apricot sponge

I always called my mother the queen of pudding making!

Saturday was her day to "prepare". Like her mother before her, she spent the morning making sweets for Sunday - and the week to follow, but particularly Sunday. They took the form of cakes, pies, cookies and, always, puddings. Cracker pudding, graham cracker pudding, tapioca, sometimes rice pudding, chocolate and vanilla puddings, caramel pudding, pineapple fluff and the clear winner of the bunch - apricot sponge!

It was always served in a glorious heavy cut-glass bowl.

The preparation involved soaking apricots, cooking them, putting them through a fruit press, adding gelatin to one part and whipping the other. The end result had a gelled apricot bottom, a feathery apricot middle and all topped with swirls of whipped cream.

I'm hyperventilating just typing the words!

And do I make it a lot? Once or twice in fifty years! I think I try to excuse myself saying that I no loner have a fruit press, but that's nonsense. I could improvise. I think it's more that I want to preserve a shining childhood memory.

 And let the queen reign forever.

neighbors

Isn't it interesting how the snow empties houses?

If you live in a house-close community you could go an entire year without talking to any of your neighbors more than the merest chat about the weather and that's only if your coming or going coincides with theirs. We have great neighbors and know a few of them on a social basis and still fewer are close friends. Yet when it snows we're all blood brothers and shovels are our tongues!

My husband had just begun the mammoth task of unearthing his car when new neighbors across the street (husband Japanese, wife-American, kids-adorable) came and offered their help. A two-hour solo job for one  person became 40 minutes with three people digging it. Later, he baked them scones and took them over, warm from the oven.

On the other hand when I was trudging through a neighboring cluster trying to avoid the huge drifts, I heard two young 30 something coo to another snow-shoveling neighbor, "Ooh, you had the baby - when?" And he said, " December 7"! This was January 26. And until I could slog by, I learned that the baby had to be re-hospitalized for some virus in that period of time. I just had to think that we know some sketchy parameters of our neighbors lives, but really we know nothing unless we make the effort.

Speaking of which, a new woman moved in three houses down from us some months ago, and as of the snowstorm, I hadn't even caught a glimpse of her. Walking back from the lake I saw her outside her house and stopped to introduce myself - finally. I learned in just a short conversation that she had lost her mother just a month ago and was having a hard time getting to even ground. We talked for 1/2 hour, despite my freezing toes.

Good snowstorms make good neighbors.

being there

A friend of mine told me that her granddaughter had gotten bitten at daycare - hard enough to see teeth marks.

Now I know that biting is an age-old tactic of the young . But seriously, I have two boys and I can't dream of either one ever doing such a thing. I don't mean they were perfect or didn't fight in any way, but biting just seems to be in such a different category. I would be worried about the amount of aggression/hostility revealed.

But, of course, it happened in day care where a whole universe of copycat activity takes place. I'm sure studies have been done a hundred times over about the contrast of kids raised in daycare, and those who were raised by stay-at-home moms. You certainly must have children who benefited from the stimulation of daycare and thrived there. You certainly must have children who were stunted by the routines of just a regular household.

But in my heart of hearts, I can't help believing that children who are raised within the loving radar of parents guiding, comforting, instructing, joking, supporting them 24/7 turn out differently from those left in purchased hands.

I know there are extenuating circumstances that require daycare. But I would be comforted to know that it's not  just the natural default of modern parents. If you're going to bring a child into this world, do whatever you can to nourish them as completely as you can. And it seems to me that time spent together is  like "apples of gold in pictures of silver."

And probably biting isn't part of that picture.

Say it isn't so

I can truly say, and most thankfully and humbly say, I don't feel the aging process very much at all. I have been most fortunate health-wise and I know it. But one measure of age that stares me in the face is my activity in the snow!

Yesterday when I was out in the deep snow, whenever I go to a place where the "path" - i.e, a semi-trodden down area - ended and I would have to navigate snow that was two feet deep in order to proceed, it was all I could do not to panic! When did that happen??

