Old taters and young'uns

My son has a favorite dish (one of many!), and tonight, perhaps because I was subconsciously missing him in a post-holiday funk, I decided to make a batch of his much-beloved white chicken chili, a sumptuous, spicy concoction of poultry, legumes, peppers, onions, garlic and seasonings. I ran to the grocery store early in the morning and stocked up on ingredients, came home, and began to assemble the recipe and start the preparations.
The chicken was happily stewing in an enameled iron pot, bathing in a sensuous bath of parsley, sage, basil, and thyme, as celery and onions sizzled nearby in a pool of extra-virgin olive oil and freshly ground sea salt. An array of spices were lined up on the counter top, waiting for their moment to dive into the mix: cumin, garlic, crushed bay leaves, white pepper, paprika, rosemary.
It was time to put a batch of potatoes on to boil, so I headed to the basket in the laundry room where my mother stored her tubers, and started to rummage through the pile.  There were several firm, young potatoes on top, obviously from the latest purchase, perky little numbers that were smooth of flesh, fresh, adolescent. Underneath these youngsters were a few tubers starting to show a little age, yielding just a bit when I squeezed them, but still having enough life left in them that they could serve a future purpose.  On the very bottom of the basket,  resting on the cloth that covered and cushioned the weave of the split oak fibers, five old taters formed a pathetic, shriveled circle.  I pick the old boys up, looked them over, pinched their shriveled flesh, picked off a few odd growths, and decided it was the last act of courage they could perform by diving into the pot of boiling water and sacrificing themselves for the greater good of mankind, namely, dying for chili. I felt noble as I picked them up, rescuing them from the compost pile and a slow, rotting death, destining them for a greater cause.

As I stood at the sink scrubbing the old boys, it struck me how similar their life was to my own.  They had started out young, vigorous, full of life, firm of flesh, unlimited in possibilities.  In their youth, they would have been selected for exotic dishes, exciting dishes, cutting-edge dishes: roasted with saffron, creamed with cumin, scalloped with goat cheese, pan-fried with truffles. In their middle-age, an era I could sympathize with, these potatoes would have been selected for substantial but important duties: Saturday night steak fries, Sunday mashed casseroles, Wednesday creamed soups. But now, in the twilight of their lives, they lay forgotten on the bottom of the pile. It bothered me, looking at the basket, and I felt the need to rescue the old boys and let them fulfill their purpose, their cause, their mission. 

 So what if they had a few odd growths protruding from their flesh, a little wrinkled skin? I scrubbed each one with a stiff brush, doused them in cold water, and plunged them into a salt bath.  With surgical precision, I sliced off the hairy extensions, the lumps and bumps and protrusions, and shaved the wrinkled skin from each tuber. I peeled old flesh away from vibrant pulp, salvaged the usable body, and plunged the taters into a pot of salted, boiling water. These guys still had life left in them, and as they boiled away, as they waited for their next assignment, I felt noble in my cause, my rescuing them and helping them fulfill their destinies.

The old boys filled out the subtle layers of the chili, giving it a texture and a depth with their mature taste that it sorely needed. Had it been lacking, had these potatoes been omitted from the recipe, the dish would have been disappointing, flat, bland.  I could have opted for a pre-mixed package of generic, powdered chili-mix, could have used the younger, firmer potatoes, but the combination of mature vegetables, stewed chicken, and fresh spices created an aroma that caused the gastric juices in my stomach to rumble and churn in anticipation. The effort of blending old with new, fresh with seasoned,  the process of chopping and slicing, dicing and prepping, the melding of mature with adolescent,  produced a product I was proud of, eager to share, and which satisfied both my creative soul and my gastric longings.

Finally, after Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune had both finished, my creation was complete. I scooped steaming ladles of spicy chili into thick ceramic bowls, shaved jalapeno pepper jack cheese on top, and finished each dish with a dollop of sour cream.  I was proud of my little old men, the shriveled potatoes that had seemed lifeless, the fellows that gave the bulk and the stamina to the chili. 

And I learned something in the kitchen tonight.  Everything has a purpose, and a time, and a season.


Two old taters and a young'un


Ecclesiastes 3

A Time for Everything

1For everything there is a season,

a time for every activity under heaven.

