A Holiday Recipe - Mama Darlin's Sweet Potato Casserole

Something changes this time of year, and it's not the leaves in Phoenix.

Matthew thanked me last week for making a wonderful dinner of ham, parker house rolls and sweet potato casserole with salad and green beans. It was a rare feast.

I said with conviction, "I love cooking holiday dinners. Holiday dinners I get!"

"Every day's a holiday; every day's a holiday," he replied.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. I hate cooking daily meals....maybe if I could just bake everything....yet the dinners prepared at Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and Easter I absolutely adore. They're hard work, too - hours upon one's feet and miles of dishes before you sleep.

It's really about patriotic pride on Thanksgiving, standing apron to apron with countless other Americans who hope and pray for a moist bird. But I also love these dinners because I am a creature of nostalgia, always seeking an elixir to take me back to childhood, and the dishes I prepare are largely what my mother prepared - especially the rolls, pies and sweet potatoes. Add the fact that I appreciate the comfort of the tradition; I know exactly what to do. After all, I've been doing it for years, and it always turns out well (well, mostly...).

My mother's sweet potato casserole is one of those dishes that is always on my holiday table. It wouldn't be a feast without it. Because of this simple, rudely prepared but shockingly delicious dish, I have been lavished with praise and accosted with multiple recipe requests. Even the husband of a dear friend who witnessed its messy creation with a potato masher was astounded and appreciative when he finally tasted it. My son, Berto, has honored it by choosing it for his 5th grade's multi-cultural/pre-Thanksgiving school luncheon.

Now I am finally sharing it with you. Because of my son's severe nut allergies, I've changed it some. I present the original recipe, containing nuts and also more sugar and butter, and then my altered version. You can choose for yourselves which you prefer to try. Warning: I've heard marshmallows are out of culinary favor. Do not omit them! It's plain wrong.

Mama Darlin's Sweet Potato Soufflé

Filling:
1 40 ounce can yams                                                
3/4 cup sugar                                                  
1/2 cup melted butter                                     
2 eggs                                                                
1/3 cup evaporated milk                                 
1 teaspoon vanilla                                       


For the Topping:                                            
1/2 cup melted butter                                      
3/4 cup sugar                                                
1 cup cornflakes                                               
1 cup pecans        

miniature marshmallows                                            

Nut-Free Version

Filling:
3 cups cooked sweet potatoes/yams (2-3 large, cooked on high in microwave for about 12-15 minutes, innards scraped into casserole dish)
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 melted butter
2 eggs
1/3 cup evaporated milk
1 teaspoon vanilla

Topping:
1/4 cup melted butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 cup Cascadian Farms Oats and Honey Granola
1 cup cornflakes (optional)

miniature marshmallows

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mash all 6 ingredients (yes, even eggs!) for filling in a 2 quart casserole dish, mixing thoroughly around before baking for 20 minutes in the oven. Meanwhile, prepare topping by melting butter in a small bowl, adding brown sugar, and then stirring in nuts or granola (large pieces broken apart with fingers) and cornflakes, if desired (topping will be chewier). Remove casserole from oven and spread topping evenly over it. Bake 10-15 minutes more. Remove and spread marshmallows over center of casserole, leaving a 1 inch gap around the edge. Cook just until marshmallows are golden, about five minutes. Serve with parker house rolls, if at all possible, and enjoy!

Some dishes bring comfort and nostalgia with each bite. For me this is one of them. Thanks, Mom. Love, Hoodoo

Santa and St. Nick

My honor student/football player son Berto unabashedly asked his teacher before his fifth grade peers how on earth Santa was able to deliver presents in both the northern and southern hemispheres on the same night. From what he described to me later, his teacher fumbled the question and then tried valiantly to recover an appropriate answer. Kudos to her, she must have been completely taken aback that this spike-haired boy still believed, and with such confidence, that he would ask that question in school.

On one hand, it is completely charming that my 11-year-old believes. On the other hand, I wish to tell him the truth about the spirit of St. Nicholas for the purely selfish reason of relieving the pressure on his dad and me.

But then again...the other day I found myself contemplating certain gifts for my children, picturing them by the tree, and I thought, "That would be great! How clever of Santa; he always knows."

I'm one of him, and I believe. The bell still rings for me.

Berto had a debate with his friends about the big guy. They described all the fabulous, most outrageous gifts they'd received - XBoxes, IPads, televisions, computers - and stated that no big man in a reindeer-pulled sleigh had gotten them such treasures. No, parents were the benefactors (or culprits).

Berto said, "Yeah, right! Parents are getting you all those expensive things? They have thousands of dollars? No way!"

As Berto was recounting all this to me, I got a little tense at this point. Santa has never brought any of our kids a game system or high-priced electronic device, so I just had to ask:

"Why do you think Santa has never brought you those things, Berto?"

