A Pinch of Fish

My daughter hates fish.  Actually, that isn't a strong enough word. We've had knock-down, drag-out fights at the dinner table over anything with fins, especially since we enforce the "I make it, you eat it" policy.  But there is one dish she likes - Salmon Papillote - and she had asked me to make it for the past month.   I had a little time and a relaxed weekend so I pulled out the red and white checked Betty Crocker cookbook where I keep all my recipes, and started to dig.  

My recipe filling system was not that stellar, but I really wanted to make this for her and I doubted I could recall it from memory.  Pesto, orzo, plum tomatoes, chopped olives...and what else?  hmmm.

It was slow going, flipping page after page, but I  found a few other recipes I'd forgotten about.   The Corn Stew that was a result of a "Taste of Africa" project she did in first grade.  She was so proud to bring something that she made, and it has been a fall favorite ever since.  There was the Chicken Poppyseed Dish that was brought to us when "we" were just three and going through some hard times.  When I requested the recipe from the cook, it was written on "whatever I had" at the time, which as a good musicians wife, happened to be an envelope from guitar strings.   I can still remember her writing it as she stood in the doorway of the brownstone a few blocks from Wrigley.

There was a Oriental Chicken Salad recipe, which was beautifully written on an index card stamped with golden embellishments, given at a dinner party by friends starting a new business.   Baked Potato Soup came to us within a couple weeks after moving cross-country to Denver.  In a new state, I went from unpacking and pregnant,  to unpacking with a newborn.  My son was born five and a half weeks early - so early we hadn't even made a trip to see the hospital nor did we have diapers in the house.   The soup came from brand new friends, and was pure comfort food, warming our hearts as well as our bellies.  

There were recipes from a first visit to cousin's home after we moved to Florida -  the innovative "happy pancakes"  made with a yogurt and cottage cheese batter, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar - a creative, healthy breakfast treat!   And of course, there were those recipes you can't find aymore, like the out-of-print Pampered Chef recipe, Mom's Apple Crisp,  made with green apples, crumbled graham crackers and a healthy dose of butter. 

Then there are the recipes that are well-loved, well-used with faded ink and drops of vanilla or a dusting of baking powder from years prior.  The family recipes came from my great-grandmother, Janie Irene, who was born in 1899 and lived well into her 90's.  Anytime you ate at Granny's house she cooked with fresh-from-her-garden ingredients, 5 boiling pots on the stove, and a table set for 10.  She made tomato soup bread, no-fail chocolate cake from scratch and a divine cranberry salad.  She loved zucchini and turned me into a lover of it as well.   Her zucchini bread recipe made large quantities, which to me reflects her love for people. I just know she shared!  Thinking about a nice hearty slice, warm with butter, makes my mouth water.  And if you ask me for her recipes, I will politely decline.  They are after all, family recipes.

I reacquainted myself with my sister's, niece's sweet potato souffle which made its way into our family within the last decade.  It traveled almost coast to coast, from one side of the family to the other and has linked together people that have never even met.  It is such a hit with my husband's family that like clockwork, I can count on one of my nieces calling for a refresher course on the recipe on Thanksgiving day. 

And what would Thanksgiving be without my mother's Possible Pumpkin Pie?   This pie has no crust - which was A+ in my book.  I can still see my mom blending it up and tapping out the air bubbles before baking.  Ahhhh, and the smell that would fill the air.  It is something that brings back all those "warm fuzzy" memories of childhood and hugs and laughter.  To this day, pumpkin pie smell is one of my favorites. 

My mother-in-law's Oatmeal Cookies are in there too, although I've never been able to make them like she does.   Someday I'll have to ask her for the secret ingredient, because there has to be one. 

There are recipes that have only been made once like the Lemonade Party Cake and those that fell out of my memory  - soon to be back on the menu, like Curried Chicken Mango Rice.   Like most recipe collections, there are recipes cut out from cans, magazines and cereal boxes.   Handwritten, printed, emailed and typed.   From school projects, neighbors, friends and family and each one of them are stuffed into the Betty Crocker cookbook.   Food and people, people and food.  They just go together don't they? 

I spent a good hour flipping through the pages looking for the salmon dish acceptable to my daughter's taste buds, but to no avail.  What to do, what to do.  I've made this recipe for many folks and it's always been a hit.   It reminded me that I've given away a few recipes of my own, and thanks to my sister, this one was sitting in my email sent box from 2 years ago - jackpot!   Now that I found it, maybe I should print it out?  It delights my daughter every time I make it - a keeper for sure.   I think then, it will be included in the never ending, ever-growing story of my life - my cook book.

