Seasonal Corn and Succotash

My grandfather was a farmer whose land was located in Bucks County, Pennsylvania before I was born.

Pop-Pop and Nana

After World War Two, he sold the land to William Levitt, who subsequently developed the property as one of his famed Levittowns. These planned communities provided cheap housing for soldiers returning from the war and ultimately helped to redefine the American cultural landscape by introducing an entirely new idea - the suburb.

For his part, my grandfather moved from the countryside to a house in town with a large backyard. He immediately planted a garden, and I always remember leaving his house with bags of veggies. Looking at the old black and white pictures from that time, I'm acutely aware that I'm now older than they were when the photos were taken. Life surely was harder on the physical body back then.

Great Aunt Letty, Aunt Letty, Nana, Pop-Pop, Great Aunt Mary
All between the ages of 30-55.

As my grandfather's fecund garden proved, his connection with the earth could not be broken. The plants seemed to know that he loved them and grew in abundance providing enough food not just for the extended family, but enough extra to sell at the local small grocery.

As a child we would visit them every Sunday, and while my parents talked in the parlor, I would run out the back door straight to the garden. My grandfather would take me from one row to the next, explaining all the stages of growth and how to make each plant prosper. Pop-Pop let me help by pulling up weeds or moving renegade vines back to the appropriate pole or fence post. The best part, of course, was the harvest, and each week I'd go home with beans or peas that I had picked myself.

Corn was my favorite, however, and we'd pull the outer shuck and silk down to see if the it was ready. I loved the mixed yellow and white ears that we called butter and cream. Sometimes we would just have a meal of slightly steamed corn with plenty of butter and salt and pepper. My mother knew how to cook it perfectly. In order to retain the nutrients and to accent its sweet taste she would make sure not to overcook it. Here's how she did it:

1) Put about 2-3 inches of water in a big pot along with a little salt.
2) Bring to a rapid boil and throw in the corn.
3) Cover and cook for 3-5 minutes, depending on the number of ears.

The ones in the water will cook more than the ones on top, so experiment to find what's best for you. Just be sure not to leave it in the pot for too long. One great way to use the extra corn, if there is any of course, is to prepare one of my father's favorite dishes- succotash You never hear of it much these days, but sometimes I get a craving for those simpler times. Somehow the taste of fresh lima beans and corn in a milky sauce personifies it all. Gary and I call it eating memories.


Succotash

Ingredients:

2 cups fresh lima beans (about 1 pound)
4 cups fresh corn cut from cob (about 6 ears or use the leftovers)
3 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1/8 teaspoon pepper

Preparation:

Boil lima beans in salted water until almost tender (about 15 min).
Drain beans and add corn, butter, whipping cream, salt, and pepper.
Mix well until butter and whipping cream are evenly distributed.
Cook over low heat, stirring frequently until corn is done (3-7 min) .

If using corn leftovers just add and heat until well-blended and warm. This recipe makes 6 servings. Enjoy!

excerpt from Chapter 18: "Like a Rolling Stone"

Mick’s voice shook me from my musings, “What would you like to hear?”

Surprised he noticed me, I hesitated a moment before answering, “How about ‘Waiting on a Friend?’”

“That’s a nice change,” he said. “Most people just want to hear ‘Satisfaction.’”

Mick began singing in a soft falsetto to save his voice, and Charlie started beating out a rhythm with his feet and hands. Ronnie added the occasional harmony, and Keith joined in after a quick trip to the bathroom. Mick danced closer and closer to me as he sang, looking into my eyes and inching right up to the brink of embrace before pulling away. My heart skipped the first time it happened, but I soon realized that he wasn’t really singing to me, only performing to an audience of one. They were still on stage, and the impromptu concert was allowing their energy to settle. Except for the cocaine, they reminded me of a bunch of kids hanging out, cracking jokes, and having fun.

On one of his return trips from the bathroom, Keith brought out a joint and handed it to me. I passed it along to Bill, and as he took a long toke I burst out laughing. Half-stoned, Keith slurred out, “What's so funny love?”