My son got quiet. My question had not raised this conundrum. It had been bothering him.

"I don't know." A pause and then, "Probably because he knows my little brother and sisters might mess with it...or because our house is small."

Yes, my kids know I don't buy many things, because I feel already the crushing weight of clutter in our home with which I wage a constant, losing battle.

"Well, that true." I had to tread carefully. "It's also not our values, too, right? Mama and Papa don't believe in asking Santa for a ton of expensive things; that's taking advantage, right? You guys get to ask him for three things at most."

"Yeah, but he still brings other kids all this crazy stuff - Wiis and tons of games to go with it, too."

"Well, I think your friends are right..." I took a big breath.

I could feel the energy change in the back seat. Just what was Mama about to say?

"I think some parents must be helping St. Nick out a little."

"By giving him money?"

"No - no! No one ever gives Santa money. No, that wouldn't be in the spirit of things. By adding gifts."

"Oh."

It wasn't correct, but what could I say?

A couple days ago we were listening to the true story of Santa Claus on CD - the one about a certain Bishop, now St. Nicolas, who became famous for helping the poor by secretly leaving gold and other gifts, giving away his whole inheritance. My eyes were watering at the story's end, and Berto said, "They made it sound like he died. And I don't like something they said at the beginning either."

The narrator said that the story was that of the original Santa Claus.

I was mute.

Yes, I want to tell my handsome boy about the generous spirit of St Nick kept alive by parents, church giving trees, the Salvation Army, Toys for Tots and so very much more. I want to tell him that he can be a Santa Claus, too, and honor his patron saint in so many ways, that he has already done so each year when choosing toys for children in struggling families. But, then, he will know...eventually.

I've told my husband I think we should tell him, but my husband responded that he was never told. Even when we went to his parents' house for Christmas the year we married, there were gifts from Santa. Some of my friends say they were never told, either, and they're glad.

Now many adults know the legend sprang from the actions of a boy bishop almost 1700 years ago - helped not a little by mythology and commercial opportunists. Yes, we know.

A little miracle is that somehow, in a small but precious way - even for those of us who eschew extravagance and elves - the child within us still believes.



Three Bears and a Box Full of Toys

Imagine St. Nick (warning: major spoiler)

Short, Mostly Unedited - Christmas

In Honor of Ella Boo's birthday: I need to go to the hospital, because you're sick, and I'm three

Our precious curly-haired, almond-eyed, Batman-loving, Miss Dynamic Personality, aka Ella Boo, turned six today. I badly wanted to write a new post or edit the really, really long one about her birth down to a readable length for the occasion. I failed at those attempts, though I tried in any spare moment I could find. I feel almost too frazzled to write in the near future, but I hope I may soon.

Meanwhile, here is a post originally published almost three years ago. Happy Birthday, our Ella!


Ella wanted a shot yesterday. She definitely had a strong feeling she needed it to save her life...or at the very least an appendage.

Ella's desire to see a licensed healthcare professional was the result of Ana's waking up yesterday in the wee wee wee hours of the morning with a bad earache. I told her to come to me. I was sprawled out on the recliner, pinned beneath a nine-month-old baby. I soon had to send her down the hall to her papa, however, because she was crying, and Mama's comfort wasn't enough. The baby needed to sleep, and she needed medicine which I was unable to get for her.

In the morning I made an appointment to see the pediatrician in the afternoon.

"Does your ear still hurt?" I asked sweet Miss Ana when I got off the phone.

She looked at me with her pale face and fever eyes and made a little shrug. "A little," she said timidly.

"My ear hurts," said Ella clearly to her Papa and me, not one inch of her face pinched or puckered with pain.

"Competing for attention," I whispered aside to Matthew. Then to Ella, "Where does it hurt? Show me."

She pointed to her earlobe.

"Earlobe," I whispered to Matthew, practically rolling my eyes, before saying to Ella, "Come here. Let Mama see."

As soon as she came close enough I reached out and gave her ear a good tug. No reaction. I turned to find Matthew giving me a look like, Really? That's your great motherly diagnostic skill?

"What?" I asked defensively. "If her ear was really hurting, she would have made a face or yelled or something. She's fine."

Matthew picked her up in his arms and leaned his dark head against her much fairer curly head.

"Are you sick?" he asked.

"Yeah. I need to go to the hospital."

(I gave her that line for free. I'm always telling her that if she jumps on the bed and hits her head or eats toothpaste or something, I'll have to take her to the hospital.)

"Really?" said Matthew. "Do you need a shot? They'll probably give you a shot."

Clever, I thought, applauding his cunning in my head. Ella paused a long moment, looking away from her papa and then back again. Then she straightened in his arms and looked him full in the face.

