Recipes That Feed the Soul

When I moved away to Texas nearly 30 years ago, I asked my mom to write down her recipes for my favorite foods.  I wanted to be able to make her apple pie and lasagne and summer salad and potato soup and so many other dishes that she so effortlessly put on our table.  Mom was an excellent cook, and I aspired to be like her one day.  I made a list of recipes I wanted, and at some point, Mom copied them down for me.  I can imagine her sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by her cookbooks and recipe cards, carefully writing down the ingredients for her best meals. She made sure to put the name of the recipe, her name, how many it served and often put a smiley face at the end or wrote "Good luck!" after.  She enclosed each card in a plastic sleeve to keep the recipe free from splashes.  When she was finished, I had about 20 of my favorite recipes in a small plastic box ready for my trip to adulthood.

I referred to those recipes often.  We didn't have the internet to look up new ways of preparing pasta or chicken, so it was either those little note cards or one of the two cookbooks she got me: Where's Mom Now That I Need Her? or the tried and true Betty Crocker's Cookbook.

As I ventured out into life, I would come across delicious dishes at company cookouts or officers' wives' potlucks.  I'd often ask for the recipe for those foods and added the cards to my box.

While stationed in Texas, the parting gift when a woman left 1/8 CAV with her husband was a wooden recipe box with Texas bluebonnets painted on the front, and each officer's wife would add her favorite recipe to the box.  By the time I left, the commanding officer was single, and the tradition had floundered.  I did get the bluebonnet recipe box but no recipes from the other women.  Didn't matter.  I had my favorites ready to go inside when I got it home.  I have added to that box over the years, and it now contains all of my favorite foods written by hand by the women I've loved.

Of course, there are Mom's recipes, added to over the years, when I called her for how to make party mix or spaghetti sauce or a particular cheese ball.  She'd write down the ingredients and the steps and put it in the mail the next day.  I have Aunt Jeri's butter mints recipe.  (How many showers did I help roll those out for?  I can still remember pressing them down with a fork and hoping they didn't break in the process...)  Amy McDonald's sugar cookie recipe.  Hands down,  The.  Best.  Ever.  Julie Dalton's Swiss Pie that became Jack Pie by accident and a family favorite.  Cheryl Hahn's banana bread that I always use when my bananas get over ripe.  Betty Weber's sweet potato casserole, a staple at Thanksgiving...The best of so many women is in this little box.

With today's technology, it's so easy to pop open the laptop and google how to make anything.  There are always pictures, videos, and reviews for each amazing option.  I even have a folder on my computer with my favorite recipes, and I add to it all the time, but it's not the same.

Some of the recipes in my box were written nearly 30 years ago.  Mom's been gone almost 14 years, and I haven't seen Julie or Cheryl or Amy in 25 years, but  I can put a face with the handwriting on the card and remember when those dishes fed me body and soul.  Sure I can find anything I want to cook on the internet, but there's nothing like opening up my bluebonnet recipe box and thumbing through all of the cards inside, seeing the handwriting of the women who've filled my life with good food and good friendship and making those dishes and thinking of them.

Christmas Letter 2018

Christmas 2018

Have you ever fallen asleep while laying in the middle of a parking lot at midnight gazing up at the Milky Way?

Underneath your beach towel, the asphalt is still warm from the day, but the evening air is cool after the heat of the afternoon.  Crickets and frogs and owls serenade you from the edge of the surrounding forest as the stars slowly brighten before your eyes.  The Big Dipper comes into view. Orion’s Belt. There’s the Little Dipper and Polaris.  Could that be Venus, or is it Mars?  Is that a shooting star or a satellite? 

And as you lay there next to the four people who mean more to you than anything else in the world, with no cell phone service or television to distract you, you begin to contemplate the glory of creation, to think about how very infinitesimal you are in this incredibly infinite universe.  You realize that what matters most is right here and right now with these people in this place.  You feel connected to all of the hundreds of millions of people who have looked up at these very same stars for millennia, and you let the stress of 21^st century life slip away. 

You talk a little, not much though.  Nothing more than, “Did you see that shooting star?” or, “Look!  There’s the Seven Sisters constellation!” or simply, “Oh wow!”  The time between words spreads out until all you hear are the sounds of the night and the slow, quiet breathing of those around you.