“He looks… He looks… He looks like a raccoon.”

The room shifted its attention from me to Bill. His black eye shadow had run during the concert, and he looked exactly like a raccoon smoking a joint. Everyone erupted into hysterics. When we finally regained our breath, Ross popped his head up and chimed in from a sofa in the corner, “You're too much, Donna.”

I turned to look at him, but he had already lowered back down again. He had hunkered in with a bottle of bourbon as soon as we got there. Mick and I looked at each other and he rolled his eyes at me.

I shrugged my shoulders, “Ross is Ross. What else can I say?”

Mick smiled in acknowledgment and then returned his attention to the music, improvising vocals to a new chord progression Ronnie was working on. I nursed my orange cup of Jack Daniels for the rest of the night, and another hour passed, full of songs and laughter.

Radha with her blind cat Omar,
the summer she hung with the Rolling Stones

excerpt from Chapter 20: "The Italian Connection"

“You-no-look-a-good. You-look-a-thin-you-no-eat-enough.”

I looked down at my seventy-two year old Italian grandmother, staring back with concern at my thin, pale face. She wore her lime green house dress with the pink diamond pattern, and a small gold crucifix dangled around her neck. Before I could respond, she turned around and motioned with her wooden spoon to follow her to the kitchen. I was instantly overwhelmed by the aroma of eggplant parmesan, spinach, garlic, olive oil and homemade mushroom raviolis. But even more striking was what I didn’t smell. There were no meatballs, veal, or braciole. My mother had told Nanny that she would have to retool her recipes to accommodate my vegetarian diet, but I still found it hard to believe. I turned to close the door and that’s when I saw it: Jesus was watching me.

On the back of the apartment door was a portrait of Jesus Christ pulling open his chest to reveal a sacred heart. I had seen similar depictions often as a child, but what grabbed my attention this time was his gaze rather than the gore. Stepping from side to side, his holographic eyes appeared to blink as they followed my movement. I even squatted down and, sure enough, Jesus lowered his stare. When I stood back up and turned to go into the kitchen, Nanny was there watching.

“You believe-in-a-Christ?”

I smiled to myself and pulled my attention away from the portrait. “I’m sorry, Nanny. I missed that. What did you say?”

She repeated in her heavy accent, “You believe-in-a-Christ?”

I hadn't had dinner with my grandmother in years, and I didn’t want to stir up trouble before we even reached the table. “Yes, Nanny. Jesus was a special man.”

Obviously unsatisfied by my evasiveness, she tensed her short, barrel-shaped body and pointed her stubby index finger at my robe. “But you-a-wear-a-these-orange-clothes?”

“These are the clothes of a meditation monk, Nanny.” I was speaking to myself as much as I was to her. Even though two months had passed since taking my vows, the gown still seemed odd to me.

“These-a-no-made-good. I-gonna-sew-you-a-better-one.” Nanny was always quick to offer critical input, but thankfully her remark was only a sidebar. “What-is-a-this-medication-monk?”

“It’s meditation Nanny, not medication. It’s a person who dedicates their life to the service of God.” I saw the frustrated look in her tired, worn face and cut short my explanation. My grandmother was confused, hurt and disappointed – but she still loved me in her own way. Softening my approach I took her hands in mine. “Never mind, Nanny. Jesus was one of the greatest human beings ever.”

“So-you-believe-in-a-Christ?”

“Yes Nanny, I believe in the Christ.”

She let go of my hand, quickly traced the sign of the cross, and kissed her fingers. “Oh my God, you believe-in-a-Christ! You believe-in-a-Christ!” Repeating this strange mantra gave her an excitement I had never seen before, and taking my hands once more, she pulled them to her cheek in a rare display of loving emotion before leading me to the small dining room adjacent the kitchen.

