Slowing Down....

I remember. I was about sixteen, and Daddy had taken me out on the Lisa for a sail. It would have been unusual for just the two of us to be sailing, but I can't remember anyone else being on the boat. And even though the Lisa didn't have an engine, we had grown so adept at sailing in and out of the mooring that it presented little challenge.

It was to be a short sail. Dad always checked the tides in the newspapers before we left, so today we would sail in the gulf towards Port of Spain, rather than west towards Gasparee, because the currents would have been against us in both directions (death to a boat without an engine). And considering it was just the two of us, we would probably have been under mainsail alone: more manageable for the two of us.

It was a quiet afternoon. The sky was slightly overcast and it was cool. The wind was just strong enough for the Lisa to enjoy - no chop in the sea, and for her, a little lean. Dad was at the tiller, and I was sitting in the cockpit - quiet, just looking out and listening to the sound of the wind.

He said to me then, "One of the things I like about you is that you can appreciate silence." I smiled when he said that. It was nice to get such a compliment from him. And what he said was true. I understood then how to be still; how to enjoy beauty and nature and the sometimes solitude of such things. Although I had very close friends at high school and university, I was fine just on my own too. Fine to be a little different, quirky even. I was someone who could happily be in a room full of people, and just as happily be in a room on by myself.

But somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to be still; to enjoy the silence. I think, for me, the perpetual motion started in earnest in 2007. I was in England at the time, working on a project, and a quasi-love-affair had gone so horribly wrong I stood up in the bathroom one night and chopped all my hair off, just to be sure that I was still there, underneath, somewhere. I think that's when I started to run, really. Partly, it was to dodge the bullet that he was. But also because I thought, if I can move fast enough, I'll be able to outrun this thing which I brought on myself - which had been, every step of the way, my choosing. I thought if I moved fast enough, I could forget just how reckless I had been with myself.

And the moving just got faster. The following year, my mother broke her hip. This amazonian woman who could rearrange an entire house by herself fell at Gatwick airport and couldn't get up. And in a way that so epitomises my mother, she told the doctor at the hospital to which she had been taken, with a fair amount of surprise, "But I don't know why I have been brought here; I'm fine." To which he responded, "Yes Madam, you're perfectly fine, except that you can't walk."

My godmother, Auntie Gay, described to me a few years ago that she fell down the steps at her house one day, and unknowingly broke her leg. She was in pain, so she found an old broom, turned it over so it formed a crutch, and walked around propped on it for the next couple of weeks. You see, it hadn't occurred to her that something might actually be wrong. That she needed to stop, to take care of herself. How could it be? We (and I include myself in this) are people who forge ahead, regardless. The important thing here is the forward momentum. Good grief, I come from a family of pioneers - people who were missionaries in China at the turn of the century, and who started sheep stations in New Zealand. Facing adversity and moving on in spite of it is part of my tribal memory!

The way I ate had become the ultimate metaphor for how I was living. I had become a food gobbler - someone who just shovels food in their mouths with little regard for the hours of preparation or the flavour; as though the food were simply something to be consumed quickly so that the next activity could commence. And so I would start on the next thing: washing the clothes, taking the clothes off the line, watching TV, chatting to a friend on the phone, having dinner parties for 20 people for which I would start doing the cooking 2 hours before people were due to arrive, doing whatever it was that simply HAD to be done right then, right after I'd finished eating. It's no wonder I developed acid reflux! I wasn't giving my stomach enough time to digest my food, far less my brain to digest my day to day life. In truth, I imagined myself invincible. In much the same way as I imagined my father and my sister and mother. I was genuinely shocked that my mother broke her hip and needed help. And I still haven't been able to get over the fact that the colossus that was my father has fallen forever.

And so, for what has seemed like years, I would go from one crappy situation to another to another. Of course, there has been a lot of joy in my life too, but I started to see the glass as half empty - when I'd always been the kind of person who would see it half full. For goodness sake - I am an independent television producer in Trinidad and Tobago. I better bloody well be an optimist! I described it to my friend as a crisis cycle - that somehow, for too long now, I had been barreling from crisis to crisis without pause - no moment to reflect or catch my breath. Because to reflect would mean stopping; to acknowledge that things have been going wrong; to grieve; to allow the tears to come without worrying about when they would stop. To allow myself to feel sad for a day, or a week, or weeks even. But that's not really allowed, is it? What we're sold everyday is this idea that continual happiness is within our reach and what's more, that we are obliged to be reaching for it. Well how do you appreciate, or even notice, the happiness unless you have been sad.