And then time stands still, and the sky becomes one with the asphalt, and you are floating, falling, connected to those four people by an invisible, unbreakable cord that reaches out beyond you, and connects you to everyone who has ever gazed at the night sky in wonder, and those who will someday do the same.  And you feel yourself letting go, and peace washes over you.

At some point, you realize you’re all sleeping in the parking lot of Mammoth Cave National Park, and it’s well after midnight, and you should probably get up and go to your cabin so you don’t get run over by some late-arriving RV.  But you don’t want to break the spell of being surrounded by the people you love, so you linger a little bit longer while everyone else sleeps, drinking in the miracle that is this life, this place, these people.  And all you feel is love.

That is what I wish for you this holiday season…wonder and peace and love.

Merry Christmas!

NOW is better than THEN

I love reenacting. I love the clothes, the manners, the slow way of life, and pretending to be someone who lived nearly two centuries ago. So much about stepping back in time is just really, really fun, and we tend to romanticize how things were back in the old days.

And then every now and then, I am reminded, slapped in the face reminded, why NOW is so much better than THEN.

Today, while doing some genealogical research, I stumbled across a compilation of causes of death for people who lived in Grayson County, KY, where my ancestors had lived since the early 1800s. I began scrolling through the years to see if I could find any of my people. I ran across a couple, but what I found was one of the main reasons I am so glad to be alive now instead of then: healthcare.

Looking at the lists, one of the first things that struck me was how very, very young most of the people who died were. Babies, children, and teenagers made up the majority of deaths in several years. Hardly any people had "old age" listed as cause of death. Instead, what was listed time after time after time were deaths from illnesses that are basically non-existent (or easily cured) in today's world...typhus...scarlet fever...croup...whooping cough...fever...worms...diphtheria...measles...so many deaths that are preventable today. So many lives gone so very young. There were families that lost two and three children to typhus or scarlet fever. One family lost 5 family members. Another lost 4 children. My own great-grandmother lost one child to typhus and the other to the flu. I saw all of those causes of death listed and thanked God for vaccines.

Many people died from "milk sickness," which is caused by drinking milk from cows who have eaten the snakeroot plant, the same thing that killed Abraham Lincoln's mother. One family lost a father and 2 children. Another lost a mother and 3 kids. Just from drinking milk.

As I sat there skimming those names and ages and causes of death, I felt blessed to live during a time when so much illness and death can be prevented, when my kids are safe from measles, mumps, and rubella, diphtheria, pertussis (whooping cough), and tetanus, from typhus and scarlet fever and worms and croup. I thought of the night Emily had a croup attack, and we gave her a breathing treatment, but her lips started turning blue anyway, and we called 911. She got to ride to the hospital in an ambulance and come home the same night. What if that was not available to us? It makes me wonder what future generations will marvel at when they look back on our causes of death.

So, while I love dressing up and pretending it is 1816, I am ever so grateful to live in 2018.

http://genealogytrails.com/ken/grayson/graysoncountydeaths.html

Hanging Up My Hat

I'm about to lose my job.  I've had it since August of 2001.  Sometimes I've loved it, but there were many times I hated it.  It's been inconvenient, patience-testing, and the hours have sucked.  I've done this job in the rain and snow and heat and when I was sick and exhausted and had 1000 other things to do, but now that it's ending, I am grieving the loss of driving my kids around.

I began taking my kids to school when Kyle started kindergarden.  Kyle could have taken the bus, but school was close, and we saved several hundred dollars a year by me driving, so I drove.  I was pregnant with Emily at the time, and Claire was just 2 1/2.  I remember dropping Kyle off at school the first morning with Claire strapped in her carseat in the back, and she cried, "I want Kyle!" as we pulled out of the parking lot.  A couple of months later, Emily was born, and I had three kids in carseats in the back of the minivan.  I became an expert at finding the lost pacifier along the side of Emily's carseat while stopped at a red light.  Pretty soon, I realized it was a better option to put Kyle next to Emily and Claire in the way back, so he could help hold a bottle if Em got fussy before we got where we were going.

I drove them to and from school for awhile, and then their dad took them in the mornings, and I picked up each afternoon.  We carpooled with a neighbor for a few years, taking turns driving two or three days each week...Dads in the mornings; moms in the afternoons.  I sat in the afternoon parking lot for hours of my life, waiting for my kids to come out with the bell.  I could tell if it had been a good day or a bad day by the looks on those sweet faces.  Sometimes they grinned with exciting news...an A on a test, spelling bee champion, a lost tooth.  Sometimes they crumpled and tears spilled if it was a not-so-good day...a card flipped to yellow, a snub at lunch, a bad test grade.  No matter.  I hugged them when I saw them, and I knew I'd hear all about their day when we got in the car for the ride home.  I was so glad I was driving on the day of the Sandy Hook massacre because all I wanted to do was hold my kids, and I cried when I saw them coming across the parking lot.

