Have you ever heard of grilled bologna smothered in barbecue sauce? Do you split open your hot dogs and fry them black in a pan? Squirt ketchup on your pizza or mustard on your eggs? Do you dip your toast in cocoa, eat pineapple with green olives off a toothpick, or brine your freshly caught trout in pickle juice?
Is ham or beef on your Thanksgiving table instead of turkey? (Sacrilege!)
Ah, food traditions and habits! One man's barely edible garbage is another's culinary treasure.
My relatives on Dad's side grilled bologna with barbecue sauce for a family reunion many years ago. My husband was shocked. He has yet to recover from the idea of such a thing being put on a grill on purpose. He also is haunted by the fact that my dad ate charred hot dogs regularly as I was growing up. But dare I point out that his family eats their spaghetti with cornbread and green chili in their stew?
As for me, I used to dip my pizza in ketchup, and my kids and I still dip whole grain toast in cocoa (something my sister Vinca says our Grandmama did decades ago). But the only time I had pickle-juice fish was around a summer campfire at my great grandfather's mining claim in the Idaho mountains, prepared especially by my Grandpa on Dad's side.
The strangest dining choices sometimes create the best memories. They're unique, our very own, and I believe we get a perverse enjoyment out of others' looks of disgust as we tell our digestive tales.
But we must also acknowledge the more sophisticated treasures of our familial or even regional palette, the ones for which we pine for most of the year, knowing they arrive only on special feasts. For instance, homemade Parker House rolls, the kind my mother made and that my youngest boy has been asking for ever since he got the first whiff of approaching Thanksgiving, are something that I begin to make a lot more often November through New Year's. There's also my mama's sweet potato souffle, a dish that makes my heart swell like marshmallow topping as I watch my kids devour it. And we could never forget the hard labor of love with acute suffering involved in making homemade pie pastry and filling, a magic act that we cooking mortals will only commit to two or three times a year. There are so many varieties with which to torture ourselves when the terrible yet fulfilling time comes: apple, pumpkin, pecan, cherry, and cranberry/pear! God bless the person who invented scrumptious pies for the good of humanity! But may they still be crimping pastry wherever they are.
I'll be making my pies tonight. I'm only writing this right now in order to get my courage up, a pep talk, a rallying cry to acknowledge that sometimes we can, out of love, produce the impossible confectionery dream on blessed occasions. If the stars line up, and the dew point is right, and the inspiration of all our grandmothers and mothers settles in our hearts and hands, our pies might just turn out this year.
But I can't worry about that now. I'm getting hungry; it's lunchtime; and I have a sudden, inexplicable craving for barbecued bologna.
With pickle juice.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Letter to Mama
Letters are intimate things. They are also often more informal. It takes the pressure off to allow myself to write letters here to those I love, and then I can more easily embrace the ideas and memories that are sitting on my brain at the moment. No need to make them perfect. Just let them go.
Dear Mama,
A couple weeks ago I was dreading the approach of Christmas - the shopping, the shipping, the "is this fair, is it all even?", and the constant decision-making. I love the idea of Santa Claus, but I laughed a few days ago wondering if I like the jolly old guy so much, because if he would truly just come around, it would take a load off, you know?
But then I perked up. Matthew came home with flowers one day at lunch. I spoke to my good friend Camille on the phone and now have the hope of seeing her family. And, with the magic that happens every year, I began to think about our lives in Tennessee, our Christmases there. Then I began to sing Christmas carols with Ana and to look at holiday decor catalogs, and my world was righted.
Do you know what I was remembering the other day? I was remembering that one cold night when I was eight, nine or ten. We were returning home as a family from shopping, and the car broke down or the bridge was out...or both...and we had to leave the car and walk home in the dark on the country roads, crunching leaves. It felt like an adventure to trek home in the dark. I was skipping in the cold breeze, because I had on a new pair of black booties you and Papa had bought me for school. I loved them. They had the little tabs on the sides, old-fashioned and charming. I still love those kinds of boots.
Later that night I got very sick, remember? And the space heater in my bedroom didn't work. So you pulled me into your room to sleep between you and Papa. All night you were up and down checking my temperature, very high, and making me drink glass after glass of water, bathing me with cool washcloths, then putting me in warm sweaters. It was like torture! But my fever broke. You took good care of me then and so many other times.
