Letters

The value of teaching children the skill of cursive handwriting has been the subject of debate for some time now. I am not joining that debate. I have an opinion, of course, but that is not what I want to write about...exactly.

It is obvious, by now, that I love pulling out yellowed cards and clippings from Bruce's mom's recipe box and paging through her many cookbooks. I like holding the handwritten notes and knowing that she held them too. Some of them are written in Mom's very neat and distinctive script. Others are hurriedly jotted down with a pencil--sometimes leaving out pertinent details.

These just-for-her notes are actually the ones that I enjoy the most. Reading them forms a picture in my mind of her sitting around a table having coffee in the basement of the church after services. I can imagine the scene so clearly. She quickly reaches back and grabs a pencil and a note card from the top of one of the Sunday school cupboards and then she writes. She chats and she writes. She laughs and she writes. I'm sure that Mom had no idea that a hastily scribbled note would become a part of a memory that would be shared and cherished.

Besides the many recipes cards and cookbooks that I received after Mom's passing, Bruce's dad has also shared special occasion cards, letters and even calendars that capture moments and memories written by Mom's hand. I love them all. I touch the words--sometimes tracing each letter slowly with my finger.

I have become so aware of how much this all means to me that I have begun writing actual pen-to-paper letters to my grandchildren. I gave the two older ones stationery and stamps for Christmas and they have written to me.They may not keep the letters that they receive from me--but then again they might. I'll keep theirs. I realize just how precious they are now--how their value will increase with each passing year.

I have also begun to write more of my recipes down as well. Sure, I could just type them up and put them into a file on my computer. That would capture the recipe so that the dish could be recreated--nothing wrong with that. But my handwritten recipe cards--like Mom's--are more like a story. I don't know what that story will be. It will be written in the hearts and minds of whoever holds it in their hands--and remembers.

Letters are among the most significant memorial a person can leave behind them.  ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Note: This cake, I have discovered, goes by several names including, "Barbara Mandrell's Pig-Lickin' Cake!" Yep.

Moments

     It doesn't seem possible that two years have gone by since Bruce's mom passed away. It also doesn't seem possible that I have not written anything for this blog since last year. I still cook. I still stand or sit with Mom's cookbooks in front of me, losing myself in memories...trying to recall moments from the past.

     "Moment" is an important word to me. When our boys were little,I would ask them, "What was your favorite moment?" It might be in reference to a special day or event such as a trip to a nearby zoo or a birthday celebration. Or it might be just be a day...a seemingly nothing special-ordinary-run-of-the-mill kind of day. I would do this because I found,and still find, that moments--those brief periods of time that become our most treasured memories--are usually small and slip by unnoticed unless we grab hold of them, write them down, talk about them. They come without planning or preparation. They come on the very best days of our lives and they come on,what may seem at the time as, the very worst days of our lives.

     The last few days of Mom's life were, as one would imagine, difficult. We didn't want her to go but we also knew that terrible pain and exhaustion were now her constant companions. There were times when I would sit alone by her bedside, touch her hand, listen to her labored breathing and wish that I could be anywhere else but here, in this moment.

     One particularly tough day, Mom was in terrible pain and began to moan in a way that made me jump from the chair in which I had been dozing and move immediatly to her side.

     "Mom, are you okay?" I asked, tears beginning to flow...again.

     She continued to moan, "Oh, oh, oh....."

     I started to reach for the call button...she's in terrible pain, I thought,...she needs help!

     Suddenly, without opening her eyes, she raised her hand just slightly, and finished what had begun as a cry of pain like this,

     "Give me an 'O'!"

    Startled by the sudden change from cries of pain to a cheerleader's chant, I began to laugh. She smiled, a quickly fleeting but absolutly there smile. Out from the depths of pain and painkilling drugs for just a second came Mom..funny,happy,quick-witted...Mom.

     There would be more pain...more tears to follow...but for an instant we were just a couple of women sharing a joke, a joyful moment that would be ours forever.