2A time to be born and a time to die.

A time to plant and a time to harvest.

3A time to kill and a time to heal.

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

4A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

5A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.

A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

6A time to search and a time to quit searching.

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

7A time to tear and a time to mend.

A time to be quiet and a time to speak.

8A time to love and a time to hate.

A time for war and a time for peace.

   Everything has a purpose, and a time, and a season.

Holiday Treats

Baby Alf

     Trying to survive the holidays while a puppy the size of a small horse gallops through your house renders a whole new meaning to the mantra "seasonal stress". I shouldn't complain, since this stress was of my own doing. I was the culprit who bought the puppy last May. I was the unthinking adult that insisted on surprising my unsuspecting husband with a new member of our poodle triumvirate. Unfortunately, I had neglected to do the math and forgot to realize that the precious little bundle of soft red fluff that I so adored in the spring would be a teething trojan termite by December.
     Ah yes, that delightful, docile  heap of burnished wool had morphed into a red headed hellion that romped through my holiday house, an impish elf that was quickly eating its way through our overly-decorated home,  a vixen destroying garland and tinsel and goodies and packages at an alarming rate. Our dear little Alf,  our previously precious pup, our sweet little baby, had evolved into the canine consumer of all things not nailed down; the red-headed, curly coated,  cookie thievin', ornament eatin', present unwrapping, decoration destroying poodle problem that kept the holidays hopping in a whole new style, that kept me running through rooms with a broom and a dustpan yelling "Put That Down!" more times than I ever had in my life, and that drove me to dive into the eggnog on more than one occasion .
      I had forgotten what life with a puppy was like, especially since Sissey and I have been in SC for most of the time that Alf has resided in the Daly household, but it didn't take long to relearn;  and  let me tell you one thing, puppies chew, and puppies gnaw, and puppies think anything that doesn't eat them first is fair game.  


Let the baking begin.....

      It all began when we first arrived home in Richmond for the holidays.  Holiday baking is a much anticipated tradition, and we quickly dived head first into a  production line of sugar cookies and fruitcake, gingerbread men and rum balls.  Sissey had enlisted a regiment of her friends to spend an afternoon on the sugar cookie squad.  They mixed, rolled,  and carefully cut the dough into candy canes, Christmas trees, gingerbread men,wreaths and bells.  The cookies were baked, cooled, iced and laughingly decorated in a mess of piping and sprinkles, glossy pearl  beads and crystallized sugar. The festive goodies were prudently packed into Tupperware, each full box stacked on the counter, ready to be piled onto plates that would soon be delivered to neighbors and friends.

     It must not have taken long for Alf's highly sensitive nose to sniff  out the tantalizing aroma of vanilla and sugar, for not long after we had washed the last pan and put away the last bowl, I heard a crash in the kitchen. Running towards the sound, I dashed into the room and gasped at the sight before me.  Alf was sprawled across the floor and innocently grinning up at me, his muzzle suspiciously covered in frosting, an empty Tupperware container resting in his paws.  All that remained of our afternoon baking was a few crumbs and a smear of icing. It was early in the game at this point, so I shooed him into the yard with a gentle scold and grabbed the broom, unaware that we were on a fast track to disaster. 

"Who, me?"

      From that point on, the destruction of my holiday house progressed at an alarming speed.  Ornaments on the tree? Fair game. "Yup, think I'll take a little nibble of a sheep," Alf thought, as he munched on the hand spun Irish woolen lamb that had symbolized the purity of the Christ child before it became a doggie snack. The toy soldiers didn't stand a fighting chance against his big snout and canine incisors, and the drummer boy disappeared without a single rat-a-tat-tat.  The paper maiche nutcracker was a particularly tasty treat, floury and salty with a hint of New York Times.  Nativity scene? "Bet that tastes good too," Alf realized, as he nibbled the ear of hand painted Italian donkey.  Baby Jesus was a snack on Tuesday, the wise men went down on Wednesday, and as for the host of angels, well let me just say that Alf loves a good angel, especially after scarfing down a camel. 

