espresso or dark. I introduced the idea that within coffee bean culture there are a lot of different varieties of beans. 'Oh.'

He talked more about the pastries and funnel cakes and muffins. I asked if he planned to take a pastry course while he was there during the summer. 'Sure.'

Finally, after 20 minutes, he asked, 'What do you think?'

I said I had something much simpler in mind. That for years I have wanted to teach the Chinese how to enjoy simple coffee with all its subtle flavors. That I was tired of Chinese saying coffee was bitter, when all they'd tasted was low-quality espresso.

Hence what we should be looking at are comparisons in cost and feasibility between importing and then roasting our own green beans, or importing already-roasted beans. Since I was doing all the research and incurring expenses for the bread-making end of it, and since he has said all along that he could access Costa Rican coffee easily, I was leaving the coffee research up to him.

I pointed out that if we had a small cafe, five or seven tables, offering different brewed coffee flavors with or without milk and sugar, offering only cookies and muffins to go with the coffee, and sold a limited number of whole-grain breads to go, our overhead would be much lower. If we failed, we'd lose less.

My unexpressed thoughts were that if we have the Chinese Mike and Sophia investing in us for a big spread, they would then exert pressure on us to conform to the Chinese taste. While that made good business sense to them, I believe that if we offered something truly unique it had a greater chance of creating a new trend, which is after all what $Mike$ was after.

We'll see whose opinions prevail.

Bakery April 5, partnership questions

Thursday, April 5

None related, went to see the traditional doctor today, to find out how to keep my blood pressure from hovering around the 150/100 line. I already changed diet and exercise towards that end, but had a spike of 200/?? that scared the daylights out of me. He said, simply, 'sleep'. I needed to take care to get adequate sleep, and I will be able to maintain a 130/95. I'm jake with that!

Emailed Sophia and asked her to meet with me Monday, to have a sit-down. So, Monday afternoon I will try to make her see that Blake and I don't want what she and Mike want. If we followed their lead, we would be opening just another bakery/coffee shop like so many others already in town, trying to compete by adding a few extras, like whole grain bread and real coffee. I don't think that will fly, and it is far too big a venture than I am capable of handling.

We'll see how she reacts.

Bakery, first stirrings

I first came to China in 2001. I like to drink good coffee. If it's tasty, one cup a day will do. Since I've been in China, I've had to lower my coffee standards. Fresh roasted French Roast is just not available.

Since moving to Changzhou in 2009 I've found that coffee drinking has become very popular among the young generation. But what coffee!! It is either instant coffee with sugar and creamer; Nestle's and Maxwell House are big sellers. Or it is espresso. I drank espresso regularly when I lived in Germany, and discovered that though there are many brands, only espresso fresh from Italy has the great subtle flavors that make for a delicious coffee. All else is just bitter.

You will not find a Chinese person asking for a shot of espresso. All coffee they drink is gooped up with milks and sugar and syrups.

I have thought for a couple years now that I'd love to buy a coffee roaster, and green coffee beans, and begin to experiment. I considered that I might be able to produce delicious flavors with simply the choice of bean and roasting, and slowly educate the Chinese pallet, one student at a time.

As for baking bread, during the years I spent in Sichuan I made my own bread weekly, sharing it as best I could with my ex-pat neighbors on campus. I did the same during my year in Somalia, so that by now I take bread-making for granted. It's a snap.

It was no surprise, then, when I started having these conversatons with Blake, a young Guatemalan-American from California who arrived here in September. We talked, as dreaming people do, about opening a place where we could share these American tastes. With his contacts in Central America, he thought he could access good coffee. I lamented the lack of hard and whole wheats, which are essential to making good breads.

He shared this conversation with a mutual Chinese friend, and she grabbed the bit and took off running. She contacted a cousin who is a businessman and also interested in founding a successful chain of food suited to ex-pat tastes. These quickly become trendy here in China.

Suddenly Blake and I were swept into their whirlwind. They wanted to know what help we needed to get this idea transformed into reality; and they wanted it NOW.

Gulp. We had just been day dreaming. Now the pressure is on to produce produce produce. I had my year laid out until December, and it did not include doing a lot of baking. I have no oven in Changzhou, and so I haven't been baking at all.