Table lamps lit the sparse living quarters through plastic-covered shades, and the fabric strewn throughout the apartment told me that she still supplemented her social security income by working as a seamstress for her neighbors. The room pulsed with the sound of more than a dozen cuckoo clocks, and the next two hours were filled with eating and gossip. I listened to her from across the table, alternating my gaze between the plastic flower centerpiece made by Aunt Olga and the swinging tail of the cat above Nanny’s head. She had a whole litany of complaints about her children, grandchildren, and friends, but they all revolved around a single axis – she was lonely.

Before she met my grandfather, Nanny worked as a servant girl for her adoptive family in southern Italy. He brought her to America after the First World War, and they settled in New Jersey, having six children in rapid succession. My grandfather died in a motorcycle accident only a few years later, and my dad became the man of the house at ten years old. Keeping food on the table became Nanny’s primary focus, and the older children had to work to contribute to the family income. What emerged was an ever-shifting picture of feuds and reconciliations, fueled by gossip, anger, and failed expectations. Nanny continued to host family dinners after Sunday mass, but over the years the constant strain alienated most of the family. Now my parents were the only regular visitors in the small assisted living apartment my father helped subsidize.

I took a final bite of my eggplant. “Thank you, Nanny. That was delicious.”

“You-should-a-eat-more. You-look-a-too-thin.”

“No thanks, I'm stuffed.”

She looked at me for a moment. “You gotta-eat-my-wheat-pie.”

Nanny’s voice was halfway between plea and reproach, and I understood that she was showing me love in the only way she knew how. “Okay, Nanny.”

She jumped out of her seat and brought me a large piece on a clean plate. I ate silently while she sat beaming at me.

“You-want-another-piece?” she asked.

“I can't eat another bite. But it was delicious, thank you.”

She hopped up once more, pulled out a box of aluminum foil, and walked over to the remaining pie sitting on the table. “You-bring-a-home-to-your-mother. She-a-likes-this.”

I stood up. “Thanks, Nanny.”

She escorted me to the front door, gave me a stiff hug, and whispered before letting go, “I’m-so-glad-you-believe-in-the-Christ.” There was a gleam in her eye, and it felt good to be a source of joy to a woman who knew so little happiness. I headed for the stairwell, hoping the ten flights down to the street would offset the heavy meal.

Nanny is on the far left, taken at our wedding in 1977

The Sway

In June of 1997 my friend Fred Haas flew me to High Mowing School in the mountains of New Hampshire to teach yoga and meditation to jazz musicians. We had met back in the winter of 1981 when he was a patient at our holistic health center, New Direction In Health, in Saint Johnsbury, Vermont. The position of his body when playing combined with the weight of his tenor sax had tightened his low back.

Fred Haas, founder of Interplay Jazz

Fred, an accomplished musician who played with Pat Metheney, the Duke Ellington Band, Ray Charles, and taught Jazz at Dartmouth College, had created Interplay Jazz an innovative approach to take jazz to a new level. We decided that a holistic experience for jazz musicians would be a good thing. Drugs, alcohol, and junk food were replaced by healthier alternatives, and I offered my Essence Therapy programs as a means to correct the physical imbalances created by playing a musical instrument - the rounded backs of the piano students, the hunched shoulder of a horn player, the stiff neck of the bassist, and the stress caused from performing. Over and over again, I discovered how physically and emotionally challenging playing jazz could be.

Interplay Jazz staff, 2008

Yoga and meditation classes were combined with gourmet organic food, and Fred assembled a stellar faculty that included Matt Wilson on drums, Bob Hallahan and Armen Donelian on piano, Dave Clark on bass, Eric Friesen on cello, George Voland on trombone, and Freddie Bryant on guitar. During the next twelve years we taught musicians how to deal with performance anxiety, physical imbalances caused by playing their instruments, and how to be more creative. It was an advanced improvisational jazz experience, packed with laughter, insight and great music!