As kids, the deeper the drift, the more exhilarating! We'd fling ourselves into the snow with such total abandon. The thought of broken bones never even brushed our consciousness! Now, though I refuse to stay inside and have walked every day at the start, middle and end of the blizzard, I walk so very carefully, while visions of fractures dance in my head! I really hate that transformation!

So I guess I will just sigh and accept the vulnerability factor and give thanks that for the large part of my life at this point, I still feel like a kid!

the storm

Snowbound!

Why do we love it so! But love it we do at this household. And we are still in the exhilarated stage of looking out.

Later, when it comes to shoveling, our ecstasy may waver!

Last night as the snow was falling we walked down to Lake Anne to our favorite Greek restaurant, and out of the cold and snow, walked into a world of light, calypso music, food, wine, laughter and community. 

It was the perfect send-off to our blizzard celebration.

Still better, was to walk home in the darkened white, with only the quiet swish of snow to guide us home.

mother

"She was bendable light - she shone around every corner of my day."

I can't quite remember where I picked up that quote, but I think of my mother every time I see it. Her light wrapped around me completely, always, still.

She wasn't perfect, but she was so doggedly optimistic. She'd sing, "let the merry sunshine in" and she did.

She didn't truck fools, but she could tear up over a sentimental card.

She was the church librarian and knew every single child's first name and greeted them personally.

She quoted Longfellow and Mother Goose.

She played as hard as she worked.

And laughed.

And loved.

Her spirit bends toward me each day.

And keeps me safe.

weather or not

Snow.

Why do we love or hate it? I always feel a kinship when I see a  fellow traveler's eyes light up at the prospect of a storm! But of course that's all woven into your personal fabric by experience.

Snow in my childhood - if it was bad enough - meant that our two-room schoolhouse closed down. It also meant building snowmen, having snowball fights, building forts, playing snow tag and sledding on Kliney's hill if you had older brothers and sisters to take you there. The airborne zing of taking an icy bump as you sped down the long slope provided all the inner heat you needed to stay warm despite frozen mittens and toes that suffered inside rubber boots!

But now, I most love the silence of a big snow.

Here in the noisy suburbs, the snow slowly shuts down all activities, one by one, and there is just a solemn quiet.

And just for a little while, you can be still.

And try not to think about all the shoveling to follow!

Martin Luther King Day

I remember very clearly where I was when I got the news of his assassination. I was driving home from an evening sewing class (what a leap of misguided optimism) in Ohio, and had the radio on when the bulletin came through. The horror was nearly overwhelming. And had I known my beloved Bobby Kennedy was to follow two months later, I would really have thought the world was grinding down to a disastrous gear.

Growing up in pure white Lancaster County, black acquaintances were non-existent. I do remember driving into Philly at a very young age and being astonished at seeing black children! My encounters with black people were mainly of the Amos and Andy and Aunt Jemima types and it never occurred to me that they came in small sizes!! I was a complete cultural innocent.

Since then, my path has been woven with people of all cultures, colors, voices and I am far the more complete person because of it.

But surely Dr. King would be saddened to see how his vision is still so stalemated, nearly fifty years later. Undeniable progress has taken place, but oh, the places we could still go!

turn your radio on

I often wonder what radio means to people in 2016.
 
Radio, in my childhood, was our link to the world. My mother, of all unlikely candidates as women were so passive and subservient in my conservative culture growing up, was the one who spearheaded our radio listening. From dawn until dusk the radio sent out the news of the world in our household.
 
The very first program in the morning that I can remember was Don McNeill's Breakfast Club. I just looked it up and it ran from 1933 -1968! McNeill holds the record for having NBC's longest emcee job. The proclaimed - 4 calls to breakfast (da-ta-da!) featured a march around the breakfast table!
 