     I wrapped packages under the tree only for the amusement of Alf, who seemed to think that ribbons and bows were created purely for his enjoyment.  My coveted holiday needlepoint pillows were secretly devoured during a midnight raid, which left me wondering once again why poodles had such an affinity for my needlepoint. In a final act of holiday desecration, in fact, as I sat here tonight composing my thoughts on my faithful laptop, Alf  crept into the kitchen and consumed the remains of the New Year's roast lamb with mint jelly and rosemary infusion. I discovered his latest consumption upon strolling into the room to add a few ice cubes to my glass of tea. As I pressed the ice dispenser on the refrigerator, Alf casually walked past me suspiciously licking his chops. I glanced at the counter and immediately saw tell-tale slivers of meat scattered across it, a greasy stain spreading on the floor, and an empty roasting pan resting beside a curiously gnawed leg of lamb. I knew what had happened, I knew who was the culprit, and I was officially at the end of my rope.

   I wanted to ring his neck; I wanted to throttle him;  yet when he gazed up at me with those gentle brown eyes, when he thumped that fluffy banana-shaped tale against the floor, when he lifted that monstrous paw for a gentle handshake, when he slathered my angry face with sloppy, sweet kisses, the spirit of Christmas pervaded my soul and I loved him in spite of myself. "He couldn't help himself," I rationalized, remembering my own midnight raids of the fruitcake box, my own pawing at the cookies and sweets that tempted me from the counter. 

     So once again, with a somewhat firmer than previously mentioned scold, I shooed the varmint out the door and  grabbed the broom, dustpan, and mop. Yes, he was making a mess of my holiday plans, ruining my decorations, destroying my baking, and adding an extra layer of work to an overly-taxed schedule; but at the end of the day, when I sank to the couch in exhaustion, it was pure joy to be surrounded by the unfiltered love of a family dog and to share my space with a pile of sweet poodles.

    