So now, I have stopped. My body forced me to. For the first time in years, I have time on my hands (not forever, just for the next few weeks). And I have no big plans, no agendas, no things that I simply HAVE to do. And it feels real nice. Strange, but nice. I've no idea what the next few weeks will bring, but I'm hoping for some peace. I know I'm lucky, I have people in my life who will allow me to stop. And I am glad for them. Just like I'm glad for this time. Let's see what it brings.

The photos are of me taking a walk on a sunny day. No particular destination, and no frenetic pace. Just a walk in the sunshine among the trees. It was lovely.

When your cup is empty

I've been thinking about writing this post for a long time. But I've procrastinated. I've always thought of blogs as places where people share happy things, cheery things. Certainly not places where people share sadness. And so, even though this has been circling around my mind in various permutations for over a month now, I've been putting it off. (Please, don't feel compelled to read further, if what you're looking for is something cheery and happy - but then, sad has its place too, in the scheme of things.)


Six years separate these two moments on Lady Chancellor hill. For those who don't know Trinidad, Lady Chancellor is a beautiful road that rises close to the crest of a hill and looks out over most of Port of Spain. I have lived there at various points in my life and come to know its twists and turns quite intimately. I also know its seasons very well - that raunchy smell of cedar coming into leaf that means the rainy season has just about started. The red Imortelles that could mean it's going to be a short dry season, or a long, parched and burning dry season. The growing numbers of walkers, pushing their ways frenetically up and down the hill, which means that carnival is on its way. And of course, the arrival of the magnificent pink and yellow Poui trees which always make me smile.

Although at times the hill rises gradually, it can surprise you with a steep twist that gets your heart pumping. And if you decide to walk up and down it all the way, it can take you upwards of an hour and a half.

In 2005, my family was in Trinidad for Christmas - including my father. That Daddy had joined us was a rare treat. Since my parents divorced when I was five, I could probably count on one hand the number of times we'd got together as a family for Christmas. Daddy was staying downstairs with me in my apartment, and Saffrey, Mum and Auntie Libby were in Mum's apartment directly upstairs.

Daddy was in a good place. Four years earlier he'd had triple bypass surgery and in 2005 he was truly well - and he looked it. He was eating well, exercising regularly, and he wasn't smoking at the time. (His love-life, if I remember correctly, was a bit tormented, but then that was often the case with Dad.) Because he was a competitive person by nature, he had got into the habit of timing his walks in Jamaica (where he walked around the Mona campus) each time challenging himself to go a little faster. I remember he had even gone so far as to measure, with the odometer in his car, a distance of two miles exactly, and that was what he would walk. At some point during his stay in Trinidad, he had determined that he qould conquer Lady Chancellor. Now, like me, it was a hill that he knew well. In his youth he would take his dog, Mac, for walks through the Botanic Gardens (which was very close to where he lived) and up Lady Chancellor. But I suspect it had been a good 45 years since he had last attempted the hill.

I think the day was overcast. But he put on his sneakers and socks and an orange t-shirt and declared that he was going. I must have asked if he was sure that was such a good idea (you can always see the approaching weather from Lady Chancellor) but as I said, he was resolved; he was ready to tackle the hill. So he set off. I must have checked my watch to guesstimate when he would be back. If he went all the way to the Savannah, it could have been an hour and a half. I carried on about my puttering, and surely as I predicted, it started to rain. I mean heavy, torrential rain. I thought that Dad would certainly turn around and come back. He would be soaked through in a matter of minutes, and an hour is a long time to be completely soaked. But my watch ticked and ticked and still no Daddy.

About half an hour later, I decided to rescue him. So I threw a large towel into the back seat and tore off down the hill in search of him. Surely enough, there he was - about 25 minutes walking distance from home - pounding the asphalt road toward me. He had a sort of grimace on his face, coupled with the smallest of grins and a twinkle in his eye. The look that said, I'm doing it - soaked as he was, rain still coming down in sheets. I pulled up alongside him expecting him to jump in the car. But he didn't. He shook his head and kept walking up the hill. He arrived home about half an hour later - drenched and so proud. He had conquered the hill - in every way. I still wear that orange t-shirt today, to remind me of him and that moment.