And from there the day was embroidered with Arthur Godfrey, Art Linkletter, Paul Harvey, Lowell Thomas, and of course the radio sit-coms in the evening like The Great Gildersleeve, Ozzie and Harriet, Fibber McGee and Molly, Jack Benny, Hazel, etc., etc. We were highly entertained - and informed! The world was ushered right in through the transom of our simple home in Hinkletown.

And while today's audience may scoff, those hours of listening layered coat after coat of cultural knowledge that particularly we rural people wouldn't have gotten otherwise.

But here's the thing - today for the first time I thought of how imaginative radio is - a little like books! The words are either conjured up by eyes or ears, but it's up to the heart and mind to give them shape and texture. In graphic offerings, the work is all done for you.

Long live the radio!

see you in the funnies

I came upon a Smithsonian encyclopedia of comics in our library donations - what a treasure trove!

From my earliest memories comics were a big thing in our house - not the books, but in the newspapers. Somehow when they migrated from the daily newspaper to actual books they acquired the scent of sin! That particular sin I think was generated more from fellow church members than God Himself, however. But somehow, if they were delivered to your door in the daily newspaper, they were fair game.... and we devoured them. Not only that, but I remember Mother talking about how my grandfather loved certain comic strips and that would take you back to the early 1900's. So, thank God for the sanctity of the daily newspaper!

Whenever we were gone on long trips, one of the most exciting things was upon our return to spread out the newspapers on the linoleum floor of the front room, lie stretched out on our bellies side by side and get caught up on the comics - particularly the continuous sagas like Kerry Drake - my, didn't he get into a peck of trouble and how handsome he was!! And of course Nancy and Sluggo and Rollo the Rich Kid. Could life have been more linear?!

But this Smithsonian book has strips from Mother's era - and mine before I could really read - like, Our Boarding House, Bringing up Father, Moon Mullins, Little Orphan Annie, Mutt and Jeff. The figures brought back a rush of undefined but powerful memories ! Then in later years I followed to some extent Dick Tracy, Lil Abner, Alley Oop and Prince Valiant. But those were mere glances compared to the intensity of Kerry Drake.

And still presently, a day without a peek at my favorite strips in the morning is just a bit lopsided.

 I need that smile, however fleeting, to round off the edges of my day.

so it begins

These mornings when the temps are low and the winds blow, I have to screw my courage to the sticking point, put on a few extra duds and get moving! Last night when I heard the winds howling, I thought surely this was a morning for sane, comfortable yoga and weights indoors, but when I stepped out on the stoop for the paper and felt the rush of icy air and sunshine, I knew I had to go!

Effort but payoff.

 My morning communion with the birds, lake, squirrels, sky and soul flows through my veins the whole day urging the routine onward  to holy ground.

endings

A friend of mine at work doesn't want to hear about illness, and certainly not death. I see her facial features freeze when bad news hits the air and soon she walks away from the conversation.

It seems to me that if a child is led through the natural path of death from an early age, he/she will grow into its contours naturally and the capacity for absorbing tragedy increases with age. The shielded child facing death abruptly as an adult is at a great disadvantage.

I remember as a four-year-old when I was at the funeral of another 4 year-old friend from church, I truly thought that I would see the inside of his body and was just bracing myself for the horror! I kept asking my mother questions until she told me to just be quiet and watch and we would talk later. How relieved I was to see him just lying there in a silk-lined box, granted very pale, but just looking as though he was sleeping - no blood, gore or bones. And I saw all the tears and sorrow and I'm sure I had a thousand questions afterward that my mother answered as capably as she could.

But the path to understanding was being constructed, one block at a time. Once in a college essay I traced each death of my childhood and slowly examined the pattern of acceptance, turning each incident round and round, fleshing out the concept.

Later, my father's sudden death was the hardest. But how thankful I was to draw on the very first encounter of death rituals and walk the path of sorrow, ever adding to my own foundation of coping with loss.

Death is always hard, regardless of the preparation. But facing it squarely helps.

And so does that evening star shining brightly.

gridiron gridlock

Yes it's football madness time again!