During these years, I not only drove to school, I took the kids to guitar practice, dance class, and football, soccer, volleyball, field hockey, lacrosse, and basketball practices held at schools and churches around town. I drove to field trips and skating parties and sleepovers, and when they got older, dates and movies and Friday night football games.  One of my favorite memories is one night when the van was full of Emily's friends belting out songs from "Newsies" even though none of them except Emily had ever seen the show.  My kids knew that I was willing to drive them and their friends to wherever they needed to go, and I always had a van full of smiling faces, and they always thanked me for driving.  My parents had driven me everywhere, and I, in turn, wanted to do the same for my kids.  On many days, I'd put 50 or 60 miles on the van just driving within a 10 mile radius of my house.  I tried not to have them eat dinner in the van, but sometimes they did.  And poor Emily spent so much of her early life strapped into her carseat while I took Kyle and Claire places, it's a wonder she learned to walk at all.

When Kyle started high school, I was back to morning driving.  Kirk still took the girls to school, and we carpooled to both places, having to coordinate my high school days with my grade school days so that all the kids were covered.  My calendar was color coded to make sure I didn't forget to pick up or drop off anyone.  I actually loved driving to St. X, hearing Kyle and Evan recount the latest Coach Hines video, imitating him berating Yamanashi.  I learned that if I stayed silent, they almost forgot I was in the car and would talk about things like I wasn't there.  You can learn a lot driving kids around!  Pick up from high school football, wrestling, or rugby practice at evening rush hour was never fun.  The boys smelled bad and were tired, and the ride home was mostly silent.  Still, sometimes they talked or shared a moment from their day.  It was nice to just be in the car with Kyle for 30 uninterrupted minutes since he was gone from home most of the time.

I loved sitting in the parking lot at St. X at dismissal and watching the boys pour out of school, pulling off their ties and untucking their shirts, backpacks slung over their shoulders or books on their hips. They'd go to their cars, throw their things in the backseat and head out, windows rolled down, hollering at friends.  The difference between freshman and senior is never so obvious as in the parking lot after school.  The last day of my St. X carpool duty was a sad day for me.  I tried to take it all in, waiting for Kyle to walk out the cafeteria doors.

Kyle was driving himself to school by the time Claire started at Sacred Heart.  We had another carpool to SHA, and Kirk still drove Emily in the mornings to Holy Trinity.  The girls were always chatty, and, again, I learned that silence is the best way to get the scoop.  Sometimes I'd pull up to get Claire, and she'd be standing there with two or three friends, a smile on her face, asking if they could come home with us or if I could drop someone off on the way.  I didn't mind.  I was glad to be the mom she knew she could count on to help out.

I drove Claire to volunteer out off Poplar Level Road on Wednesdays.  Some days I had to sit in the Holy Trinity parking lot for an hour to get a spot in the first row so that I could get Emily first and then head to SHA so Claire could get to her volunteer work on time.  There was a lot of planning involved to make sure everyone got where they were supposed to be.  It was exhausting.

Claire started driving to school senior year, and she took Emily to and from on most days.  It was actually weird not to have to drive to school, and I kind of liked it.  There were days I'd have to pick up Emily from SHA, and I was still taking her to dance class and play practice, but the driving was not constant like it had been in earlier years.

This year with Claire away at college, I drive Emily to and from school every day.  We listen to "Are You Smarter Than Dingo" every morning and marvel at how dumb people really are.  Sometimes we listen to pop on the radio, sometimes country, sometimes her CDs of "Dear Evan Hanson," or "Hamilton" or "Heathers."  I pick her up in the afternoons either from school or rehearsal and hear all about her day.  This week it was how she spoke out against "juuling" and vaping.  Two weeks ago, it was about all of the issues that happened on sophomore retreat and what grades she got on her geometry test.  I drive her to voice lessons and dance class and drop her off at rehearsal for whatever play she is in at the time.  "Mom," she'll say, "do you want to hear the new song I learned today?" and of course I alway say yes, and then she will belt out the newest song in her repertoire.