Radha and I were novices when we first started working with Fred and the faculty, but all these years later we credit them with our deeper appreciation and love for all that jazz! Working with musicians has been an honor and a delight, and I was able to adapt specific corrective and restorative yoga poses for the dynamic challenges musicians encounter playing their instruments. (I especially loved designing programs for the singers!)

One morning eight years ago, after a late faculty concert the night before, I looked out to see about eighty tired musicians in my hatha class. We needed to get the energy moving, so I put on Jai Uttal and instructed everyone to stand with their legs apart, eyes closed, and breathing deeply. I had them listen, feel, and allow their body to sway along with the music. It was electric!

Over the next fifteen minutes everyone surrendered into the sway. We shifted our weight from one leg to the other, moving our hands and arms through a series of bandhas and mudras. The energy in the room exploded as we gracefully created our 'Yoga Dance'. We danced forward and back, moving our arms and legs in and out of a series of poses, each person tuning into their bodies needs. Then, slowly I had them transition to the floor where we moved through a series of floor poses, after a deep relaxation exercise we spent the next twenty minutes meditating. After we had opened our eyes my dear friend Matt spoke out into the room- Tippin'!

Thus the Sway was born!

Four years later…

We were in Charlottesville Airport when my cell phone rang, it was Matt. He had just finished a performance with his band at Carneige Hall and excitedly described how he had taken the Sway public. He had composed a song, named The Sway, and even had his singers (The Swayettes!) dancing to it as they performed on stage.

All things have a beginning, a middle, and an end, however...

After thirteen years of designing and developing programs along with Fred and Sabrina, we won't be returning to Interplay Jazz in Vermont this year, but...

the Vancouver Jazz Festival is calling.

Where have all the markets gone?

I really miss those summer green markets in Vancouver where organic food and local produce overflow from one tent to the next. Florida's climate makes organic growing a bit problematic because the bugs never get killed by the cold and - like all the vegetation - the bugs just keep multiplying! Thank goodness for our deliveries from Green Cay Farm, where Emily and the team keep the bugs at bay with as many natural deterrents as possible.

This week there were yellow peppers, spinach, tomatoes,scallions, and head lettuce - all of it containing tons of life force (or as we call it in yogic terms - prana). That's what is missing when I look at the food in the grocery stores. Of course, when options are limited, I bless the food as we prepare and eat it, all in an atmosphere infused with positive energy.

When we return to Vancouver this spring, I will plant more food among our flower gardens - herbs, lettuce, beans and beautiful fragrant red tomatoes. Over the years I've accumulated a fair amount of experience to draw upon, and I look forward to rediscovering my green thumb.

Back in Vermont we lived a sustainable lifestyle - growing most of our food in summer, canning our own food for winter and using firewood for fuel The dome only needed 5 cords!

I ground wheat berries into flour to make our bread and boiled milk to prepare for the yogurt starter. Eggs came from the farm down the hill, and cheese from the Cabot Creamery, also down the hill but in the other direction. Those days seem long ago, but I remember the excitement of fresh picked food grown with love and care for the earth. Returning to the land in the Sixties wasn't such a bad or crazy idea after all!

Gary in our garden back in Vermont.

excerpt from Chapter 16: "Monkey Business"

Only a few hours earlier, I had been waist-deep in a small pond in front of the ashram. It had been a perfect morning, and the sunlight softly caressed the treetops as it streamed downward into the chilly water, bursting into a thousand sparkling diamonds dancing joyfully around me. I closed my eyes as we began to repeat one mala of the Gayati mantra. Then we began repeating the Hamsa Gaytri Mantra, the one we had just received from Swamiji. I focused on the meaning of each word. This beautiful hymn celebrated my relationship with the divine, and it felt like I had been chanting it for lifetimes. The air became saturated with these deep melodic sounds, and my voice slowly became indistinguishable from the others. After one hundred eight repetitions our voices fell silent, and we stood there listening to nothing more than the sound of the wind. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt a shiver go through my body.