And today I suddenly remembered the time we went over to the Andersen's for a simple holiday gathering. (Perhaps it was the usual cup of cocoa I was preparing to drink this morning that brought back the memory.) We didn't have to go over the river and through the woods to get to them - though in those Tennessee boonies neighbors sometimes seemed like the next frontier - but down the lane and across the creek. I still can recall their little farmhouse quite well, perched precariously on that steep hill above the county road, their tractors and cows roaming in the field behind. I still see the narrow steps climbing from the road to their front door, and from there you could turn to look at our home across the creek between barren deciduous trees. As I remember, though, we went around to the back kitchen door to be let in.
Their home was very simply decorated, and the gathering was a quiet one as Mrs. Andersen stirred hot chocolate in a humble saucepan on the stove. I don't remember whether the cookies she served with it were homemade or store bought, only that they weren't as good as yours. I loved getting the hot chocolate, but for me there was no one to talk with as she had two big boys who liked my older sisters far more than they ever noticed me. I probably stayed around that little farm kitchen to listen to your conversation with that gentle woman. She had a very good heart but few and quiet words. Her kitchen was like her, warm and unassuming.
And Mr. Andersen, if possible, was even quieter than his wife. I think he and Dad mostly sat in companionable silence with every now and then a word floating between them.
I wonder now why that is such a persistent Christmas memory? But it is, and a very pleasant one. Perhaps it just breathes simplicity and purity and a time before Pinterest put so much pressure on celebrations. Ha, I say that, and I'm not even on Pinterest!
This letter didn't quite take the turn I thought it would. I thought I would talk about how I'm beginning to see this first year without my children at home as my "lost year", a time of rediscovery like a backpacking trip across Europe after high school. Maybe talk about my writing disappointments and how hard it is to be a woman. Maybe admit that sometimes I kind of want another baby.
But, no. I will say this, though: I miss you, and I do wish we could sit over fancy coffee or simple tea and talk for a long while. The more I grow in this parenting business, the more clearly I see all that you gave and gave up for our family, Mama, and I appreciate it.
And, boy, do I appreciate the memories! Especially now as Thanksgiving approaches, so many scents, sights and sounds remind me of what you did to make our home a home - all while working with Papa in the woods, too - and I am so grateful.
So rest assured that as I bast the turkey, whip together the sweet potato souffle, knead that dough for the Parker House rolls, and roll out the pie pastry, I'll be thinking of you, Mama Darling.
Love,
Hoodoo
Their home was very simply decorated, and the gathering was a quiet one as Mrs. Andersen stirred hot chocolate in a humble saucepan on the stove. I don't remember whether the cookies she served with it were homemade or store bought, only that they weren't as good as yours. I loved getting the hot chocolate, but for me there was no one to talk with as she had two big boys who liked my older sisters far more than they ever noticed me. I probably stayed around that little farm kitchen to listen to your conversation with that gentle woman. She had a very good heart but few and quiet words. Her kitchen was like her, warm and unassuming.
And Mr. Andersen, if possible, was even quieter than his wife. I think he and Dad mostly sat in companionable silence with every now and then a word floating between them.
I wonder now why that is such a persistent Christmas memory? But it is, and a very pleasant one. Perhaps it just breathes simplicity and purity and a time before Pinterest put so much pressure on celebrations. Ha, I say that, and I'm not even on Pinterest!
This letter didn't quite take the turn I thought it would. I thought I would talk about how I'm beginning to see this first year without my children at home as my "lost year", a time of rediscovery like a backpacking trip across Europe after high school. Maybe talk about my writing disappointments and how hard it is to be a woman. Maybe admit that sometimes I kind of want another baby.
But, no. I will say this, though: I miss you, and I do wish we could sit over fancy coffee or simple tea and talk for a long while. The more I grow in this parenting business, the more clearly I see all that you gave and gave up for our family, Mama, and I appreciate it.
And, boy, do I appreciate the memories! Especially now as Thanksgiving approaches, so many scents, sights and sounds remind me of what you did to make our home a home - all while working with Papa in the woods, too - and I am so grateful.
So rest assured that as I bast the turkey, whip together the sweet potato souffle, knead that dough for the Parker House rolls, and roll out the pie pastry, I'll be thinking of you, Mama Darling.
Love,
Hoodoo
Monday, November 16, 2015
Praying
I used to hear about people who spent their whole lives in one small community, on one tiny parcel of the earth, working and praying, praying, their days away in mostly silence.
And I thought, What good is that?
How on earth can you help this world if you are cloistered with like-minded people? How is that working for the common good to hide yourself and your talents away?