After the audition for "Pippin" a couple of months ago, I saw her face when she came out of St. X and knew she'd burst into tears as soon as she got in the car.  She had forgotten the words to the audition song and had to ask to restart.  She knew it was a death sentence and thought she'd never get a part.  She cried all the way home.  Turned out not to be a big deal because she got a great role with a solo, but I was glad to be there to pick her up that day.

Emily has her permit now and will get her restricted license in a month or so.  She will be able to drive herself wherever she needs to go, and my job will be done.  Three kids, three schools, three minivans and thousands of miles later, I will hang up my chauffeur's hat and call it quits.  Breaks my heart.  I will miss the smiling faces, the stories in the car, singing Broadway tunes, and the uninterrupted minutes when it's just my kids and me.  Precious time it has been, gone way too soon.

The Morning After Christmas

In the quiet of the morning on the day after Christmas, remains of the holiday abound.  The tablecloth on the dining room table still holds crumbs from yesterday's dinner, the candles burned down halfway in their holders, a stray napkin and an empty glass sit waiting to be cleaned up.  The leaves remain in, stretching the table to its maximum length, filling the dining room from side to side.  Unused Christmas plates and cups, plastic forks and holiday platters collect on one end until the next trip downstairs puts them away until next year.

On the counter in the kitchen, dishes rest after air-drying overnight because we just didn't feel like drying them by  hand.  Things remain out of place, rearranged to make room for yesterday's spread.  The coffee pot is across the room on a different counter, and the fruit bowl remains upstairs and out of the way.  A carton of soft drinks, mostly empty, waits to be returned to the garage refrigerator, and the candy and cookies sit on the hutch, mostly uneaten, because we either ate too much to care for dessert or decided that peppermint ice cream was the better use of calories.

A few stray presents remain wrapped and under the tree, reminding us that not everyone we love was here yesterday.  Bits of torn paper and ribbon peak out from under a chair where they were pushed during the gift-giving frenzy.  New socks and pajamas and sweaters and books wait in piles in corners and behind the sofa, ready to be taken out of their packaging and worn or read.  The puzzle on the game table is finished, and an empty can of Diet Coke and a stray piece of party mix sit next to the puzzle box.  On the secretary, a camera waits for the holiday photos to be downloaded, to remind us of another year come and gone.

I turn the tree on again, not ready for Christmas to be over, and sit on the sofa sipping a second cup of coffee.   The kids still sleep in their rooms upstairs, and I'll stay in my pajamas as long as possible.  Clean up will be slow, if at all, because leaving things out extends the party and keeps the holiday spirit alive for another day.

My Cousin Donna

My cousin, Donna, died yesterday.  Colleen and I had gone to visit her in the morning, not knowing that she was so close to death.  We left thinking we'd see her again in a few days, and we were not prepared for the phone call that came last night.

When we got to Donna's room, she was sitting in a wheelchair, bent over, because she said it helped her breathe better.  She would answer our questions, but that was about it.  She was sick.  She was tired.  She said she just wanted to sleep.

A physical therapist was with her.  She had gotten Donna up and dressed and out of bed.  She said it was only the second time she'd worked with Donna, and I looked at my cousin and thought, "God, how I wish you could have known her like she was!"

This is the Donna I wanted to tell her about...the Donna that I will remember:

A cousin who took 3 little girls for sleepovers at her apartment and hid presents around the rooms for really fun scavenger hunts; who knew Crazy Foam was a favorite; who had bendy straws and made blue milk for breakfast.

A cousin who made polkadot ceramic mushrooms for those 3 little girls and Christmas ornaments for all the cousins one year.  (Mine still hangs on my tree.)

A cousin who let us use her house for our parents' 25th wedding anniversary, who probably paid for most of it, since we were young, but who never let on like we needed to pay her for anything.

A cousin who hosted bridal showers and baby showers; who handmade all of the invitations, each one different from the other, with teapots and flowers and ribbons; who gave the best, most perfect presents...a basket of pretty towels and washcloths rolled up with goodies tucked inside...diapers and baby toys and onesies made into a "cake" or a wreath...an Easter basket with a bunny book and then the bunnies to go with it...

A cousin who could always be counted on to bring not one, but six, pies to Thanksgiving dinner; who made the best potato casserole; who insisted on bringing all of those things and artichoke dip as well.