This year Lantern Festival landed around my birthday. The Chinese woman, Sophia, invited me to her home to meet Mike. Was this a romantic liaison? Setting me up for a blind date? I was sick as a dog, with bronchitis. I couldn't venture out. So she brought him to me, in my pajamas and robe I entertained them.

Turns out, Mike wanted to go partners with Blake and me. He wanted to know my strategy. I laid it out for him. He nodded, he liked what he heard.

Then I get an email from him, translated by Sophia, asking me what samples I wanted from wheat country. Huh? I had told him I wouldn't have time for this until the very earliest, summer. Even then, I wouldn't have much time to give it. No matter, the pressure was on. Sophia had a conversation with Blake in which she told him, if Satina isn't ready, let's find another baker.

Sophia is a real go-getter.

I fumed for a few days, playing all different scenarios in my head about this. In the end, I decided to play the game, string them along, keep the dream alive. I sent my request.

It took a month, but at last Mike came to Changzhou for a meeting with us four, and loaded with sample flours, wheat germ, bran and gluten.

It was a strange meeting. The more we talked, the more Blake got cut out. He and I had envisioned a small cafe with tables, bookshelves with English paperbacks for trade, and a small assortment of breads to take away.

They wanted a bakery starting with 12 types of breads, with plans to expand the line in time. Coffee would be offered over the counter.

I kept trying to draw Blake into the conversation, asking concrete questions to add weight to his end. But he could only pipe dream, about maybe this and maybe that, add churros and funnel cakes, pastries. He still had not researched what his Central American relatives could offer him. He had no vision that centered around American coffee culture.

After the meeting, the three Chinese and me jumped into Mike's car. Sophia had invited me to a concert that evening, and Mike had insisted on driving us. Blake wandered off, with a bummed look on his face.

I called Blake the next day. I reminded him that our 'partners' had tried to cut me out of the picture earlier, and now it seemed like they were doing it to him. I wanted to commiserate, to make him feel better, to rally our strength and take back our creative property. But he said he was teaching at the moment, and couldn't talk.

I wrote him offering some suggestions of concrete steps he could take to make the dream take form. The written reply was full of observations he had made in the brief six months he'd been here. Some of them were accurate, others were naive. Still talking about what he will do in the future. He did give me one concrete answer to a question I'd included. When was he thinking to go full-time into this business? His reply, never. That is, he'd dabble in getting it set up, but someone else would have to run it. He is not investing himself in it.

Wednesday, April 4. Went to Metro to buy baking pans. Looked at their ovens. They offered one that was cheaper and better than the ones at Suning. I had wanted a professional oven, but the one I found during a round of restaurant equipment stores was so large. It seemed criminal to bake fewer than four loaves. The one I had in Sichuan was smaller. I was in a quandary what to do until I found this one at Metro, for a mere 428 rmb. I bought it, and a bread loaf with lid.

I should have made a loaf as soon as I brought it home, but the cleaning lady was here. And I was tired; I just wanted to kick back. Soon, the adventure will begin in earnest.

True love dies hard

True love dies hard. What is true love? These deep feelings I still have for Gregg, what is their source? Is it ego? Loneliness? A simple desire to be loved?

Certainly, if it is a desire to be loved, then these feelings have no right to exist. Gregg loves himself, all others stand in line. He has not shown me love. He has shown me benign neglect, abuse, abandonment. There is no logical reason why I should still have strong feelings for the man.

That he is intelligent and well read is becoming. That he has a wicked sense of humor and a boyish playfulness is endearing. I find his form beautiful.

It breaks down when relationship enters in. He cannot relate to another human being with love and compassion, because he does not feel those things for himself. He does have a huge ego, but somehow self-love does not enter into it. How can it be?

The human being is a complex creation. There is the spirit, the consciousness that allows us to be part of the Universal Consciousness, which ebbs and flows through us. Then there is the constructed ego, one might call it the soul, others might call it the mind, but it manifests as ego. This is the image we project out into the world, how we want the world to see us, the images and beliefs we have created as we have developed our perception of the world.

This is a construct. It has been growing along with the body. One might say that at some point in a man’s life, the two merge. The ego grows thinner, the spirit grows stronger, until there is a bleeding through. When we see a 60 year old making his life choices at the level of wisdom and emotional development of an adolescent, we know somewhere along the line growth has been inhibited.