I'm a little wiser now, and though I do not at all believe this is the only way to serve the way of truth, hope, love and life, I now believe it is one excellent way.
I don't think for one moment that I am the only one who has underestimated the power of prayer. Of silence. Of contemplation. But because I am naturally a restless person who detests sitting for too long, perhaps I have been more prone to underestimate it. My prayer reminds me of my son Berto"s gesture when the priest asks us to lift up our hearts, and we pronounce at Mass, "We lift them up to the Lord," and we all raise our hands palm up. For a while it was like Berto was tossing God a football with how quickly he threw up his hands and then dropped them: "Here! Catch my heart, God!" It made me smile. So, too, my prayer. I toss God footballs several times a day, prayers for that homeless man or my sick relative or of my desperate need for some spiritual buttresses to be erected posthaste. And I believe with all my heart that God catches those erratic balls, because my words are fervent. Well, most of the time.
I cannot imagine, however, really getting down deep with God in prayer. For an hour or more, for hours each day in and out of Mass. And, yet, I think how marvelous would be the results of such efforts, because prayer is, as my parish priest said recently, our act of being in the presence of God. Even if we nod off while doing it, it is our endeavor to walk and sit in his presence, to hold his hand, and to accept some real nourishment. What might we learn about ourselves if we made that decision more often, if we were very still and knew that he was God?
So I no longer think shallowly about contemplative lives. If I am honest with you, I think a community of nuns or monks praying for this world is doing a great deal more for us than all the words of politicians could ever do. I even think now - and this is shocking to me - that a community in God's presence by the exertion of their own free will on a routine basis, asking for his grace and love and guidance to be poured out upon us, can move more mountains than many actions.
But then we see the connectivity, don't we? For some of us life in a small community praying is our service to mankind, and for some of us the work in this fractured world to be God's physical instruments of peace is ours. The two ignite each other in faith, and God weaves us together, helping us bear good fruit.
Today I said a rosary for France. It is a very Catholic thing to do, I know, but something I rarely do. I only meditate in this way when I am rocked by some great tragedy and realize that I need to really pray deeply, to do something more than usual to let my Heavenly Father know that I care and want to help and that we all need a heaping helping of faith, hope and love from His table.
I say rosaries when I am aching for others.
So I am praying. I know many of you are praying. And we know prayer is more than general good vibes. Prayer is standing in the presence of our loving Father with all our might.
"I want to be only a poor friar who prays...Pray, hope and don't worry. Worry is useless. God is merciful and will hear your prayer...Prayer is the best weapon we have; it is the key to God's heart. You must speak to Jesus not only with your lips, but with your heart. In fact on certain occasions you should only speak to Him with your heart." - Padre Pio
"Everyone of us needs half an hour of prayer each day, except when we are busy - then we need an hour." - St. Frances de Sales
"For me, prayer is an aspiration of the heart, it is a simple glance directed to heaven, it is a cry of gratitude and love in the midst of trial as well as joy..." - St. Therese of Lisieux
Then he told them a parable about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary. He said, There was a judge in a certain town who neither feared God nor respected any human being. And a widow in that town used to come to him and say, 'Render a just decision for me against my adversary.' For a long time the judge was unwilling, but eventually he thought, 'While it is true that I neither fear God nor respect any human being, because this widow keeps bothering me I shall deliver a just decision for her lest she finally come and strike me.' " The Lord said, "Pay attention to what the dishonest judge says. Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones who call out to him day and night? Will he be slow to answer them? I tell you, he will see that justice is done speedily. But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?" Luke 18:1-8
And I thought, What good is that?
How on earth can you help this world if you are cloistered with like-minded people? How is that working for the common good to hide yourself and your talents away?
I'm a little wiser now, and though I do not at all believe this is the only way to serve the way of truth, hope, love and life, I now believe it is one excellent way.
I don't think for one moment that I am the only one who has underestimated the power of prayer. Of silence. Of contemplation. But because I am naturally a restless person who detests sitting for too long, perhaps I have been more prone to underestimate it. My prayer reminds me of my son Berto"s gesture when the priest asks us to lift up our hearts, and we pronounce at Mass, "We lift them up to the Lord," and we all raise our hands palm up. For a while it was like Berto was tossing God a football with how quickly he threw up his hands and then dropped them: "Here! Catch my heart, God!" It made me smile. So, too, my prayer. I toss God footballs several times a day, prayers for that homeless man or my sick relative or of my desperate need for some spiritual buttresses to be erected posthaste. And I believe with all my heart that God catches those erratic balls, because my words are fervent. Well, most of the time.
