younger minds

A fear of mine has come to pass: "What if I repeat a blog?"

After my recent post on soup (and yes, that tells you what happened: it was my latest on several  blogs about my love of soup), a couple of  younger readers with sharp, alert minds asked me, "Didn't you do that post on soup before?" 

I do remember one or two on the subject, but, now very curious, I went back to the archives and did a little reading. To my chagrin I found an almost identical post.  Well, beloved readers, I guess we all know for sure how much I love soup. I'll try to move away from the subject, now that you know.

Photo: Yummy taco soup at Barbarino's house. I'm not the only one who has this love of soup.

Try a little polish

Note to self: If your shoes are going to be featured so near Miss Adorable, try some polish next time.  And maybe not your oldest pair of pants, as cozy as they may feel. The shoes are my very most favorite, comfortable old shoes. I've replaced them with a better pair, but I just can't let go of these-- for they are as "comfortable as an old shoe." But I could try a little more polish, though it truly doesn't do too much for them, they are so tired.

But that's an aside. The main thing is this photo of Little One. She sat quite nicely there between my feet, as she learns to sit up. I think this little girl and I are going to have lots of fun together in the coming years!

Photo by clc.

soup day

I should add that today is what I call a "soup day" and not because of what's on the stove, but because of the weather.  December should know better. Beautiful Christmas tree lights peek out of steamed up, rain-soaked windows. It's so warm and humid I don't care for a jacket or a sweater. We've had torrential rains, some thunder, and tornado watches. I call it a big pot of soup outside, and look forward to winter returning soon, I hope!

soup doctor

It's no secret that soup is my favorite food.  There is such variety and potential in it, and it's so forgiving. A pot of soup accepts just about anything thrown into it. When I start to make soup I always check the frig just to see what in there might want to join in. Great use of leftovers.

Sometimes I start with a store-bought soup. Then the fun begins.  The other day I bought a broccoli and cheese soup (a dry mix). After cooking the suggested 10 minutes I added chopped up potatoes, some left over bacon (turkey bacon in this house), a can of chopped chicken, a can of white corn, some white pepper, and a touch of wine.  With a salad on the side, it became a hearty meal. Trouble is, I can never make the same exact soup twice. If it's a winner, I should really write down what all I did.

Making soup, to me, is art. Just as a painter pulls together different colors off his palate of paints, so I pull together different ingredients and spices, blending until it tastes just right.  

All the liquid in the soup makes soup a sort of diet food ... sort of ...

(The photo above is of a different soup.)

What I Found in the Attic

All the members of our family, living here or not, have their own personal attics in this house. How cool is that! Our cape cod has lots of storage tucked under the eaves. We have a common attic and our "individual" ones. A couple of weeks ago I did a major cleaning of one of the rooms in our house, arranged so that the little door to the Gardener's attic had all but been occluded. I freed up the door and crawled in to have a look (Did I mention the downer to this expanse of storage? The doors require one to crawl into the attics and all but one have no source of light).

Back to the Gardener's attic. During my look-around, I discovered an old mirror--an antique I imagined, that we must have bought at some antique shop or garage sale, and put there until we decided where to hang it. Apparently we had forgotten about it. I loved it and wondered why I didn't have a clearer memory of purchasing it. I pulled it out, dusted it off, and brought it downstairs, looking around for the perfect spot to hang it. Did I mention how much I loved it? And what a find it must have been. It's hard to believe I hid it away in the attic.

It was heavy so I knew I could not hang this one myself. The Gardener was invited into the conversation and we determined the right spot. I tried to exercise patience, wondering just when he would find the time to hang it.

Imagine my surprise to come home one day and find it hanging in all its glory. The Gardener, thinking to surprise me by getting it hung, now looked a bit chagrin, fearing he had hung it too high.  I was gracious. "It's level with that picture, and furthermore, YOU can see yourself in it! No problem." (About time that this gentle giant had a mirror he could see into without stooping.)

After I admired it for a few days, one day Eldest Son was hanging out in the den for a full five minutes. "By the way, what's my mirror doing hanging on your wall?"

"Yours? I thought it was an old mirror I bought a long time ago."

"Sorry, Mom, I put that in the attic when I moved out of that apartment. It's no antique, I bought it at  (-- oh no--do you hear a bubble bursting?---) I bought it at ... Walm*rt."