     I have told this story to family and friends. I'm telling it again here. I can share the story. I'm always happy to share the story..but the moment is mine...Mom's and mine.

                              ****************************************

The following recipes and moments belong to Mom and others who shall remain nameless but they know who they are:

Toast Midgies

Ingredients:

Version I

Two pieces of buttered toast put together. Cut vertically in fourths and horizontally in half.  Makes 8 midgies.

Version II

Just butter[on toasted bread]. 1 E-W(horizontal) cut, 4-5 N-S cuts. yielding 8-10 total rectangles.

   

Well-Preserved

      

I've been thinking a lot lately about the word preserve and its variations. The phrase "well-preserved" was recently used in a medical report that I received after having an MRI to determine the cause of pain that I was feeling in my hip. I'm a runner. Pain was keeping me from doing one of the things that I love most. "Well preserved" gave me hope while simultaneously providing a perfectly placed punch to my ego. If you happen to look up the term "well-preserved," you will read this among the definitions:

  "(of something old--an old person) having remained in good condition--showing little sign of aging." 

I'm thrilled that my joints and bones are looking good but cringe at the thought of being labeled as something old. That, in my mind, somehow equates to no longer being useful or able.

Instead, I think I'll hold on to another variation of preserve/preserved that says--"prepared for future use." That makes me hopeful. That makes me smile. This was what I thought of as I peered into Bruce's dad's freezer and saw the frozen square packages of shredded zucchini that I had placed there in July. I had never given much thought to preserving summer's fruits for use later in the fall and winter. The time and expense involved in the process seemed to far outweigh the benefits. But, preserving the abundant supply of zucchini was important to Dad. 

Preparing the bounty brought forth from the garden to be used later had also been important to Bruce's Mom. That was evident when, upon Dad's request, I cleaned out their freezer last fall. As I may have mentioned before, there were some things that had been in the recesses of cold storage for a very, very long time. Much of it--for better or worse--I threw out. I wonder now if perhaps I should have let it thaw, tried to incorporate some of it into one of Mom's recipes. But I did what I thought was right at the time from the perspective of one who didn't understand the time and effort it had taken to fill those shelves.

Recently I found a magazine clipping labeled  "Zucchini Cake" held to Mom's refrigerator by a magnet-- like a "to do" note. I touched it gently and then carefully took it down and began to gather the needed ingredients. Flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt--the list began. Baking powder, baking soda, vegetable oil, eggs--it continued. The next ingredient read, "2 cups shredded zucchini." Obviously the name of the recipe had let me know that there would be zucchini in the mix. But this recipe was from Bruce's mom and, as is often the case, contained a bit of mom magic. It was as if she had been there guiding me as I measured, packaged and preserved that seemingly unending supply of squash for the freezer a few months ago. The mini miracle that I was experiencing now, was that I knew that each plastic bag contained exactly two cups of shredded zucchini,

The day that I had prepared the zucchini had been warm and muggy. I recalled that upon completing the task of preparing the squash, Dad and I sat outside under the shade of one of the trees that he had planted in the back yard years ago and shared a moment of rest. We laughed and talked and reminisced. Work was behind us. It was a perfect summer afternoon. 

In stark contrast to that day, the Ziploc bag that I took from the freezer--with some pride, I must confess--was icy cold. It had my handwriting on it. Looking at it, I remembered standing at the kitchen sink and shredding the zucchini for an hour or more. It was worth it. Today it would become cake.

We never know which of today's moments will become tomorrow's memories. Like those many bags of zucchini they should be "well-preserved" so that they remain in good condition and prepared for future use. The zucchini will feed our bodies. The memories will feed our souls.

Health Food

   

     Zucchini. If you live in the Midwest and you have a garden or you know someone who has a garden, you are familiar with this ubiquitous summer squash. It is prolific and can take over your garden, your kitchen and your life if left unchecked. That may be a bit of an overstatement but not by much.