Our silence was broken by Swamiji’s voice signaling the start of the ceremony, and I opened my eyes to see the smiling face of a large frog. It floated lazily in front of me with its legs spread apart, and I imagined it must be curious as to why such a large group of uninvited guests were joining it for its morning swim. It began circling my body, inspecting my saffron robe as they floated weightlessly in the water.

It was Guru Purnima, an auspicious time in the Hindu calendar, and for the past three days I had been completely immersed in an ancient ritual that had never before been performed in North America. I had been invited along with twenty-five other men and women to participate in this sacred ceremony, and our days were filled with meditation, fasting, chanting, and prayer. We needed only a few hours of sleep each night, and every waking minute was spent preparing for the moment now at hand. The day before we took turns shaving one another’s heads, leaving only a miniature ponytail hanging from the back. It was a solemn ritual, and our collective baldness virtually obliterated the difference between the men and the women. We now anxiously waited for our guru to remove the remaining lock.

Swamiji spoke, “With this final cut, your personal lives are surrendered to God. The focus of your actions will shift from serving yourself to serving humanity, and all outward acts will be directed with this goal in mind. Selfless action deepens the inward journey until the last vestiges of the selfish ego dissolve forever.”

With this invitation Steve stepped forward, and I watched as each person capitulated to the snip of our teacher’s scissors. My turn finally came and I stood ready in front of him, bowing my head reverently, awaiting the final release. Gazing downwards, I saw that my friendly frog was still with me.

“Do you accept the vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience?”

I bowed my head and answered, “I do.”

I felt a tug on my hair, followed by the sound of the scissors. I was twenty-six years old and had just committed the remainder of my life to the service of humankind and renunciation of worldly desires. The frog swam away and I smiled a fond farewell, concluding that its presence was an promising sign.

Gary with his fellow monks in 1975

Happy Birthday Kids!

After spending most of my twenties as a pre-monastic and Swami, fathering a child just did not seem to be in my future. Furthermore, I had burnt out all my parenting karma growing up in a large Italian Catholic family. Every time - and it was often - that the Bellos gathered, I was the social director for thirty or so children ranging from infants to cousins my own age. Being the oldest boy, I was deputed to be a priest and my grandmother Nanny, a strong woman who surprised me by her acceptance of my decision to don orange robes rather than a white collar.

Radha, on the other hand, was an only child. There was a large age gap between her mother and father, and he was sixty years old when she was born. It was his second family, and her step-sister and brother were old enough to be her aunt and uncle. After meeting at the IYI Newport Yoga Retreat in 1976, she reluctantly moved to Montreal and joined the community where I had been living since 1972.

In the early years of our marriage, Radha and I made the decision to devote our lives to service. We knew this commitment would make it difficult to offer a child our full attention, and for that reason we decided to not bring a child into the world. Circumstance, however, has gifted us with knowing some amazing young people in our spiritual family, and two of them celebrated a birthday last week.

Ana turned nineteen on January 8th. We have known her since she was six years old (her father has studied with us for nearly two decades), and this year has been her first away from home at college. She is majoring in the performing arts, and we remember fondly listening to her monologues and watching her school plays since elementary school. We miss her at our meditation days and Tuesday night Patanjali study group, but are excited to watch her as she continues to grow. She is like a daughter to us.

Ana... we've known her since she was 6 years old.

Crystal shares a birthday with Ana, and turned eighteen - the official transition point into adulthood. We initially got to know her in the role of substitute caregiver, whenever her father was unable to find a babysitter. Over the years she slowly warmed up to us and is now attending our Enlightening Relationship six month training. Radha and I are both impressed by her maturity and desire to learn relationship tools in order to navigate life more successfully.

Crystal... now "officially" an adult.

We left voice messages for both Ana and Crystal on their birthday, offering our best wishes and appreciation for how mature and conscious they are living their lives. We are blessed to have had so many children in our life over the years. Radha and I joke that we get to Be with them after their parents have done all the hard work - doing hatha yoga, meditating, and playing in the space. What a blessing.