Sugar Pie, Mr. Big, and Alf



The Christmas Mouse

        Finally, I understand the profound and intense underlying themes of  the children's book "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie,"  a simple saga written by Laura Numeroff which describes what happens when one little mouse takes control of an otherwise normal houseshold.  In the book, a complicated chain of events is set into motion when a little boy gives a mouse a cookie, which leads to his wanting a glass of milk, which leads to an on-going series of never-ending projects, which builds and builds until finally, the exhausted boy falls asleep while the mouse gets another cookie.
     But first, let me explain how I came to this complete comprehension of a deceptively simple children's tale, a complicated lesson learned not from my last five semesters of college experience, but rather, from an innocuous little Christmas mouse.
      Upon arriving back in Richmond for the holidays, one of my first undertakings was to dive into the marathon schedule of Christmas cooking, a massive on-going project that involved the production of fruit cakes, date balls, cheese straws, cookies, and of course, sausage balls.  Pounds of sausage balls. Mountains of sausage balls. In fact, I pitied the poor pigs who had to lay down their porky lives just so our family could consume obscene quantities of sausage balls, but the sacrifice had been made and it was our duty to make sure their ground up hindquarters and rumps and roasts were lovingly used during this holy season. So on this first morning home, I was on a mission to make sausage balls, that seasonal morsel, the harbinger of Christmas, the family favorite.
     I assembled the Bisquick, the extra-sharp cheddar cheese and the spicy hot sausage in a row on the countertop, then proceeded to shred, chop, and measure.  First, I mixed the cheese and sausage into an even blend of soft pink and gold, then added four cups of Bisquick, squished and squashed the powder evenly into the meat and cheese, and finally began the tedious process of rolling out trays and trays of  marble-sized balls.  As I rolled the first batch of mixture in my hands, I noticed an unusual spice appearing in the blend, a small, black pellet, approximately the size of a grain of rice,  a spice that was not familiar in my repetoire of Jimmy Dean or Bisquick ingredients.  I plucked several grains from the bowl and examined them closely, rolling them on my fingertips as I tried to identify their origins.            
     "Anise? " I wondered. "Too squishy," I decided. 
     "Too soft for peppercorns or celery seed,"  I muttered to myself as I continued to examine the pellets, wondering what this curious seasoning could be.
      I rummaged for the sausage wrapper in the trash and read the list of spices on the back, searching for a clue to the identity of this new seasoning. Not seeing anything unusual on that label, I grabbed the box of Bisquick, read the list  of ingredients on the side,  then lifted the clear cellophane wrapper from the box and peered at the contents. Scattered throughout the powdery white mix of flour and baking powder were the identical rice-sized grains of the mysterious spice.  As realization started to spread through my brain, I ran to the pantry, shifted cans and boxes, and to my horror, discovered the same pellets sprinkled all throughout the shelves, across the tops of cans, behind the canisters and the jars of jelly, under the boxes of cereal and the bags of pasta.  I had seen these pellets before. I knew these pellets. I understood these pellets. MOUSE!
       I glared at the three dogs sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tails happily thumping on the floor as they eyed the tray of sausage balls.
      "Some help you are," I grumbled. "I'm trading you all in for a decent cat."
      I immediately tossed the entire batch of sausage balls into the trash and scrubbed my hands until they were fiery red. I donned latex gloves and furiously fumigated the pots and pans, then began the process of removing every single item from the pantry. I dispatched Chris to the hardware store for traps and poisons and anything else that could conquer a mouse invasion. I sent him to the grocery for fresh boxes of Bisquick, sausage and cheese.  I scrubbed shelves and floor and walls with disinfectant. I washed and cleaned until every trace of mouse had been removed and the pantry smelled like the interior of an operating room, pungent with antibacterial and bleach. 
     Perusing the piles of cans and bags, I tossed anything that appeared to have been nibbled on or tasted or touched by a rodent. I washed the top of every single can and checked every box and bag. I decided that while I was cleaning, it was also a good time to check the expiration labels on all the items, so I did that and made a trash pile of expired goods.
    In the meantime, Chris returned from the store, laden with bags of rodent revenge and groceries, looked at the mess I had made, and commented that it would be a good idea to make a bag for the food pantry while we were at it. So, I added another pile of washed and unexpired staples to drop off for the homeless, then unloaded the bags from the store.
      As I stood there eyeing the piles of cans, I  decided that instead of returning everything to the freshly washed shelves, it would be a good time to use up a lot of the food by making a pot of soup. So, I  picked out cans of corn and tomatoes and beans and hauled them to the counter by the stove.
     "Chris, can you get me a package of ground beef from the freezer? I'm going to make soup with some of these canned vegetables."
      He opened the door to the freezer, handed me the meat, looked at the crowded shelves, and said,
       "I'm going to clean out the freezer."
       "Add this to the soup, and this, and this," he commented as he tossed out frozen goods and removed shelves.
       Well, you can't have soup without cornbread, so I grabbed a canister of cornmeal and whipped up a batch to serve with the simmering soup.  And if you have soup, you have to have fresh oranges with it, so I opened the fridge and cut up some navels.
     About this time, Bro walked into the kitchen and asked,
" Hey, what happened to the sausage balls?"
     So, while the soup simmered and the bread baked, I began the process of making a fresh batch of sausage balls.
        The simple decision to start my holiday cooking had been manipulated by a mere mouse into a marathon event of cleaning out the pantry, which lead to a trip to the hardware store, which lead to a trip to the grocery store, which lead to the reshelving of canned goods and food items, which lead to the making of soup, which lead to the cleaning out of the freezer, which lead to cooking cornbread and cutting oranges, and which finally resulted in the first batch of sausage balls coming out of the oven at seven o'clock that night.
      And that was when I finally understood the concept of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie." It must be a mouse thing, that ability to set off a chain reaction that grows and grows and grows, an almost unstoppable train ride of events that gains momentum with each twist and turn and leaves you exhausted and wondering, "What happened to the day?" when all you had planned to do was make a batch of sausage balls.  All that, simply because of a mouse.
      The traps have remained empty, but thankfully, no trace of the mouse has returned to my pantry and no mysterious spice has appeared in my baking. My kitchen is sparkling clean, the food pantry has received a generous donation, and my family is growing fat on sausage balls.

      I never saw that mouse, but sometimes, I think I  hear him laughing at me through the walls as he dances among the rafters of my house.