     I don't have a garden. I use to but why bother when there are so many generous people who want to share their abundance with me? Zucchini is not so much shared as it is dropped on your doorstep in the dead of night in hopes that you will take it in and make it into something amazing. There are entire Pinterest pages and magazine articles dedicated to the culinary creations in which this fruit--yes, it is botanically a fruit-- can be incorporated.

     Bruce's dad planted zucchini in his garden this year as he has always done. I don't remember whether last year's crop was bumper or bust. It is hard to remember much of what transpired last year from July and August. It is the time in which we began the process of saying good-bye to Bruce's mom before she took her final breath on August 20th, 2014.

     Mom knew the ways of the zucchini well. She could have written a book on the zen of the zucchini or perhaps billed herself as the squash whisperer. She could take this simple garden staple and without so much as an abracadabra or voila she could produce appetizers, side dishes, main dishes and desserts. I do not have this talent and so once again I began to look through Mom's cookbooks to see if she had left me any hints as to what to do with this year's bounty.

     I usually love looking through Mom's cookbooks and clippings, often seeing her handwriting in the margins of the books or on a recipe card. This time, however, the air was heavy with the heat and humidity that is an Illinois summer. But it was more than just the barometric pressure that was making me feel listless, sad--heavy. On this day I was once again reminded that memories, while they often serve as solace, can occasionally bring forth a whole new wave of grief.

     My search wasn't bringing forth much more than frustration and a few tears. Dad had mentioned a dish of Mom's that he was longing for--a dish made with zucchini. Reaching back into his memory he recollected hamburger and tomatoes as part of the list of ingredients as well. Beyond that, he was at a loss. Mom's magic in the kitchen was often a mystery. She could and did create dishes of which the chefs on "Chopped" would be envious.

      Taste,smell and touch are powerful forces when it comes to memory. Certain flavor combinations, the fragrance of spices, the texture of the various ingredients--food can be the path that takes us back to the past in an instant. I wanted so badly to recreate this taste memory for Dad but I was nervous. I didn't want to disappoint him and I had so little to go on--no notes, no recipe, no Mom.

     I knew I just needed to dive in. There was no other way. I had to be fearless--like Mom. I needed to just start putting things together and hope for the best. Although, we had cleaned out Dad's big freezer last year, there still remained in the small freezer compartment of the refrigerator a few dishes emblazoned with Sharpie notations in Mom's distinctive style. A container that once held whipped topping had the word "Tomatoes" on it, while a smaller one, that in a previous life had held margarine, said "Tomato Soup." Knowing that tomatoes were one of the ingredients for the zucchini creation that Dad recalled, I pulled that container from the freezer and opened it.
   
     At first I was confused by what the dish held. The ice crystals that had formed made it difficult to determine what exactly this was that I had found. I only knew that it was special--important. It was a bit of the past just waiting to be recovered.

     "Dad," I began. My throat felt tight with emotion and my heart seemed to beat faster as I held the container open for him to see what I was seeing.

     "Is this what you were describing to me?" I continued slowly--hopefully.The container didn't hold whipped topping or "Tomatoes" It held what appeared to be a concoction of hamburger, tomatoes, beans, onions and--zucchini.

     "Yes!" he answered with a soft laugh and a big smile. "Where did it come from?"

     "Mom left it for you in the freezer."

     I emptied the contents of the dish into a saucepan and began to gently reheat it. Somehow to use the microwave seemed inappropriate. When it was piping hot I dished up the entire contents of the pan into bowls--one for Dad and one for myself. There was no more and no less than what was needed to feed the two of us. It was just right...heartwarming, comforting, delicious.

     Some might call it a coincidence--finding that dish in the freezer on that particular day. Some might even say it was magic. Still others will see it as a little miracle. All I know for sure is that Mom fixed lunch for us that day and it nourished us in every way.





   

                                                 Mom's Zucchini Hot Dish
                             Or as close as I can come--this is what I refer to as a                                                                                                 by guess and by golly recipe.
    