What is this construct, this ego? From the earliest years we strive to please, to fit in, to conform. If we are sheltered in a family of adults who are self-actualized, who have allowed the spirit its proper place in balance with the ego, then that which we seek to conform to can be harmonious to our nature. But if we attempt to grow in a hostile environment, where the adults are still striving in an adolescent mind frame to manifest a composite ego that is full of unresolved conflict, the newly forming ego will be riddled with conflict and uneasy.

Dysfunctional families come in all shapes. His is the dysfunction spawned from alcohol addiction. I don’t think alcoholism is itself a monolithic entity, but rather a covering for a complex underlying malaise. One type evolves from the unwillingness to resolve childhood ego conflicts, perhaps because it will set us at odds with people we love, and so the drug of choice becomes the medication to numb the pain and discomfort. Early social drinking creates a feeling of fitting in, of belonging, which is in contrast to the isolation and feelings of unworthiness of a child’s conflicted ego.

With the drinking come all kinds of pathologies. One great obstructer is the need to keep secrets. “Son, don’t let your mother know I’ve been drinking.” Dad comes home stumbling drunk, but we must not remark on it. We must ignore it, take care of father’s needs and prop him up as if this is normal behavior. Lie to oneself about what is really going on. If a child feels vulnerable, frightened, confused to see his loving parent suddenly emotionally abusive and out of control, or weak and stumbling, he must stuff these feelings down. There is no one with whom it is safe to acknowledge these feelings. So he locks them away.

Then the cycle is repeated, as the child becomes an adult. Feelings are difficult to deal with, having no instructions or healthy modeling. It is easier to join the party, medicate away these painful feelings with the drug of father’s choice. Be a man; drink with the guys.
This is the man I am in love with. What am I in love with? The promise that was born inside him, which cringes in fetal form yet while the body withers, prematurely ravished by alcohol abuse. That is one theory.

AA counselors would call this a ‘rescue’ complex.

Perhaps I am a megalomaniac, a Svengali looking to bring a weaker human under my control.
Perhaps I have reached the end of my tether of loneliness and isolation. This is the first viable man who has looked at me romantically in easily twenty years, maybe more. [What a dog I must be, eh?] I am just grasping at the faintest glimmer of hope that I might not spend my dotage alone. Even if it means spending it with a crazed pickled immature addict.

And maybe I am in love with love. Not the romantic love that springs up at first blush, but the feelings that go way deep from the hair roots down to the toenails. The feeling of surrendering yourself to anothers will, needs, wishes, of blending into One.

Will I ever know the answers. One thing is for sure. It is best, wisest, if I never let that man back into my life. I must amend that to say, there is only one condition under which I would let that man back into my life, and it is upon the successful completion of a 4-week 12-step addiction recovery program.

I post this here on a somewhat public forum to make myself accountable for these words.

I Want to Address the Second Coming

The second coming of Christ will be more glorious than the first. I believe there may be a return of Christ, descending in a cloud in the East. A glorious return, with full fanfare. The gospels and epistles tell us this is what we long for. But hearts grow weary! It is contrary to human nature to have hope so strong that it counteracts the basic needs of belonging, to be loved, to be recognized. And what comfort can so vague a reward bring to someone lifting his wrecked child from the twisted remains of car.

‘In His second coming he will be clothed in light as a garment.’ ‘And the Lord whom you seek will come suddenly to his temple.’ ‘…he comes like a refiner’s fire, a fuller’s herb, and he will sit refining and cleansing.’ ‘…waiting for…the appearance of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ.’

The mystics talk about Divine Union with God. We emerge from the Cloud of Unknowing into a light that has no shadow. There is radiance and joy, full of love.

To get to that place, we sit and wait for him. Over the years of sitting and waiting, we dwell in an internal space. There we participate in a parade of life, and death. We begin with the uphill struggle of just sitting in the confusion, not running away. How long does it take, before we can unwrap the swirl of thoughts and emotions and learn to just sit there, quietly observing.

Then the parade begins in earnest. We begin to relive past events. Painfully, we observe scenarios that wounded, the source of wounds that drive our external lives out of control. As in a holograph, we see and hear ourselves and another saying and doing hurtful things. In the safety of this internal space, we watch the dynamic with cool detachment, and see what a jerk we really are. Tenderness arises for that poor Other who has been roughly treated.