Salt & Pepper

Over the past year I've witness a small phenomena.  Men have been commenting on my hair.  Yes, weird I know, but let me explain.  The first incident came from one of my former college professors.  I had recently graduated and returned to school for a seminar with other economist nerds.  (It was wonderful, in case you were wondering!)   Afterwards, he mentioned that I looked "distinguished" referring directly to my hair.  I didn't take offense, in fact it, didn't bother me one iota.   A few months later, a man I volunteer with mentioned on my "bold move" followed by another who liked it so much he stopped me in the grocery store.   So, why no women? 

I've always done things my way, a trait I happily get from my father, and this is no exception.  It all started the summer before I entered graduate school. I knew I was going to have make a few changes in my life if I was going to survive.  "Balance" was going to be thrown out the window for the time being, and school would dominate my life.  Any extra time aside from studying was going to be devoted to family.

While the big things, like extra curricular activities, weekend trips and vacations were erased from the calendar, I knew the little things would have to go as well.   So, I made a decision that isn't popular in our culture, something that would save me time (and money)over the course of 18 months.    

Yep, I did the the unheard of in this society; the unthinkable.  Instead of trying to look ever youthful, to hold back the age clock as far as possible for as long as possible, I decided to go grey.

I won't digress into a diatribe about our culture or why we do the things we do as women, because frankly, I probably do several of them, but dying my hair was not going to be one of them.  I didn't have the time.

Now-a-days, post grad school,  I supposedly have more time (and thanks to a job, a little extra cash!) and I guess I could get the color out, again.   My hair stylist, and good friend, respects my decision, but I think she'd jump on the chance to mix up a bowl of dark brown or fold in a few foils.

But here is my little secret, over the past year as the old color was cut out little by little, the gray starting shining through, and although it may seem sacreligious to say.....I like my gray hair.  I mean I really, REALLY like my gray hair!   I've had dark hair my entire life, so when I see those shiny silvery streaks amidst the brown, they shimmer and sparkle in the light....and they seem, well, beautiful.  I know, I know.  I am suppose to see them as a sign of age, but I don't.  

As I began to process all of this, I found a verse in Proverbs that I took to heart:

Gray hair is a crown of glory;    it is gained by living a godly life.

My first thought was, "absolutely! crown of glory, baby!"  which doesn't at all say anything about my competitive nature - not one bit.   After a little time, the second line is what sunk into my soul....it is gained by living a godly life.   What does that mean??  I'm sure we could all out-church each other and give a very "sunday school" answer, but really, what does this mean?

At one appointment the same hair stylist, mentioned that you'll usually see a new crop of grey hair about 6 months after a stressful time.   If that is indeed the case, how is gray hair suppose to be a sign of living a godly life?  Is it a signal that you have made it through, that some new morsel of wisdom , or life expereince  gleaned? 

There have been some trials in my young 38 year life, enough for me anyway.  Having a new marriage that was on rocky shores instantly, facing years of infertility and battling disabling anxiety. Or what about being on medicaid and having to ask for help - that is a humility builder.   (I still remember when we received a letter from a public school in Chicago that our daughter qualified for a "Chrismtas present from Santa" - a charity for low income families.  It was precious and heart breaking at the same time.)  Being my resourceful self, many times I faced the challenges head on, but most of the time to no avail.  Eventually, I'd end up on my knees asking for guidance, comfort and a little relief. 

I haven't read the entire bible, but I do know that it doesn't say life will be easy.  It makes no promises for a life of ease.  On the contrary, it repeatedly talks of the trials of life.  yippee.    The good news? Life isn't too big, too hairy or too impossible.  God's seen it all, he's aware of it all, and can handle it ALL.  What he really wants is for us to ask him to be a part of it...to walk through it with us.    After all, isn't in the times of struggle that our character is shaped to be like his...and his character is pretty stinking amazing. 

Maybe that is why I really love my gray hair.... as hard my experiences were, I can name them, and they are mine (crown of glory, baby!).  For me, ultimately it is a reflection of character change, something of which I could use a little more of, so bring on the gray!

I wonder if as the pepper becomes more salt, will I continue to like it as much?  I'm not sure, but my gut tells me I will.  I've seen some pretty sassy ladies rock the gray (including my mother) and I don't think I am afraid to join their ranks.  

Red Light Wonder

I was at a stop light when I saw it, the simplest of things, and not something that is in my daily visual dictionary.   Fifty to sixty yards ahead I saw 15 or so brightly colored balloons, all knotted together in one heap of a  mess, floating up into the sky.    I watched  them as they went higher and higher, not taking my eyes off their path.  I felt like I was floating right along with them, motionless in time.   The sky was a perfect blue and their gentleness upwards made the moment surreal. 