Happy birthday Ana and Crystal- we love you both.

excerpt from Chapter 1: "He Says, She Says"

“Usually I just found a quiet, deserted place on campus, but that day something called me to the beach. I was celebrating the end of another harsh Canadian winter, and although it was off limits to staff and participants, I easily rationalized that my position of responsibility entitled my indiscretion. I drove the Institute’s Datsun down to the public beach and laid out my orange towel.”

Radha jumped in, “Wait, you gotta tell them the rest.”

I took a dramatic pause and then stated, “Oh yeah… I even had matching orange Speedos.” The entire room burst into laughter and Radha began shaking her head as she put her hands over eyes.

“So here I was, minding my own business, watching the clouds pass overhead, very serene… until she shows up,” I motioned to my left. “What was it you said, hon?”

“I didn’t say anything!” she exclaimed. “You were the one who started talking.”

“Now see, this is why you can't believe your stories. Radha and I have totally different memories about who spoke first that day. In fact, about the only thing we agree on is that it was cool and cloudy. This single situation created two very different stories, and that’s going to be the focus of our time together – learning to tell the difference between the situation and your story about it.” I saw several heads bobbing gently in agreement. “First, I'm going to tell you what really happened, and then Radha is going to tell her crazy version of that day.”

She shook her head. “Can you actually believe I've been married to this guy since 1977?”

The audience giggled and I resumed my story. “I didn’t know Radha’s name at this point, but I recognized her from the day before as the woman who had been scrubbing the stairs in a white peasant top, cut way too low.”

“It was not cut too low,” she defended. “I wasn’t wearing a bra and you were looking down my shirt.”

I laughed, “I was a swami. I didn’t do things like that. Besides, I still remember the embroidery along the chest.”

“No, that was a different shirt.”

“Well, whatever you were wearing, you should have been dressed more appropriately.” I gave her a loving smile and then returned to my story.

“So here I was, a twenty-six year old swami, wearing orange Speedos, eating cherries on the beach next to a beautiful woman with long blond hair taking off her clothes. All I could think about was what the other monks would say. To make matters worse,” I held up my hands into a small rectangle, “her yellow bikini was about this big.”

Radha began to blush and the participants broke into another round of uncontrollable laughter. I felt pleased that everyone was enjoying my anecdote and waited until they calmed down before continuing.

“What was going on deep inside was something serious, though. I felt like I was doing something wrong. Even though there was no one else on the beach, Little Gary was concerned with what people would think. Sound familiar to anyone?” A woman in the front row playfully nudged the man beside her.

“Looks like you two know what I'm talking about.”

“Yeah,” she answered. “Larry and I were talking about how that comes up a lot in our relationship.”

“How so?” I asked.

Larry answered, “Sometimes it’s hard for me to open up to Cathy.”

“What happens when you experience that feeling?”

“I try to figure it out myself,” he said.

Cathy elaborated, “He stops communicating.”

“That,” I replied, “is a very common strategy. Each of us has a default when that insecure place gets activated. That day on the beach, my initial strategy was to divert my attention, but the thoughts about Radha and what people would think just wouldn’t go away. Does anyone have any idea what my next strategy was?”

Larry replied, “Blame her?”

“Exactly,” I answered in an exaggerated voice. “It was her fault, and I started rattling off all the reasons in my head: Why was she breaking the rules anyway? She should know better. I had specifically pointed out during orientation that public areas were off limits. This entire beach is empty. Why is she sitting so close to me?”

I paused and took a sip of water. “And then came the ultimate injury – she actually had the nerve to ask me to go swimming with her.”

“I didn’t ask you to go swimming!” Radha interjected.

“You said it, hon. I know you did.”

She gave me a dubious grin.

“So," I continued, "here she is playing in the surf while I'm sitting on my orange towel - chewing each cherry carefully, spitting the pit into my brown paper bag, and furiously repeating my mantra. When I look up, I see Radha walking back to the shore and I realize she's naked...”