                                       3/4 lb. extra lean ground beef
                                       1 tbs.vegetable oil
                                       1 small to medium zucchini--about 2 cups, with peel and sliced thinly
                                       1 onion, chopped
                                       1 can diced tomatoes or fresh tomatoes if in season
                                       1 can of condensed tomato soup
                                       1 can of chili beans

In a large skillet or saucepan over medium-high heat, brown ground beef and remove to plate. In same pan, heat oil over medium heat and add onions and zucchini and saute for about 5 minutes or until lightly golden. Add tomatoes, tomato soup and browned beef, bring to a boil. Reduce heat and add beans. Simmer until warmed through and reduced to the thickness you prefer.

Forgotten Gifts

     I was cleaning out the refrigerator the other day--actually cleaning it, not eating my way through the contents--and came across a plastic bag with some sad looking rhubarb in it. I knew that it had been there at least a week and maybe even two. My first impulse was to throw it out. That is often my first impulse with back of the frig food. Bruce's dad had picked it, cleaned it and even cut it into small pieces before presenting it to me--fresh, beautiful and ready to be made into a marmalade, cobbler or crisp. The care with which Dad handled it before turning its fate over to me, made this odd spring vegetable/fruit(the debate rages on) worthy of  more than a cursory glance before being tossed out.

     The ends of the stalks looked dry and were beginning to turn up, giving them the look of a party favor popper. I gently squeezed the bag to test for that slimy feeling that produce gets when it has given up all hope of developing into anything other than compost. This hardy batch was still firm and daring me to inspect it even closer.

     I opened the bag and inhaled the tart, tangy and slightly earthy smell that is the hallmark of this plant that is believed to have originated in China over 4000 years ago. However, the history that rhubarb has as an ancient Chinese medicine, the fact that it is high in vitamins A and C and minerals such as calcium meant very little to me. Its more recent history as a thoughtful and loving gift of time and effort from Dad meant everything. I couldn't throw it out.

     I went to the bookshelf and looked at the collection of cookbooks, neglected since December, that had belonged to Bruce's mom. I gently eased a very tattered one from the shelf. It was the collection of recipes lovingly compiled in 1979  by the congregation of Grace Lutheran Church, the church that has been home to generations of Johnsons. It no longer had a cover, front or back. There were torn pages and missing pages. There were pages that were falling out. I love this cookbook. It has recipes submitted by Mom and Grandma Johnson. It has recipes that have Mom's distinctive handwriting where she tweaked the ingredients or method to make it her own. It has recipes clipped from magazines and newspapers and taped into the book wherever there was a blank space that needed filling.

     As mentioned earlier, the cookbook has pages that are falling out. That day, however, I truly believe that one jumped out. I opened the book and a page literally fell into my lap and this is what I saw:

   

     I prefer not to try to find logical reasons for some things. It's quite possible that I had seen this recipe during an earlier perusal of this very special cookbook and my subconscious mind stored the information away for me to use on this particular day. It's possible, but my heart doesn't know that. I don't know why I chose to clean out the refrigerator that day and then to find the forgotten gift of rhubarb from Dad. I don't know why I haven't written anything for months and now find myself drawn back to this blog. I'm just really glad that small miracles happen every single day and that sometimes we recognize them.

   

   

Layers

 

    In preparation for our first Christmas without Mom, I found myself spending a great deal of time in her kitchen. It was comforting to be there--to feel her presence as I made lists, plans and memories. Even while attempting to make new memories, the old ones encircled me and made me laugh and cry intermittently, sometimes simultaneously.

     Bruce and I attended church with Dad on Christmas Eve. We were surrounded by the familiar faces of family and friends that were part of our history together as a couple and the Johnson family history since long before that. There was, however, an empty space in the family pew. I sat by myself for a while watching as Dad, Bruce and his brother sang with the choir. I knew how proud Mom would have been to see her husband and boys standing shoulder to shoulder and singing songs of joy and praise. She would have lead in the impromptu and almost improper--by Lutheran standards--round of applause that followed the performance. Instead, a small boy sitting behind me, started clapping and I knew that Mom was smiling.