Saffrey and Daddy at Maracas Beach, Christmas 2005










As I mentioned earlier - six years separate these two moments on the hill. About three weeks ago, I went walking on Lady Chancellor. For months now, maybe even years, my personal resources of strength, courage and even happiness have been depleting, and I have been struggling; no, fighting, to find a way to put something into the cup that is my life. On this day, I was sitting in a chair at my mother's apartment thinking nothing. Blank. Empty. Staring. To try to lift myself out of the moment, I put on my sneakers and walked up the hill, determined to flee that void of feeling. But as I walked, I found I couldn't. Because there was still nothing. I sat on a wall beneath a cedar tree and wondered how I would get back to Mummy's, even though I was only five minutes away.

And two angels walked up to me.

"Ain't you is the lady who does make that show Sancoche?"
"Yes," weak smile.
"Like I ain't see you in a while."
"I know - sorry, the show stopped a couple of years ago."
Then, "Keep going, dahlin'," one of the ladies said. "You almost reach."

I smiled at her and thanked her. It was a slightly stronger smile. And like Daddy, I got up and walked down the hill - further than I had done in years. And then I walked back up again. I think I poured a few drops into my cup that day.

None of these days - possibly not since my father died - has been easy. Surprisingly. they seem to get harder. But I am finally beginning to understand this thing my father seemed to know - you have to have something in the cup. For him, solace could be found in sailing, in reading, in his dogs, in his lifelong friendships, in his time at Leslie, in his workshop sessions. We all have to find places of solace in our lives... somewhere where we can rest. My father's house was one of those places for me, but there are others, and I must make use of them.

As for you Dad, I don't know when the pain of your death will ever pass or ease, but what I do know, is that as much as you would empathise with me, you would insist that I live - that I walk the hill, that I earn my place, "through this sometimes vale of tears". (Those were his words.)

Sorrel year round?

I've made a wonderful discovery. (Well actually I've known about this for years but only recently acted on it.) You can buy bags of dried sorrel in the supermarket year round; you don't have to wait till December when the mountains of fresh flowers start appearing in old pick-up trucks by the side of the highway to make the sorrel drink! Yay!

Sorrel just happens to be one of my favourite things, and a couple of weeks ago, on one of my so numerous trips to hi-lo, I discovered "Value Packs" of dried sorrel stuck among the onions and potatoes (of all places)! So I bought a package and brought it home. I soon realised that inside the package, in among the dried sorrel flowers, was another small packet - this time, of cinnamon sticks, bay leaves and cloves - everything one needs to make sorrel (well, apart from the sugar).

So I made a massive batch, adding some additional things I like such as cardamom pods and a few juniper berries. It was super easy without having to go through the laborious process of cleaning the fresh sorrel, and it was delicious. So much so that Richard has insisted I make it more often. So, I suspect it's going to replace cranberry juice at our house, and let me tell you, it's a whole lot cheaper!

Simple Niçoise Salad

I'm obsessed with salads. And not for health reasons either! I love their freshness and crunchiness, and the zillions of permutations that are salads, not to mention all the dressings! (As my friend Nicola would say, "What's the point of salad without dressing?") These days I'm also trying to eat healthier - make sure I got those five recommended portions of vegetables into my daily eating. I realised that days would pass without a single vegetable passing my lips, and that just doesn't feel good to me. So today I made a personal favourite - a classic. The Niçoise. A healthy a filling salad - on account of the potatoes and hard boiled eggs. Even Richard, who often complains of my love for bush, enjoyed it!

For the salad:
6-8 big leaves of lettuce washed and roughly chopped
3 tomatoes cut into quarters
2 young cucumbers peeled and cut into large chunks
3 or 4 sprigs of chive chopped
2 potatoes boiled, cooled and cut into large chunks
a handful of fresh green beans, blanched and cooled
2 hard boiled eggs cut in half
1 tin of tuna in water

This salad is loosely "arranged" in a large, wide bowl, adding all the ingredients by scattering them around the bowl. Plonk the eggs on last.


My dressing:
Equal parts lemon juice and olive oil (about 2 tbsp of each)
2 teaspoons of good grainy mustard
2 or 3 of minced anchovies
2 teaspoons chopped olives or olive paste
a healthy pinch of sea salt

Mix everything up in a bottle and sprinkle liberally on your salad.