No wonder my memory was dim. There was nothing to remember. I think he may let me keep it.

Transition

One season ends as a new one begins.

(Prayers are needed for a  friend today).

about birthdays

Kind of a big birthday for the Gardener this year, so we celebrated all week long. Rather than a party (he'd rather not, he said), I mentioned to some of his favorite friends that this birthday was occurring and they cooperated with wonderful cards, jokes, cartoons, and emails.  One even took us out for dinner the other night. We had a special meal with the family (the pounded chicken marsala) with cake and trimmings at the beginning of the week and ended with a Christmas home tour and lunch with some pretty special friends. Quite a week! Oh yes, and his big request was a college basketball game, and that happens next week, taking up one of those "prime Christmas weekend potential party nights." Wow, he really is being celebrated.

One friend sent us a quote which I thought was kinda cool: "On our birthdays we celebrate being alive. People can say to us, 'Thank you for being!' Birthday presents are signs of our families' and friends' joy that we are part of their lives ...  Birthdays ... remind us that what is important is ... that we are, here and now. On birthdays let us be grateful for the gift of life." (Henri J.M. Nowen in Bread for the Journey.)

Garlic or the Delivery?

Little One was sitting on my lap during part of Thanksgiving Dinner. I  noticed that she, a very observant child, was really into watching us eat our meal. Her eyes would follow our hands to our mouths and then look at what was on our plates. I picked up a spoon--maybe it was the silvery shine that attracted Little One, but she started to reach for it. Since she has already started a little cereal, I thought an ever so tiny taste of mashed potatoes would be OK to try. (A tale in our family is how our grandfather used to "feed the babies watermelon and the mothers would screech.") 

Did she ever go for those potatoes! And lurched forward for more, opening her little mouth like a bird and swooping towards the spoon as I put on another teeny, tiny bit. No yucky, "what is this" look on her face. Pure delight. Big girl stuff. So she got a little more.  Maybe it was all in the delivery––the shiny spoon was attracting, as was the cool steel against her teething gums. Or maybe it was the garlic!  Anyway, it was definitely one of my favorite things about our Thanksgiving day!

Photo: Little One in her great-grandmother's arms.

postcards from the past

My mother has a wonderful treasure in her closet. My grandmother apparently had saved many of the postcards she received from friends, and then a lot from her then fiancee, my grandfather. Mom put them all into an album and they are fun to look through. The other night my aunt, Mom's sister, was visiting and we had fun reading some of these 100 year-old postcards. My grandfather's were mostly sent from his stations during World War I.  He certainly kept in touch well, and had short, but very sweet things to say to his young lady. I wonder if he knew we would be reading them some day?

 My grandpa and his "wheels." In my mind, this is probably how he went calling on his sweetheart. His horse was named Beauty. The "wheels" I remember is his caddy that had windows that would go up and down with a little button. Very fun to play with, but of course we were only allowed one time up and one time down. :-)

Bouncing Baby B

We had several visitors over the Thanksgiving weekend including this little one!

thankful?

Some of you have read Corrie ten Boom's book  The Hiding Place. If you haven't its worth a read once, if not twice. When Corrie and her sister, Betsey, were in a Nazi concentration camp (Ravensbruck), the conditions were dreadful, of course. Not only were they cold, hungry, dirty, and in way too overcrowded conditions, they were also infested by fleas. They had managed to snuggle in a Bible, and as they read it, they realized that they should be thankful for all things. When Betsey decided that meant to thank God for the fleas, Corrie had a problem with that.

Eventually she gave in and joined her sister in thanking God for this miserable part of their lives. But it was amazing to see what God had planned about the fleas.  Apparently the guards didn't like fleas either. So they stayed away from the barracks the women were in. That meant a lot more freedom for the women---freedom from assault, and freedom to cluster together to study the Bible and to pray. Yes, in the heart of a Nazi concentration camp.

idea for post taken from this guy .

at the foot doc's

The day started in the wee hours as the Gardener had a 6 am medical procedure. Seemed the rest of the day filled up quickly, and late afternoon found us at the foot doctor's for another small procedure. I was rather tired, and wanting just to read my book. But I was very aware of my surroundings. I had never been to a foot doctor waiting room before and was amazed at the variety of people that had something going on with their feet. I made particular note of each one's feet as he or she walked out of the office.