     We went to a restaurant after the service. The food was good. The atmosphere was quiet and pleasant. It felt strange to be there though--to be out and about celebrating among strangers. I longed to be back at Mom and Dad's preparing her recipes, in her kitchen. I needed the spiritual hug which that place and those memories provide me every time I am there.

     I breathed a sigh of contentment later that evening as I began to prepare the Sausage Strata that would be our breakfast the next morning. The recipe came from the church cookbook but, as was often the case, Mom had changed it up a bit. She added some bread, subtracted some of the sausage and changed the cheese from Swiss to cheddar. She did not alter the directions that called for the layering of the various ingredients, the very thing that gave the dish its name "strata."

      I placed the bread, the sausage and then the cheese into the familiar Pyrex baking dish that had held so many other breakfast casseroles. Finally, I topped it with the egg and milk mixture. The layers of flavor and the changes made by Mom to the strata would yield, I knew, something special.

     Our holiday season has been made up of layers as well. We have kept some of the same traditions and we have added some new ones. We have experienced the emptiness of loss combined with the blessing of shared memories. Tears of grief, relief and joy have topped off these life layers. The result will also be, I know, something special.

   

Change of Assignment

  It's November. I can't believe that 2014 is quickly drawing to a close. It is a year that has brought great sorrow and great joy to our family. It seems like subtlety has not been the hallmark of change lately. It has come in huge gut-wrenching blows--the loss of Mom. And it has come in beautiful heart-lifting miracles--the birth of our little Sofia to son and daughter-in-law Dave and Andrea.

     This is also the first full year that I have been without a job outside of my home in many years. Because of that, I've been doing a lot of online research, reading articles, taking quizzes etc. that are supposed to help me answer the question, "What's next?" Words like reimagine, reinvent and revamp are often used but it all comes down to that one simple word--change.

     This is not a new phenomenon. Mom knew that. Her life, like all of our lives, was a series of changes. I doubt that she did much sitting around reading about how to cope with those events that altered her path. She didn't have the time or the sometimes self-indulgent tendencies of which I often find myself guilty.

     In the 1950's, she went from being a young woman with a career to being a farmer's wife to being a mother of two. She was a leader in her church and community, never hiding in the back of the room or trying to look invisible like many of us do when someone is needed to take the reins of a position or a project. She was often an instrument, not an opponent, of change.

     I found a recipe of Mom's that I think illustrates her "c'est la vie" attitude toward the transitions and transformations that are needed in order to progress.
   
     Often Mom's recipes are written on spare scraps of notebook paper or the backs of old envelopes. Sometimes they are clippings, quickly removed from a magazine or newspaper and taped inside of one of her many cookbooks. This particular recipe for "Easy Pecan Rolls" is written in her unmistakable handwriting on the back of an "Assignment Card"--a relic from the past of Grace Lutheran Church in Knoxville, Illinois.

     Assignment cards, as near as I can tell or remember, were given to those who served on the church council. The council members were to make home visits to those on these cards. It was a way of keeping in touch with individuals and families and seeing if their needs were being met by the church. It also reads a little bit like a report card. Change was inevitable.

     I don't know if Mom lead the charge for this change or fought for the status quo in this moment of church history. I can imagine, though, that she was horrified at the thought of all of those now defunct 4x6 pieces of the past going to waste. She believed in change but not in simply throwing away the past.

     This is basically what all of those articles and online quizzes have ended up telling me as well. I could have saved time and energy if I had just listened to Mom--paid more attention to all of those women who have come before me. I wonder if they puzzle over the way that we act as if we are the first to deal with life-changing events and challenges. It isn't something new. We may call it reimagining, reinventing or revamping. They simply called it life.