And so the parade continues through the years, as layer upon layer of images play out over each of the emotions that trap us. Attachment to things and people, and its opposite aversion. Pride driving us to be always first. Sloth quelling the inner voice that taps on the shoulder and whispers, “This is the path, walk ye in it.” Fear and anger, the firestorms that arise from the forces of attachment, aversion, pride, sloth.

Eventually the parade subsides. The forces that drive us are subdued and replaced. We become more like the bareback horse who is so melded to his master that the slightest touch against the withers, a mere leaning this way or that and the horse goes where his Master wills.

Now when we sit in His presence, there is a silence like standing at dawn after a rain, enveloped in a dense fog. We hear the beating of our heart, the whining of neurons firing signals on their paths, the drip of rain from the trees, the cool moist air on the face. We are there in the center of it all, calm, alone, in touch with All and nothing.

And still we sit and wait.

And one day, as awakening from a dream, we see Him as He truly is. In all the splendor and glory of creation, we see His majesty. As love arises from the core to fill and irradiant all of existence, we see things as they really are. Stripped of the illusion of right and wrong, good and bad, we truly understand the judgment and the judge. And then we know, this is His glorious Second Coming, for here we are truly in the presence of our Lord and King.

What does a broken heart feel like?

What does a broken heart feel like?

The joy of a hello kiss that tingles down to the toes.

Reaching out at night and finding a warm body,

and a hand reaching out for you.

All duded up, walking down the city street hand in hand.

The feel of his hand as it firmly grips yours

and steers you through the crowds.

A deep voice, velvety and soothing, saying mundane things.

Dreams of sailing boats, and living on a warm and sunny coast.

A tender heart, reaching out for a safe harbor.

A tender response, wanting always to wrap safely around.

Tendrils of love that weave from one heart to the other

Closing the space that separates their bodies.

A morning 'see ya' with the unspoken promise

That she is not forgotten, will be sought in the day

And missed at night.

And then the silence.

And silence.

“I need my space.”

Hopes and dreams put on a shelf called 'space'.

Tendrils of love shut out in mundane activities.

Doubts. Fears.

What happens when she finds out I am out of control?

She won't love me.

Hide.

And then it happens, and he spirals out of control.

And he is sick.

And he is ashamed.

And he is disgusted with himself.

And she comes to him, and nurses him well.

And he promises it will never happen again.

A very old, stale promise used many times with others.

Sometimes it works, at least for a while.

And when at last she sees he doesn't mean it,

A dark hole, dense gravity, opens in her chest.

Heavy, aching.

Walking, sleeping, working.

Deep empathy for the lost and hopeless.

That's what a broken heart feels like.

transcendental vs earthly love

Love hurts. It shouldn't be that way. Transcendental love may hurt if you are taking upon yourself the sorrows of another in prayer or meditation, but to walk in that state is sublime. It overcomes whatever road blocks life puts in your way, you 'float' over them.

But love between humans, love that does not also share the transcendental Reality, sucks. It seems to operate at the most base level of the human, the untranscended form. Is there a transcending love? I make observations of other humans that empirically seem to lean in that direction, but on an experiential level I have yet to discover the answer.

One friend may be on the right track. He remembers the woman who bore his children, and inspite of her rejecting and betraying him, he claims she is the only love of his life. He chooses to live his own independent life protected from making that mistake again by persuading himself that he has found his one true love. His natural bent is towards hermithood, so he has the best of two worlds.

What causes the pain? It is the rising up of untamed human emotions. Greed, ego gratification, ignorance, intolerance, impatience, the seven cardinal sins. How do people deal with it? I guess sometimes they just harden their heart, turn a blind eye, work a patch around that blind spot and move on. Denial: it wasn't my fault, it was YOU. Or they can face up to the pain together, look at it in clear light, and apply a remedy. People can change, if they are committed to change. But how many people really are?

I believe I am ready for change. I look at this shattered relationship, and I can name my faults. Because the other party is not committed to the relationship, not committed to change, I can not learn a new way to behave, when this fault tries to arise again. The fault doesn't go away just because I recognize it. It is like any other habit; it requires step by step action to reduce its power and to change. Like quitting smoking, where you have to learn to feel the impulse to smoke and then apply countermeasures to distract and eventually extinguish that impulse.