    

   

The Pooman Problem

The great and mighty Gus

     Gus was not simply a dog, a standard poodle, he was one of those rare breeds of half-poodle, half-human, a “pooman”, a creature that could read your thoughts, intuit your emotions, sense your moods, predict your habits, and make an imprint on your heart that was eternal. With a fierce loyalty that belied his gentle nature, he would guard the house and protect the children, standing resolute and firm between us and the world, never letting a stranger come between him and his beloved family.  He was a steady presence by my side, a loyal friend, a wise old soul, a quiet warrior. Gus was my companion when I walked, the confident I would talk to when worries troubled my soul, my travelling buddy in the car, the one who was always thrilled to see me when I walked in the door. I would have mortgaged our house to save Gus when he was dying; in fact, I practically did, trying any measure to gain the four extra years we expected of our eleven year old canine child. In the end, despite the numerous medical procedures, the multiple days in the hospital, the hours of feeding him droplets of water by mouth, the forcing of teaspoons of baby food into the withering body, the cradling and the crying and the praying, it was all futile. Gus slipped away from us on a brilliant fall morning, bounding into the eternal, leaving a wound in our hearts that has yet to heal.  The good dog, the noble boy, the best friend- gone. He has since been the measure of all creatures on earth, the standard which no other living animal has yet to attain, the ultimate companion, the unsurpassed. 

    Sugar Pie, on the other hand, our scrawny female counterpoint to the mighty Gus, was 100% poodle. Not one speck of human blood coursed beneath her curly coat. We always laughed at her and said, “Well, we didn’t get out money’s worth out of that one.”  She weighed slightly less than 35 pounds, half the weight of our proud, prancing big white boy. “She’s real pretty,” we would explain, “but not the brightest bulb in the lamp.”  Whereas Gus would practically carry on a conversation with us, Sug was mute, a little aloof, standoffish.  The male dogs all loved her, sniffing and chasing and pawing after her, to which she just curled up into a bored ball, ignoring them until they gave up and went away.  Her favorite pastime was to lie in the spray of sunlight that streamed through the French doors in the dining room, a post from which she could survey all the comings and goings of River Road: the mail man, the UPS delivery truck, the bicyclists pumping down the corridor, the meter reader, the deer that ambled across the lawn each evening, the scurrying squirrels searching for nuts, the  robins pecking for worms and grubs. She would sit, and watch, occasionally sending up an agitated alarm, a soprano howl that let us know something unusual was in the yard.

     On an early November morning, the week before Thanksgiving, while Sissey and I were in the final, harried throes of a busy semester, my husband called in a panic and said,  “Something’s wrong with Sug.  She’s foaming at the mouth, her abdomen is rock hard, and she can barely walk. I’m taking her in to see Jimmy.” He rushed her to our vet and soon called back with the grim diagnosis-- a twisted stomach, an emergency situation.  A decision had to be made, quickly, every second critical to the outcome.  There were only two options: surgery, to try to repair the tangled and dying stomach, or euthanization.  I rapidly reviewed the situation, considered the twelve year age of Sug, the cost of the surgery, the upcoming financial demands of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

     “I don’t know, give me a minute to think,” I told him as he pressed me for an answer. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”



Alf-our big red alien life form!



Our sweet Auggie



    And I was thinking. Thinking about what we had gone through in a failed attempt to save our Gus. Thinking about how we had just paid a tremendous vet bill in March in a vain effort to save Auggie, our sweet, tennis ball loving, car-chasing curly coated boy, who ultimately died from a complicated autoimmune disease. Thinking about how I had impulsively purchased a big, rare, red male poodle for my husband’s fiftieth birthday in May. Thinking about the expensive laser treatment my husband had opted for when having him neutered, even though I was all for taking him to the free spay neuter clinic at the animal shelter. Thinking about the new computer Sissey wanted for Christmas and the long list of presents I needed to buy. Thinking about how I loved Sug, but she just wasn’t Gus, and bless her heart, I believed it was time to let our pretty little gal bound on to her eternal spot in the sun.

      “I can’t make this decision alone,” he replied. “Tell me what we should do. We have to decide now, Jimmy said every second is critical.”

     “I think the best thing is to put her down, “I finally said, after several moments of running through all the possible scenarios, the post-surgery complications, the pressure on Chris to manage it all by himself while we were still in South Carolina.

     “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk, to put her through surgery, at her age. She’s twelve, Chris, that’s old age for a dog, practically 84 in human years. I don’t think we should put either one of you through such an ordeal. Besides, you still have to deal with Alf’s surgery. Can you really handle two post-surgical dogs?”