Watching that game last night until nearly midnight I really questioned more than ever exactly what this game is all about, because that one was u-g-l-y!

But unquestionably, exciting.

Yet I'm getting to the place (did it actually take me this long) that I just can't enter into the violence anymore. The sheer body toll is staggering. And the machismo runs as freely as the beer! There is so much beauty in the plays, the strategies, the execution - but now that is all getting blurred by the violence - both on the field and in the stands. Cheering when an injured opponent is trucked off the field should have gone out of style in the Roman arenas! Are we regressing in terms of civility on every front?

I know it's only January, but I'm already longing for the long cool draught of diamond magic that our boys of summer always deliver - and usually with a whole lot less mayhem!

sweet dreams

Dreams. To tell or not to tell!

I remember from my earliest childhood days, coming down the narrow staircase and into the kitchen where there might be one, several, or none of my family eating breakfast as that meal wasn't an all-sit-down occasion during the week as were all the other meals, and if there was a body there, I would begin to tell my dream of the just-ended night. Without fail, if my oldest brother was present he would say, "no, we don't want to hear about it"! I was always crushed because I had some doozies to relate!

Although my dreams are rarely frightening, I can still remember one that terrified me - about some strange, ominous man on our back porch who called up to me as I was looking out of the open slat of our hidden "clubhouse" under the barn rafters, that he was coming to get me and sew me up in a bag. I screamed and of course there was no sound! I remember if as if it happened yesterday rather than some 65 years ago!

Then there were the wonderful times I was flying above the buildings, just flapping my arms to stay afloat. Such an exquisite soaring sensation - such power and freedom.

But now, often, when I try to catch my dreams upon awakening, they are elusive, filmy tails I try to grab on to and they are just beyond my reach.

Other times I am blessed with a time with my dad, or my mother, or some dear friend who has passed on to whatever lies beyond. And they are so real. I absolutely cherish those times.

And if you drop in, I'll tell you all about it!

the same only different

On the rare summer day, my brothers and father would  travel to Rock Hall MD, charter a boat and go deep-sea fishing with a group of men and boys. Evening would bring the country men home sunburned, with a mess of gleaming rock fish. I suppose Mother simply floured them and fried them in Crisco. However she did it, they were delicious! She would always urge us to eat them with a piece of buttered bread in hand to guard against bones getting stuck in your throat! I remember clearly the occasions the sticking happened and how terrified I was until they dislodged and went down the chute! So the rare fish was a mixed blessing.

Last night I had rock fish that tasted like that childhood derivative at a restaurant that just opened up in town. I'm hoping it wasn't a fluke because I'm up for many return engagements.

So, no bones, no sunburned relatives, no heroic stories, just lovely tasty rock fish melting in my mouth.

And no accompanying Sunbeam (with the little girl with golden curls piled on top her head, gathered together with a blue bow) white bread slathered in butter! Focaccia dipped in garlic oil somehow suggested a different era!

The usual

There was the open menu.

Outside it was grey blustery cold and the thick mug of coffee felt as good to my nose as my throat. In front of me were delicious choices: French toast with apples, blueberry pancakes, maple syrup waffles, sausage gravy on home fries.....on and on. My appetite lingered on each one, savoring the concept but then with the rapid assurance of William Tell's arrow splitting the apple, I chose eggs! Always. Two eggs over easy, home fries, crispy bacon. I cannot pry myself away from that order - regardless whether I'm at Virginia Kitchen or the Hilton. That has got to be as pathetic as it is boring!

But for me, the day that begins with the golden flow of eggs on toast or crisp potatoes it the day that is sure to smile back at me. On the days when I succumb to sugar, after one bite I rue the choice.

There are just some things that shouldn't be messed with.

a rose is a rose, even in January

December courted Spring
but January turned a cold shoulder.

In my neighbor's garden,
whose house we are tending
while she's in Dublin,
a single pink  rose
confused by the foreplay,
bloomed.