I can remember a time when I was living in community, in the early years of the new millennium. We could laugh at my clumsy, abrasive ways of expressing myself. They accepted me and all my faults. Their persistent friendship through the years and separation of miles shows that they went beyond the external appearances and saw the loving, caring heart beneath. Even with differences of age and perspectives, they love me. When in community, I found it easier to control those unrefined parts of me.

I do not believe that humans are meant to live alone, I don't care how realized they may be. A hermit in a cave is surrounded by the spirits he communes with. My living alone, my apartment inaccessible by distance from the students, the Chinese indifference to just another foreigner, no ex pat females on the staff or nearby, all this conspires to an unnatural situation. Add to that the work load put on me by my school contract, there is precious little time to search for companionship, to go out into the city to find an existing community.

I joined the gym. Usually I swim when the pool is fairly empty. But the pool was closed for weeks during the holiday, so once it opened I went for a swim regardless of the crowds. The pool was so crowded that there were two or three people in the same lane, trying to swim laps without bumping into anyone coming or going. I found that I did not watch the clock. I continued swimming longer than usual, simply because having other people there gave me energy. And that is my reality. Am I alone in this? It is not a defect, it is the way I was made. I was made to serve; to be part of a community. My positive energy flows out and into others, and this recharges me. My purpose cannot be fulfilled when I live in isolation. The only contact I have is with the students in front of the classroom. I serve them the best that I can, but I could do so much more. This looks, feels and tastes like frustration. May the grace of God keep it from slipping into despair.

Winter Love

Finding love in winter?? I don’t want to go there; don’t make me. Well, all right, if you really want to talk about it. But what’s the point?

Yes, it’s true. I have known for some time now that it is necessary to find a life partner. I am not getting any younger, I know I am growing weaker, and two are stronger than one.

Did I expect that finding that partner would bring joy in my life? I don’t need joy. I am at peace, content with my purpose in life and my efforts to realize to its fullest that purpose. I have found equilibrium, far more satisfying than joy.

Until, that is, I found my partner. Did I expect him to be Superman? Quite simply, I had no expectations. Surely he needed to be a traveler and on a spiritual path. Beyond that, the trivial things I asked for (a musician, no taller than 5’9”, to name two) were nonessential frills.

He has a noble name, although his parents ignobly denied him its full breadth, Gregory. They chose instead ‘Gregg’. And so the tone was set for his life. A luminous essence traversing a wobbly orbit, compass set to a noble course, on torturous tacks towards it. .

Surely finding each other was a joyous event. The joy was short lived, like a magnesium flash measured against the time span of eternity. Now comes the hard part. Two creaky cranky people learning how to appreciate, love and respect a space invader.

Too soon to move in together, our time is spent invading the others home for short spans, trying hard to adjust to an environment not conducive to our habits. I like my oatmeal every morning; he takes breakfast casually. I need my face cream, hair brush, morning toilet rituals not available at his cramped abode. At my abode, he wakes up wanting his own shower, not mine. He sits looking lost, finger crooked for a phantom cup of coffee, while I buzz around in my morning rituals.

And the physical! Oh don’t get me started. My atrophied body was not ready for the brutal assault of sexual awakenings. I had forgotten how messy sex is. In the habit of celibacy, desires long ago extinguished, how am I supposed to suddenly feel aroused? I remember the hot flames of desire, but weren’t they fueled by hormones now dissipated from my frame? I respect this man, I enjoy his company, I find him gentle and easy to be with, I lean on him happily. I would not want him to leave my life ever again. To return to my familiar single life would be a journey down to spiritual and emotional impoverishment where once there had been contentment. But he is still a man, hormones still course through his body, and he expects to be sexually desired and completed.

Winter love, then, is a fascinating phenomenon. It is something new, altogether not expected, not predicted by media hype. They don’t try to sell products to us, so they project us no image to help us find our way. Not a love ruled by hormones, it is the discovery of a new way of caring. With the heart, with the mind, especially with the spirit, it is a reaching out, an opening up, an expanding of Self to accommodate Other who walks into your arms a stranger.

Just at that moment in life when we old people are reputed to be fixed in our ways, unchangeable, old dogs incapable of new tricks.

All right then, now you’ve heard. The good, the bad and the ugly. On to a brave new adventure, probably the most significant of a lifetime. Certainly the toughest. One can only hope the rewards will be equal to the challenge.