"Yes."

I laughed. You had to give it to her. She wanted that attention bad. And it's not like she doesn't get her fair share, but in Ella's world any time spent worrying about, cuddling with, or talking to other children is a sheer waste of precious parental resources that should be expended on her. This means if one of the older two complains of a sudden stomachache, Ella will come and sit on Matthew's or my lap and say pitifully, "My tummy hurts!" If we're talking about Berto's allergies, we might feel a little tap on our shoulder and turn to find Ella who says, "I've got an allergy."

"No, you don't!" we tell her.

"Yes, I do," she insists.

Ella doesn't even like that her siblings are ahead of her in the teeth department. Recently, she told her Papa and me that she had two loose teeth and lost them both. Then sticking out both index fingers and holding them up one at a time, she said, "And the tooth fairy brought me a dollar...and another dollar. Two dollars!"

"No, she didn't, but she will," I told her. Then I bent down to her level and said gently, "Someday, Ella, you will be a big girl, and..."

Ella turned her back and walked away. She wasn't about to let me rain on her parade. "Two teeth!" she called back. "And two dollars!"


Right now, she really is missing her two top front teeth, and it is adorable - even she thinks so...:); time flies, my friends.

Be Love - guest post by Laney Smith

This is quite beautiful, and a wonderful post with which to begin November, that month of Thanksgiving.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce Laney.


I remember Papa telling stories about the "forgotten ones" overseas. Children with cleft pallets, mental handicaps and deformities dropped at the orphanage door step or left in trash bins. It was as if someone had told the parents that they should be disgusted and ashamed at the sight of such a child. Papa had come the winter prior, traveling all over Kyrgyzstan to sing and play his guitar. He would tell me stories of his fingers nearly freezing off and how funny it was when someone would ask for his autograph. But what he mentioned most were stories of the children that he had to leave behind in the places that they didn't deserve to be.

Growing up in church I got used to hearing missionaries speak of poverty, starvation, and the "less fortunate". I saw commercials begging for donations contributing to the child with the swollen stomach and flies on his face. The phrase "there are starving children in Africa," was common among the parents attempting to creativly get their stubborn kid to eat his green beans. In my mind this was a problem that I couldn't fix in a sad movie that I could turn off and forget about. Their reality and mine had never touched.

I've always had an unquenchable thirst to keep moving. It seems like Papa and I share this desire to see everything there is to see; to understand how others live. When I was younger, friends of ours decided to move overseas as missionaries. Somehow, I came to the conclusion that traveling halfway across the world was the next logical step in my life. Even though I was just 14 at the time, It really didn't take that long for my parents to agree because they saw my passion and understood.

The unsightly two story building should have been condemned with its rooms smelling of urine and roaches scattering up the rotting walls. The blank response of the children upon my arrival seemed to say they didn't understand my look of shock at the sight of them playing on the dirt floor. Were all orphanages like this? Two or three hand me raggedy toys for each room, overcrowded and undermanaged. It was hard to find anyone that looked after the children, because there weren't many.

The moment I stepped through the door, I had touched my new reality. It was almost as if all the commercials and stories I had heard in the past hit me at once, and the sorrow I felt was more than I ever had. After that day I couldn't stop coming back. I began to visit the orphanage often, and dread the day I would have to leave. I played with the most wonderful children I think I will ever meet; showing love and affection they rarely received, singing songs in a language I didn't understand.

Early on at the orphanage, I met a six-year-old girl named Vica, who became my best friend. She gave me the name "Solnyshka" because she said "I make the room sunny". Almost every morning for four months she would go with me to pick flowers by the road while we learned a little of each other's languages. Even with the language barrier, we connected in a way that seemed as though we filled a void in each other's lives - her desire to be cared about, my desire to care for someone.

In the summer the family and others I stayed with coached baseball for the kids at the orphanage and the villages surrounding. Vica was too young to play baseball, but as I would coach with much animation, I would often look over at the sidelines to see her with a smile on her face, mimicking all the movements I made.

I will never forget the day before I left when I took Vica out for a walk. As I tried to explain my departure in broken Russian, she only understood that I was abandoning her and that she would probably never see me again. A friend of mine stepped in to let her know that I cared about her and loved her very much. He told her that I wasn't allowed to stay any longer, but I wanted to. Having all that said, the goodbye was just as hard, but she understood and gave me the last hug while thanking me for being her new big sister.

When I left she told me to write, so I did, but she never responded. I pray that she was adopted, because it scares me to think of anything else for her, the six-year-old girl who taught me so much about myself and my life. She showed me that it didn't matter that I was young, inexperienced, and that I had a serious language barrier. I could show love, and be love to someone who so desperately needed it. To me that is the most beautiful thing, to be love in someone's reality.