We snipped it
just before the mercury dropped,
and placed it in a blue vase on the window sill
backed by frosty panes.

Now amid the scarves, coats,
mittens, and caps,
we pause
and inhale
pink,
fragrant
summer.

Spares

I have a friend who has replacements of 3 hips (one surgery failed immediately), 2 knees, 1 shoulder (other one pending in a month) and 2 carpal tunnel surgeries. And her beautiful smile never falters.


When I realize how every scrap of these outrageously complex concoctions we call bodies can go wrong, I am numb with gratitude for my whole parts.

Too soon

In the space of a day I learned of the deaths of three acquaintances.

One was a colleague who I knew only slightly but she had been in the library system for years. She was talented, beautiful and gracious.

One was a volunteer I hired and also was a member of my book club. Despite the uneven hand life dealt her, she had a dogged optimism. She lived goodness - it shone through her.

One was a library patron since 1993 and day after day he would burst through the doors and say "How are you, darling?" He read voraciously. His stories from the Foreign Service were endless. If you weren't smiling before he entered, you were by the time he left. He adored opera, his family, words, food, wine,  travel, the world .... and tears came as easily as laughter. I just wrote to his wife - "I'm sure he's now a part of a great gladness somewhere."

Life.

Live it.

Sauerkraut

Sauerkraut. I begin salivating at the mere word.

In my earliest childhood, I think it was associated mainly with hot dogs.... you know, a heated soft white roll, hot dog snugged inside and loaded with steaming sauerkraut and ketchup over everything. Nitrates, sugar, unmentionable animal parts and fat - absolutely scrumptious!

But in later years, sauerkraut became the vehicle to usher in your new year. Pork and sauerkraut dinners sprang up everywhere in the county. Fire-halls flashed marques with the tidings; churches tolled the news. And gradually I incorporated them into my kitchen. New Year= sauerkraut.

At first it was just the straight roast. Now I accessorize the humble swine and sauerkraut with apples, scallions, brown sugar, vermouth (or gin), shallots, a bit of hot peppers and lots of simmering time. When it arrives at fall-apart goodness, I serve with mashed potatoes.

Does it get any better than that?

The new year bows to such an exquisite culinary delight and the 364 following days just simply have to fall into pleasant lines.

grapes

I didn't dare write on January 1 because that would indicate resolve! I know far better than to assume that I will write faithfully every day of 2016 so I had to skip the first day for sure! Almost every day I think -" I should write about that" - and just as quickly that thought is replaced with another and - poof! gone!

Well, I can't change the sure-fire arc of aging, but I will try to be a bit more faithful. Its not that I think someone out there is holding their breath for my next dazzling insight, but I do feel that I owe it to myself to prime the literary pump.

And speaking of pumps, remember using old-time outdoor pumps? I especially remember the one at my Grandma Weaver's house that stood next to the grape arbor. Often the first time you pulled down on the handle -(and mind you, I was so small the upward motion lifted me off my feet!) - nothing would come out of the spout, at best a wheeze and gurgle. But when you persisted with a few additional pumps the water would burst out, with a gasp of air mixed in, and then finally that sweet, pure water would flow smoothly. What an amazing concept - to have to exert a bit of effort for the simple act of flowing water!

And while that water usually just slaked our childhood gaming thirst... or washed off the stickiness of the Concord grapes - "suck grapes" as we called them - that we had pillaged from the laden vines nearby, for my grandmother and mother it represented quite a different story. That water had to be pumped for everything, - washing dishes, doing laundry, cleaning, ironing, scrubbing floors and on and on. My back aches just thinking about it. Just the simple act of living took so much effort such a short time ago in our country and still does in many areas of our planet. Hard to think about.

So instead I will think about Grandma's grapes with their sweet nectar and the tart squishy green centers that lay on your tongue as you sucked out every bit of goodness and then tossed the useless shell. May 2016 be filled with such small delicious pleasures!