I was watching this tidbit of a spectacle in awe; with a giddy child-like anticipation.  What is it with balloons or bubbles or fireworks, that makes grown-ups regress into a state of utter wonderment?  Don't get me wrong, I relished that moment and was as utterly disappointed when the light switched to green  - and how often does that happen?!    Ah, wonderment.  And despite what some of my close friends believe about my love of math, that definitely is not a feeling I get when I am crunching numbers, or pulling weeds or paying the utility bill, for that matter.   I think what hit home with me is the idea, if even for an instance that I was able to just set aside the daily duties, stresses and never ending errands, even just for a moment....and without having to try.  It just snuck up on me, and that was priceless.  An unplanned, unexpected, pure moment; a moment  when time is suspended and hope exists in the cracks.

Yards later I discovered the little moment of joy happened due to a car salesmen adjusting the car windshield signs (and apparently the balloons tied to them) on his lot.   I doubt he lost anymore that day, but I am thankful for the ones he did.

Now, does anyone have any bubbles?

15 Minutes to the Main Event

Today I realized something about myself, and I must admit it is a little embarrassing.  As much as people think I am put-together, got-it-together and have-it-together, I must not be.   I was with friends who I rarely go to the movies with, so I was a little uncertain as to how we would interact.  The movie previews began, and while it is something I look forward too, it also caused a pang of anxiety.   I am not sure if I wanted them to know this little tid-bit about me. It's pretty personal  - a little nugget of a secret. 

I cry at movie previews - 95% of  them to be exact! 

I know this about myself, but for some reason I can't remember to bring a single tissue with me. And forget about using the napkins for my greasy popcorn fingers.  I'm not sure if they are even classified as paper.   Irregardless, I really don't think I should be tearing up at a video montage and choice sound bites that include cartoon characters.   But with clever cut-a-ways and anthemic music, my fate is set.  I am doomed to eye drizzle.  

I like to think of myself as someone with an intellectual palette - an educated mind.  So why is it so easy for Hollywood to figure me out?  The idea that some big-wig in tinsel town knows me without even knowing me, irks me.    It really has me questioning myself and I  wonder what in the world is wrong with me?   I mean, I am different, right???    If I were different, I wouldn't be that easy to peg.  I wouldn't cry as much, and therefore I would not have to figure out ways to disguise my irrational acts. 

I was hiding my sappiness pretty well and thought I might make it through the previews with my dignity in tact, but I was toast when the preview for Red Tails, a story about the trials of black WWII fighter pilots, graced the screen.   Those tears were legit, but there are only so many clever ways one can disguise wiping the eyes preview after preview, or getting in a sniffle when there is a loud crash or musical climax.  I can only hide this secret for so long!

My covert eye wiping must of been adequate enough, that or my movie buddies were too entrapped themselves to notice the moistness in my eyes.  I think my secret is safe for now, but one day I'll be exposed for the sap that I am.  I just hope the discoverer is a kindred spirit and that they have a hidden stash of tissues to share.

Ninety Plus

I am procrastinating - procrastinating packing for a last minute ticket purchase.  I wish I could say it was a spontaneous trip to the Bahamas, or to visit old friends in London, rather, it is much more somber trip, a trip to my granddad's funeral.   I decided to bring one of my daughter's first grade school projects, you know the kind  "Interview your oldest living relative."  She did it years ago and Granddaddy was here target.

I was flipping through the pages not believing that the handwriting on the page  belonged to my almost teenager,  but what was even more amazing were the stories those floppy  l's and downward sloping lines told.  I had grown up listening to Granddaddy's stories, and while they were entertaining and adventure filled, they weren't any of the ones on the page.   In this book, there were stories he told of teasing his brother with frogs, and his father enrolling him in CCC when he was 15 - 3 years before eligibility.  He told the stories of a three room house where he and his brother slept on the floor so his sisters could have a bed.  They were stories of a different time.

When  asked what toys he had growing up, he said a little red wagon.  period.     He went to eight grade, 3 times, not because he couldn't cut it, but because there wasn't a high school for him to attend, and his love for school brought him back year after year.    He told us of being so clumsy on the basketball team they invented a new position for him  - on the bench.   

My favorite story was one he tells of  meeting a pretty girl on the bus and how he married that girl and raised 5 girls of their own.  He earned his GED, went back to college, was a high school civics teacher, a WWII vet, a pastor,  a farmer and volunteered thousands of hours at the local hospital after his high school sweetheart died there, too young, too soon.

And through every nook and cranny, he told stories.

I think it was his way to connect the dots of his life, of his family, and to the world around him.   Looking back over his life, it is easy to see that in all the stories, every darn one of them, they revolved around people.  His life centered around people, serving them, loving them, educating them and giving to them.   Sure he had many accomplishments, many feathers in his cap and fetes he overcame, but if I were to look at his life like a book, I would see throughout the pages and pages his love and care for others.

I guess the story will continue...with 5 daughters and a multitude of grandchildren and great grandchildren, how could it not?   I am thankful now, for that hours long project sitting with  my daughter slowly and patiently coaxing a six year old to write down every word because now  I can't think of a better gift to keep, than the story of his life.