I cannot imagine, however, really getting down deep with God in prayer. For an hour or more, for hours each day in and out of Mass. And, yet, I think how marvelous would be the results of such efforts, because prayer is, as my parish priest said recently, our act of being in the presence of God. Even if we nod off while doing it, it is our endeavor to walk and sit in his presence, to hold his hand, and to accept some real nourishment. What might we learn about ourselves if we made that decision more often, if we were very still and knew that he was God?
So I no longer think shallowly about contemplative lives. If I am honest with you, I think a community of nuns or monks praying for this world is doing a great deal more for us than all the words of politicians could ever do. I even think now - and this is shocking to me - that a community in God's presence by the exertion of their own free will on a routine basis, asking for his grace and love and guidance to be poured out upon us, can move more mountains than many actions.
But then we see the connectivity, don't we? For some of us life in a small community praying is our service to mankind, and for some of us the work in this fractured world to be God's physical instruments of peace is ours. The two ignite each other in faith, and God weaves us together, helping us bear good fruit.
 |
| photo by Daniel Hylton |
Today I said a rosary for France. It is a very Catholic thing to do, I know, but something I rarely do. I only meditate in this way when I am rocked by some great tragedy and realize that I need to really pray deeply, to do something more than usual to let my Heavenly Father know that I care and want to help and that we all need a heaping helping of faith, hope and love from His table.
I say rosaries when I am aching for others.
So I am praying. I know many of you are praying. And we know prayer is more than general good vibes. Prayer is standing in the presence of our loving Father with all our might.
"I want to be only a poor friar who prays...Pray, hope and don't worry. Worry is useless. God is merciful and will hear your prayer...Prayer is the best weapon we have; it is the key to God's heart. You must speak to Jesus not only with your lips, but with your heart. In fact on certain occasions you should only speak to Him with your heart." - Padre Pio
"Everyone of us needs half an hour of prayer each day, except when we are busy - then we need an hour." - St. Frances de Sales
"For me, prayer is an aspiration of the heart, it is a simple glance directed to heaven, it is a cry of gratitude and love in the midst of trial as well as joy..." - St. Therese of Lisieux
Then he told them a parable about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary. He said, There was a judge in a certain town who neither feared God nor respected any human being. And a widow in that town used to come to him and say, 'Render a just decision for me against my adversary.' For a long time the judge was unwilling, but eventually he thought, 'While it is true that I neither fear God nor respect any human being, because this widow keeps bothering me I shall deliver a just decision for her lest she finally come and strike me.' " The Lord said, "Pay attention to what the dishonest judge says. Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones who call out to him day and night? Will he be slow to answer them? I tell you, he will see that justice is done speedily. But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?" Luke 18:1-8
Thursday, November 5, 2015
I can see clearly now
I have a beautiful life.
There. It's November. Thanksgiving is approaching. And I'll just say it:
Berto, my oldest son, let me hug him on Halloween in front of his friends before I left him at a sleepover. Without embarrassment he accepts my, "I love you!" called out the car window by his school. He even lets me call him a variety of nicknames regularly without complaining. He still laughs with me when I'm laughing at myself. Usually. And he tries to cheer me up by his actions and with his words when I'm down. He will have long, deep conversations with me on everything from theology to astronomy to cinema to sports.
Oh, and he's a genius. Seriously, I have test scores and many awards to prove it.
My oldest daughter Ana never tires of being silly with me. It's like getting to goof off with a younger version of myself. When I was at the gift shop near the White Cliffs of Dover in England, I found a tin box with a picture of a crazy rabbit hopping on its lid. It spoke to me. I offered it to Ana when I got home, and she chose it for her keepsake. Every time she and I are being strange or goofy or singing and talking in one of the many silly voices in our repertoire, we end by doing a fist bump and saying exuberantly to each other, "Conejo loco!" It means crazy rabbit in Spanish. We have our own club.
She's a genius, too, and her beautiful heart shines for everyone. It's a gift from God.
My youngest girl, though a tomboy, still welcomes and invites my company and affection when I walk her into school. Ella offers me a kiss in front of all her friends who know how much she admires Batman, that Dark and lonely Knight. She hugs her ratty but loyal teddy Oonie every night as I sing her a bedtime song about her and Oonie being crime fighters in their dreams. She isn't tired of Mama or of Mama's small, imperfect gifts. And she has energy enough for all of us, especially when planning her birthday celebration. Everyone tells me now that she looks just like me. I have never seen it before, but almost from the day she was born, she reminded me of my Grandmama. I am honored.