A 70-something woman wheeled in her husband. He immediately lost himself in his news magazine while she registered at the window. She looked exhausted. I was thinking of her small size and how in the world she managed to care for him. A mother and sister brought in their son/brother, a 40 or so year old man with c*rebral palsy. My, they had him in line. Turns out the mother, also in her 70s, had had recent knee surgery. 

But then the most amazing thing occurred. The door opened and it was as if a light filled the room. A beautiful woman in her 50s, well dressed with gorgeous shortly cropped silver hair, sailed into the room. She went right up to the office window and greeted everyone. Obviously she was a regular patient. She asked everyone intentionally about their Thanksgiving plans, and wished them all a happy holiday. I noticed she was wearing a long skirt with nice white sneakers. I looked again and noticed that she had a light limp. And then I looked again and realized she had a brace on one leg for support, and on the other---no leg at all, but an artificial, mechanical leg.

She finally sat down and started talking with the waiting mother-with-the-new-knees in conversation (remember, I had my nose in a book, but obviously wasn't terribly focused on my book.) She ask all about her Thanksgiving plans, down to the details of the menu and who would cook what. What an art she had in engaging others in conversation! Then the mother turned the conversation and asked the silver haired lady questions. "I can't help but notice you have only one leg, yet you are so happy. By watching you today, and how beautiful you are inside and out, I realize my problems are small, and how I need to count my blessings."

The silver haired lady replied in such a gracious manner, "Oh, I can handle this, because I am alive! I have had severe di*betes for years and needed a kidney replacement as dialysis did not work. Oh April Fool's Day some years ago I got a call at 2 am saying they had a kidney and a pancreas for me. My body accepted the transplant beautifully and all was well until I got a blood clot in my foot. They had to amputate my leg (di*betics have poor circulation in their feet, causing many problems, and potential for amputations). But I could so easily have died. Losing a leg is nothing. And it is all the Lord. He got me through it, and HE gives me joy each day."

This woman positively glowed. I felt like I was in the presence of the Lord. It was an experience I will probably never forget.  At this Thanksgiving, though I may fret over some challenges in life, there is SO much to be thankful for. And I am.   Happy Thanksgiving.

Roasting Pigs

Boniface was contemplating our next book club.  Soon after she read The Guernsey Literary and Sweet Potato Peel Pie Society, she came across a book in the trunk of a friend's car that was written by Charles Lamb, an author who is a major player in the Guernsey book. It happened to be the very book where Charles Lamb discusses how to roast a pig--in his handwriting, on a fold-out insert

attached to the book! She concluded this was the book we should read, and we all agreed.

When we met for our book club at Boniface's house on a cold November night, we were warmed by friendship and had many favorite quotes to share. About Charles Lamb: "He could make any homely and familiar thing into something fresh and beautiful." Another:  " ... it is families in sitting rooms or kitchens that thrill me. I can imagine their entire lives from a glimpse of bookshelves, or desks, or lit candles, or bright, soft cushions."

The book is a series of letters between a writer in England, and members of a book club (or "literary society") formed on the island of Guernsey during the German occupation in World War II. It all began through a common love of the author Charles Lamb. The Guernsey folks disobeyed the Germans' rules and roasted a pig, thinking of this very book by Charles Lamb. When they were discovered, they instantly formed a book club to cover their tracks, and had to scurry around collecting a semblance of books. "I wonder how the books got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some sort of 

homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true." The makeshift book club transformed into a thing of beauty: people with little in common besides hard times, who grew to love and care for each other like family.

We in our little book club took time to pray together that night--for a wee baby we all know about who was going to his heavenly Father soon, and for Boniface, our dear friend and leader, on the cusp of orthopedic surgery. Another evening to remember.

Note: our long-distance member, or she seems like one, is also reading or waiting to read our "Potato Peel" book!

the beginning

This holiday season is catching up to us quickly. Suddenly Christmas is five weeks away and Thanksgiving is around the corner. I went to our local WM this morning stupidly thinking an early start would beat the crowds. Ha! First of all I felt a little of the grace of God in every day life as I actually got a shopping cart that had all four wheels working, and weren't squeaking  so loudly that everyone knew I was coming around a corner, and didn't lean to one side or the other. So far so good.