        He sadly agreed with my decision and hung up to tell Jimmy the verdict.

        Several minutes passed until my cell phone started ringing. Knowing who it was, I quickly answered.



Sug recuperating



       “I told him to do it, “ Chris began.

      “Well, I know that was hard, but I think it’s for the best.” I said.



       “No, I mean, I told him to do it, to do the surgery,” he said. “I just couldn’t say it. When I talked to Jimmy, I couldn’t tell him to put her down. I just couldn’t say the words. ”





Mr. Big is ready for Christmas



      I should have known it. A natural softy by heart, I wasn’t surprised that he had not been able to say goodbye to Sug without trying to save her first. This was the man who couldn’t hurt a fly. The man who stood outside at two o’clock in the morning with the car running, trying to euthanize a dying gerbil by gently holding the rodent under the exhaust, trying to quietly put her to sleep to end her suffering; the man who buried our dead parakeet in the yard on a cold December midnight, placing her tenderly in a shoebox in a shallow grave in the garden. The man who allowed me to spend thousands of dollars when our five pound teacup poodle broke his neck, who wordlessly paid the bill so a surgeon could implant a steel rod, plates and screws into bones the size of matchsticks.  

  I should have instinctively known that he would not have been able to make the call to put Sug down.

     Sug survived the procedure, her tummy was untangled, tacked to her abdomen, and she suffered loss of only a portion of her stomach. So now,  she lies on one sofa, Alf on the other, both licking their wounds,  recovering, while Mr. Big, happy to be home for the holidays, spends his mornings running back and forth between the two, antagonizing Alf, pampering Sug.  We are back to normal, this peculiar household of rehabilitating canines and bankrupt humans, a family who has a problem separating poodles from people.  Christmas is coming, and the bills are getting fat, so please put a penny in this dog lover’s hat.

It's the memory that matters

     It's not the meal, it's the memory that matters, the family moments that you remember and that make holidays like Thanksgiving so special. I could have slapped a platter of turkey sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a pile of limp pickles on the table and it would still have been memorable, a celebration, a feast, a glorious repast, simply because family and friends had gathered round and the air was festive. It was the occasion of working together for a common cause, of last-minute frantic phone calls begging "Can you pick up some more eggs and butter at the store?", of lists of a thousand chores and things that must be done, of rushing and running and planning and preparing,  of cooking and chopping and stirring and baking, of holding hands and bowing our heads in prayer, of sitting together at the table with no cell phones chirping, no television blaring,  and finally, partaking of a meal  rich with conversation and laughter and family and friends.
      Of course, I cooked like a maniac for two whole days, working myself into a frenzy brining a twenty-four pound turkey, mashing mounds of  potatoes, peeling piles of apples, stirring gravy until it was golden brown and smooth as molasses, popping pumpkin and pecan and coconut pies into the oven one after the other, whipping up cheese sauces and cream sauces and casseroles, preparing a crown roast, a cake, a pan of biscuits. On top of that, silver had to be polished, crystal and china washed to a sparkle, the table set, the linens pressed, the flowers arranged, and the house fluffed and brushed and squeezed into order; but it was the atmosphere of the day, the anticipation, the waiting for the grand finale, everyone gathering together for a splendid repast, that permeated the air and lifted our spirits. We were ready, and waiting, and eager for Thursday to dawn, our day of feasting and giving thanks.
    On Wednesday,  I stayed awake until 2 a.m., thanking God above for the Gone With The Wind marathon that kept me awake, albeit sobbing, as I sat up in bed in the dark, angry with Scarlett, angry with Rhett, still hoping they could work things out,  appeasing my frustration  with them by waiting for the designated hour when the ceremonial bird could be lifted into the pre-heating fire.  As I crept in the dark down the hall and silently lifted the massive turkey into the oven, the rest of the household slept, a peaceful sleep of children home from college, dogs once again claiming familial beds that had previously been empty, a feeling of wholeness and completeness settling over the house.  I shut the door of the oven and climbed back into bed, exhausted, knowing that in a few short hours the mad rush would begin, but  feeling peaceful and joyful in anticipation of the day.