Not just an ordinary tea!

So, I recently made the decision to cut caffeine out of my life. It may just end up being a temporary measure to detoxify, or I may decide to stick with it - I haven't made up my mind just yet. But the frustration of drinking non-caffeinated beverage is dreadful! What follows is a series of posts on my facebook page about my woes. I hope my friends won't mind that they are re-produced here, but I think some of the tea recipes sound delicious!

Two weeks without tea or coffee is manageable, but only if you don't have that gorgeous smell of a fresh cup of coffee confronting you as you walk into the office!!
5 hours ago · Privacy:Friends only · LikeUnlike · Comment

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Tillah i lasted a few days and then went back to my java ways :(

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Lorraine s can you have herbal tea?

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Mariel I'm doing peppermint and ginger teas - but frankly, they're just not the same as caffeine!!

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Lisa green tea. enough caffeine for a slight buzz but all the medicinal benefits of the anti-oxidants. jasmine flavoured is the most palatable without sugar to me.

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Mariel Thanks guys. Lisa, I hear you're opening Caribbean Tales Film Fest. Congrats, Missy!

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Lorraine Try making Indian masala tea but use fresh ingredients...fresh ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, cardamon with lots of milk and honey...yummy!!!
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Mariel Brown Oooh! That sounds sensational, Lorraine.

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Lorraine It's honsetly amazing....had one after dinner tonight. Also discovered this gorgeous ginger and tulsi tea in India.

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Mary Not sure who you are. But while in India, I had the pleasure of that gorgeous tulsi tea. I am looking for it here so I can continue enjoying.

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Lorraine C Mary, the first time I had it was when a friend brought some for me as a pressie. I was recently in India and bought loads...No idea where to get it outside of India, sorry. Try ordering online?

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Ira Mariel, ( and friends) finally a recipe this non cook can give you: Mix low fat milk and water. Add five cardimoms, several cloves, a dash of giner, bring to a gentle boil. Add teabags of your choice. Mix them up. (I like to mix Earl Grey with the Indian variety). Take off the stove. Let it simmer for a couple fo minutes, ( Dont let the bags soak in too much or it gets too strong-get the colour you like) . Add honey or brown sugar. Serve with something savory like samosas :)

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Ira do add a pinch of nutmet and cinnamon. Too much overpowers the tea

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Mariel I'm loving this foody series! Thanks Ira - I will definitely try your recipe as I think I've got all the components at home. Sounds completely yummy!

The trailer for my documentary!

Although it's not at all food related, I couldn't resist the temptation to post my just-completed trailer to the blog!

The Solitary Alchemist, Trailer from Mariel Brown on Vimeo.

At the farmers market in Elora

My friend Shivaun took me on my first trek out of Toronto. We went to the enchanting town of Elora, which is just outside of Guelph. While we were driving in, she spotted a farmers market and declared excitedly that we had to go. I was all for it. Although there was no need for me to buy anything, I've always been impressed by the idea of these informal gatherings of people who grow and make things for the purposes of selling.

One of the very exciting things that's been happening in North America recently, is a shift towards buying local produce. I think the idea is to buy fruit and vegetables that have been grown within 100 miles of where you live. And farmers markets are an ideal place for making such purchases. They seem to be run by people who are either farmers for real, or people who love to grow things. The market in Elora was nothing fancy - just a few temporary tents with about 10 to 15 people selling seasonal fruit and vegetables, honey, home made sausage and a variety of baked goods. Shoppers and their children browsed the stalls. Shivaun bought a huge selection of gorgeous looking fruit and vegetables.

It's the sort of thing I wish we could really get off the ground in Trinidad. Both because it's great to support the idea of local growing and consuming, and because we are such food lovers in this country. Although the Central Market, and other markets like it, continue to be huge hubs for the selling of fresh produce, it's becoming increasingly difficult to guarantee the provenance of a lot of it. Plus there's the problem of vast quantities of pesticides that many farmers here use. And while there are one or two places where it's possible to buy a limited amount of organic local stuff, it's prohibitively expensive, and remains, by and large, the realm of the upper middle class and ex-pat community.

So for now, I'll continue to buy veggies from my local stall and hope that one day the idea of the farmers market will truly take root here.