But oh my the food aisles!  Everyone seemed to have a very long list in their hand, and to hear some discussions, no one in the house had cooked for a long time. One family arrived about the time I did--a father, mother, and two not-so-big kids, but able to see over a shopping cart. Each family member took a cart, and I seemed to continually be on the same aisle as they were, so that was four shopping carts to move around since they would plant in front of the canned fruit, or the marshmallows, or something else interesting.

The canned vegetable aisle (and I never did find my jars of tiny, sweet onions) was loaded with a large group, each person with a shopping cart and identical 8 x 11 list. Men, women, children--obviously a group effort.  I wondered if they were cooking for a homeless shelter or something like that.

Turkey, celery, and stuffing in hand, it was very good to be home, though finding room for all the extra stuff in my cupboards took more time than I'd like. Earlier this morning, the Gardener kindly helped me bring out the Christmas tree (yes, gone are the days of searching for just the right one each year), and I'm thankful that 104.7 is already 24/7 Christmas music. The--what I call-- definitive cold outside (18 last night) is welcome for this northerner, and helps to bring in the "holiday" spirit. It's nice to get some things done at home after a busy week.  Next I'm going to try to clean some carpets for the first time on my own, with a do-it-yourself loaned from Susanna. Later I will write about the latest book club.

the ringing of the plate

"I'll be listening for the sound of the ringing of the plate," the old man would tell me in his husky voice, as I discussed dinner plans with him before going down to the kitchen to prepare the meal.

We lived with "Mr. A" in his mansion on the shore of Lake Michigan, north of Chicago, for three years during graduate study. The very  popular British series, Upstairs Downstairs, was still being shown on television at the time, and we felt we were living the part as we stayed in the servants' quarters off the large kitchen. I was chief nurse, cook, and Housekeeper in the historical sense (that is, I had someone clean for me and care for Mr. A--I just organized it all and cooked his main meal.) 

Mr. A lived in his upstairs room, bedridden with Parkinson's in his later days. He was set in his ways--just a bit--and there were certain menus he required me to cook. One of these became my favorite: Veal a la Marsala, (mentioned as cooked with chicken in the post below). Baked Tongue, brains, kidneys, or stomach never become favorites!

My predecessor taught me how to prepare the veal for this dish. I used lots of flour and had to pound the veal with the edge of the beautiful old Sp*de plate (proof of age being the old stamp on the back), until it was paper thin. You definitely could hear the "ringing of the plate" throughout the house. This was quite a process, and somewhat exhausting, leaving me a floured mess. But the rewards of the mouthwatering veal, seared in wine (brought up from the real wine cellar in the basement), broth, and red pepper with mushrooms was "to die for."

No longer living in the "Big House," I now use a more economical meat to make this dish, also Eldest Son's favorite meal. And although I've tried manufactured meat pounders, none does the paper-thin job quite like the wavy edge of this little sp*de saucer (photo above). The Gardener usually comes by and says, "Ah, the ringing of the plate ... like music to my ears."

I ended up with two of these saucers after Mr. A died and his house was sold. What a thrill when his daughter-in-law, who had inherited his full set of Sp*de,  sent me two cups to go with the saucers. Can you imagine the memories that flow when I sip tea out of this very old  cup? 

just yesterday

Today my mother is 87. You wouldn't know it to see her. She is avidly interested in life, and especially now that many of her friends have left this earth, she finds her greatest joy in keeping up with her grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.

For most of my life, I did not think my mother could survive without my father. They had a classic marriage. She was his queen, and my mother loved to care for my dad. How could they ever make it apart? God gently prepared them, when Daddy had to move into a care center  just down the hall and around the corner from my mother's little apartment. Gradually she became more independent and learned to do the money stuff. It was one of those long good-byes.

And l I learned just how strong my mother is when my father did go to heaven three years ago. My mother has done what she has to do, and God has given her much grace.  She misses dad terribly, but has peace written on her countenance.

Since family members are scarce in our fair city these days, we'll just take Mom out to her favorite restaurant tonight (not a fancy one, mind you, she was a preacher's wife and I never knew my parents to spend much money on themselves.)

Happy Birthday, mom! I love you!

Photo: not mine of course: Mom at 20, with dad at the Jersey shore the summer before they married. I'm sure she thinks of this time as "just yesterday."

a coincidence of generosity

The day started out warm and humid with rain and threatening clouds. By the time we were on the train headed uptown the clouds had changed to bright sun. But then, as if a gift withdrawn, the wind and dark clouds furled again across the skies ... only to be replaced once more by sunshine, this time bringing cooler temperatures. Friends were taking us out to dine on a gift card they had received. So generous of them--they could have used the card three times themselves rather than sharing it with friends.