A cousin who always brought the cutest little hostess gift whenever she came to my house, even if she was bringing six pies, potato casserole, and artichoke dip.

A cousin who loved to go to lunch with cousins at the cutest places in town and then browse antique and gift shops after.

A cousin who filled 100 Easter eggs with candy and quarters and the occasional dollar bills to hide for a massive egg hunt where everybody wins.

A cousin who sent birthday cards to my kids with $5 tucked inside.

A cousin with a knack for decorating, who loved pottery and baskets and colorful chickens and little brown rabbits; who adored teapots filled with the flowers that she grew in her yard.

A cousin who was more like a sister or an aunt or a friend, who would always help if I needed anything, who loved my kids, who delighted in giving, who was always there until now.

I know this is the way of things.  That people die.  Families change.  Life goes on.  But damn, it just leaves a great big hole where they used to be. 

A Time Before Mass Shootings

I was thinking tonight that I remember a time before mass shootings. The first one I remember happened when I was in high school when someone went into a McDonald's in California and killed 22 people, but it was such an anomaly and so far away, that it didn't really register with me.


Then in 1989, a mass shooting happened in my town. The father of a friend was killed by the father of a boy I went to high school with. Seven other people were killed. That woke me up. It was hard to believe that something like this could have happened in my town to people I knew.


Two years later, I had moved to Texas and was teaching seventh grade in the Killeen Independent School District. One afternoon during a staff meeting, the secretary interrupted with the tragic news that a man had driven his truck into the neighborhood Luby's restaurant and killed 24 people. Teachers from the district were killed. Soldiers from Ft. Hood were shot. I worked for the school district. My fiancee was stationed at Ft. Hood. As I drove home, I had to pass the exit where Luby's was located. Traffic was blocked on the highway, and we had to take the access road to pass. There was a helicopter parked on the highway, which was packed with police cars and ambulances. It was a mile from my house.


Mass shootings became more frequent. Maybe it was the ability to get hands on more powerful weapons or maybe it was that cable gave us 24/7 news about them. Maybe it was both. The term "going postal" entered our vernacular. I started to feel less safe.


Then the school shootings started. Westside Middle School. Thurston High School. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook Elementary School. For God's sake, Sandy Hook.


Shootings at malls. Twice again near Killeen at Ft. Hood. In a temple. In a church. At a movie theater. At a Christmas party. A health clinic. A night club. An outdoor concert. The list goes on.


Places we should be safe. Places we should not be afraid. But I am afraid now. I was at an outdoor concert last week. It was crowded with thousands of people. The music was great. Everyone was chill. But my thoughts went to, "What if someone open fires? Where should I run?" When my kids go to Waterfront Wednesday or Forecastle or the Derby, I worry about general safety like drunk drivers or fights, but I really worry about someone opening fire on the crowd. I cannot relax until I know they are home.


I was at the Pegasus Parade last year when someone shot someone right across the street from where I was sitting. I heard, "Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!" and thought it was a weird time to be shooting off firecrackers. Then I saw people fleeing the area. I froze. It was like slow motion. I remember thinking, "Wait...was that gunfire?" and just standing in one spot, packing up my folding chair and trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Then a police officer yelled, "Run!" and I came out of my fog and took off running. I hid behind a car in a used car lot. I had no idea what to do.


And just as my kids do not remember a time when we were not at war, they also do not remember a time when mass shootings were not common. We have had 1,516 mass shootings in 1,735 days. They happen so often that we only hear about the big ones now. Nine people died in a shooting in Plano, TX last month. I barely remember hearing about it. Twenty five people were shot in Little Rock, AK in July. Six people died in Orlando in June. Eight people died in May in Mississippi. Fifteen people shot and two people killed in Cincinnati in March.  These are just a few from 2017, and I don't remember hearing about any of them.

And tonight we have 59 people dead and 527 people wounded. It took one man 10-15 minutes with a gun that fired off 600 rounds a minute to cause this massacre. He had 42 guns in his hotel room and house. What regular person needs that? I go from being overwhelmed and numb to being outraged and angry. We have a huge gun problem in this country, and nobody is willing to even talk about solutions. How many more schools and churches and malls and theaters and concerts have to become killing grounds before we talk? How many more moments of silence and candlelight vigils and "thoughts and prayers" comments do we have to have before people say ENOUGH? This was not how we grew up, and it's not how our children should grow up either.  They deserve so much better than this.