She's a math whiz and a girl that will, I have no doubt, blaze a path in this world that others will want to follow.
Danny Sam, my baby, wishes he could still play games with me like we did each day before he started school. This past week he asked me several times until we finally played. I now know how he appreciated that time we had together. He wipes off my kisses in the morning but doesn't push me away before I plant them, His blue eyes are like an angel's; they are beautiful and make me stop and give thanks that such a little boy loves me, was given into my life. He still laughs like a little boy and still gets excited to share a story, classwork or his art with me. He's sensitive and not afraid to show me when he's mad, either.
My Danny Sam will always be my baby. Even when he's 62. But I have no doubt he will be a great many other amazing things, blessing others with his gaze from those great blue eyes and brightening the world with his talents and charm.
And my darling, darling, handsome man. I was amazed when Matthew came home for lunch Tuesday afternoon - something he never does because the commute is so long - with an armful of flowers and the few but powerful words I needed to hear from him. His thoughtfulness is all the more evident as the smell of eucalyptus from among those flowers permeates our home. He strongly dislikes that smell but got me those bouquets anyway; he knew I would love them, their vibrant colors and their heady scent. Taking me by surprise on a Tuesday afternoon is one of the most romantic things he has ever done. I'm in love with a steady, quiet, generous man.
And my life is good.
There. It's November. Thanksgiving is approaching. And I'll just say it:
Berto, my oldest son, let me hug him on Halloween in front of his friends before I left him at a sleepover. Without embarrassment he accepts my, "I love you!" called out the car window by his school. He even lets me call him a variety of nicknames regularly without complaining. He still laughs with me when I'm laughing at myself. Usually. And he tries to cheer me up by his actions and with his words when I'm down. He will have long, deep conversations with me on everything from theology to astronomy to cinema to sports.
Oh, and he's a genius. Seriously, I have test scores and many awards to prove it.
My oldest daughter Ana never tires of being silly with me. It's like getting to goof off with a younger version of myself. When I was at the gift shop near the White Cliffs of Dover in England, I found a tin box with a picture of a crazy rabbit hopping on its lid. It spoke to me. I offered it to Ana when I got home, and she chose it for her keepsake. Every time she and I are being strange or goofy or singing and talking in one of the many silly voices in our repertoire, we end by doing a fist bump and saying exuberantly to each other, "Conejo loco!" It means crazy rabbit in Spanish. We have our own club.
She's a genius, too, and her beautiful heart shines for everyone. It's a gift from God.
My youngest girl, though a tomboy, still welcomes and invites my company and affection when I walk her into school. Ella offers me a kiss in front of all her friends who know how much she admires Batman, that Dark and lonely Knight. She hugs her ratty but loyal teddy Oonie every night as I sing her a bedtime song about her and Oonie being crime fighters in their dreams. She isn't tired of Mama or of Mama's small, imperfect gifts. And she has energy enough for all of us, especially when planning her birthday celebration. Everyone tells me now that she looks just like me. I have never seen it before, but almost from the day she was born, she reminded me of my Grandmama. I am honored.
She's a math whiz and a girl that will, I have no doubt, blaze a path in this world that others will want to follow.
Danny Sam, my baby, wishes he could still play games with me like we did each day before he started school. This past week he asked me several times until we finally played. I now know how he appreciated that time we had together. He wipes off my kisses in the morning but doesn't push me away before I plant them, His blue eyes are like an angel's; they are beautiful and make me stop and give thanks that such a little boy loves me, was given into my life. He still laughs like a little boy and still gets excited to share a story, classwork or his art with me. He's sensitive and not afraid to show me when he's mad, either.
My Danny Sam will always be my baby. Even when he's 62. But I have no doubt he will be a great many other amazing things, blessing others with his gaze from those great blue eyes and brightening the world with his talents and charm.
And my darling, darling, handsome man. I was amazed when Matthew came home for lunch Tuesday afternoon - something he never does because the commute is so long - with an armful of flowers and the few but powerful words I needed to hear from him. His thoughtfulness is all the more evident as the smell of eucalyptus from among those flowers permeates our home. He strongly dislikes that smell but got me those bouquets anyway; he knew I would love them, their vibrant colors and their heady scent. Taking me by surprise on a Tuesday afternoon is one of the most romantic things he has ever done. I'm in love with a steady, quiet, generous man.
And my life is good.
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