The meal was lovely, and my entree--a favorite Chicken Marsala--was perfect. I boxed up the remains, thinking about the mouth-watering second meal it would make. And now my story splits.

Story One: Walking on the train platform, we were approached by our second panhandler of the day. A quarter for some fast food? That wouldn't buy anything.  My box of food suddenly felt very heavy in my hands. Maybe I should give it to him. But I didn't, sitting it down on the bench next to me as we waited for our train. Once we hopped off the train back at our car, I suddenly realized the box wasn't with me. I had left it on the bench. Serves me right, I thought to myself. Quick lesson here ... and I breathed a silent prayer that panhandler friend would circle back and find the delicious meal and enjoy it for me, as he should have--if I'd been giving.

Story Two: Generous gift card friends headed home, stopping on the way to try and find a pecan pie for a church Thanksgiving dinner the next day. No pies to be found. Then they passed a fruit stand with a "Pecan Pie Sale" sign. Alas, it had just closed. Cash register sales tallied, all in process of being locked up for the day. 

They made an attempt anyway, but the answer was "no," even if cash was offered.  Walking back to the car, our friend noticed that the pie seller was walking after her beckoning her to come back.  "Here," she said,"Take a pie. No charge. Enjoy. They are to die for. You will love it."

Bringer of Possibilities

I loved it when our postman had squeaky brakes. I am usually in tune with the regular sounds in our house and around the neighborhood, but when those brakes squeaked loudly as he stopped at each mail box approaching our house, there was no doubt it was time to get the mail.

The summer I turned 16 we moved from the town I'd always lived in. That's when I began to love getting mail as I'd look for letters from the friends I'd grown up with.  Since then I've moved many times, and keep up with a good number of friends I've "collected" over the years. Now, of course, many more "letters" come via email, but I still love the wonder of anticipation as I walk down to the mailbox.

"On days when I don't drive to the P.O. I'm glad to hear the tires of Mr. Dill's gray station wagon slow down as he approaches our box, then the crunch of gravel, the sound of the box opening and closing. Bruce is the bringer of possibilities--he bringeth and he taketh. He's quite calm about it, but we stop mid-sentence whenever he arrives. We might be working or catnapping, talking on the phone or having lunch, but one of us bolts to the box." (from Jan Kenyon's A Hundred White Daffodils)

I have a friend in town I correspond with on occasion. Usually notes of encouragement. She always sends me wonderful quotes (such as above) on a creative card, with an envelope usually made out of some page of a magazine she knows I would love to see. We share an appreciation for the written word sent through the post. A simple, rather innovative (these days) way of keeping in touch.

Yesterday The Gardener and I got some real mail: a letter telling about a mission trip, newsletters, bills, and three notes of encouragement. One from my boss, one from a woman in our church thanking The Gardener for his work as an elder, and one from my correspondence friend (see her creativity above). In thinking about all this, I'm challenging myself to hand-write one note of encouragement each week.  It's a simple thing, yet powerful. It's amazing what a little missive like that can do in someone's life.

Breathing Through Pain

It is good to have breaks from the intensity of sorrow. I don't think we can breathe unless we do. The grief can become suffocating so that we gasp for a deep cleansing breath, but its as if the pain of a broken rib holds us from inhaling deeply. We need mental breaks to survive.

They come. Minor distractions. Changing the subject, so to speak. Going for a walk, shopping, involving oneself in anything to forget for a few minutes. That's all that's needed. Then when we dig back into the grief again, it's ever so a tiny bit better. A little more bearable.

And so it goes--the pain goes, that is--very little by very little. It dulls one small bite at a time. Those little breaks of rest from our grief--that must be part of the grand scheme of coping and healing. I wonder Who designed that.

photo by lulu

Last Fruits

Here in the south you often get a second crop of tomatoes. By topping leggy plants and sticking the topped tops in the dirt, the roots grow and in time, a fall crop of tomatoes arrives. Since a frost is rumored, I went and harvested what was looking red on the vines, with even more showing a promise of ripening if the weather behaves.  Thank you, Gentle Gardener, for your labors!