      Thanksgiving Day dawned brilliant and blue and clear and glorious.  Family and friends arrived in a steady stream. Jim brought his usual gourmand fare, in years past it had been oysters Rockefeller and barbecued shrimp and quail ravioli,  this year a smoked rock fish nestled beneath a creamy sauce of lemon and dill.  The golden bird sat perched on a platter, waiting in all its glory to be carved into moist slices of creamy, succulent meat, while the rich, brown roast rested nearby, ready also for the blade. We carried plates and bowls of asparagus, beans, roasted potatoes, sweet potatoes, dressing,  rice, gravy, cranberries, and apples to the waiting table, keenly aware that our over-abundant meal was in stark contrast to the original repast of the near-starving Pilgrims. We gathered in a circle round the groaning table, held hands, bowed our heads, and thanked a gracious God for His goodness, His abundant love, His generosity towards a belligerent nation.

    And then, we ate. And ate, and ate, and ate.   Ate until our bellies ached and our eyes grew heavy with sleep, ate  until even the hot, steaming cups of coffee we consumed with our pie could not keep us from begging for a nap and a break from the gluttonous grazing at the indulgent table.

     But even in the midst of all the gluttony, the over-indulgence, the abundance of food, it was not the meal that mattered. It was the gathering of family, of friends, of loved ones. That was the memory that will last, and long after we're gone and only the young ones remain, they will hold near to their hearts the remembrance of the day when we gathered together and laughed and talked and loved at a common table. They may not remember the mashed potatoes or the pumpkin pie, the turkey that I woke in the dark of night to cook,  the smoked rock fish, the polished silver, or the sparkling crystal, but they will remember the day when we came together with family and friends to laugh and love and commune as one.   

      And that is what makes a holiday special. It's the memory that matters, the traditions and the gatherings, the family and friends. It's why we exhaust ourselves in preparation, why we spend days and hours planning and preparing for a meal that we could just as easily have ordered from the local deli. It's teaching my son how to brine and carve a turkey, teaching my daughter how to make a cream sauce and a pie, teaching them how to set a table and then carry a conversation around that same setting, teaching them how to serve others and still be thankful, teaching them that family matters, friends are important, and traditions are what bind us.  That is what matters, that is why we work so hard for these holiday moments.

      I have much to be thankful for. It is not the best of times, it is not the safest of worlds, it is not the easiest of generations in which we live. Yet there is still much to rejoice over, to be thankful for, to praise God for, and I am thankful.

Thanksgiving Turkeys and Christmas Parades

     It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the day when our nation pauses to give thanks to a God we’re not allowed to mention in schools or any government institution, but a God we still trust to watch over our money and to whom we swear to “tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God” in our public courts. We were headed to a Christmas Parade, yes, a Christmas parade, a town sponsored fa-la-la-la-la hoopla that would kick off the Christmas season, that time of the year when we celebrate the birth of the Savior we are not allowed to pray to in public but in whose honor the shopping malls and retailers beg us to spend outrageous amounts of cash.  

     We stood in a park beneath trees still shedding their fall foliage, a full week before we stuffed the bird or cooked the pumpkin pie or went over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house. November had not yet turned into December, but who cared if we were rushing the season, everybody loves a parade! The sparkling floats, the marching bands, the Shriners in their tiny cars, the prancing horses clicking down the tarmac, the beauty queens perfecting their royal waves, and always, always,  there at the end, riding high on a sleigh perched precariously on a float,  the breathless arrival of Santa!

     Sissey, ever the purist, was lamenting the fact that poor Tom Turkey was getting a bum deal, that he was getting skipped over, ignored, and that we needed to celebrate Thanksgiving before we barrelled into Christmas.

     “This should be a Thanksgiving parade,” she said. “It’s November, for heaven’s sake. It’s not fair to the bird to just jump straight into Christmas before we’ve even celebrated Thanksgiving. I’m standing up for the turkey! No Christmas carols, no decorations, no celebrating Christmas until December! I’m calling this a Thanksgiving parade.”

    “Believe me, Sissey, the bird doesn’t mind. In fact, I’m quite sure all the turkeys of the world would be perfectly happy if we missed Thanksgiving altogether and just carved the Christmas roast instead.”

     “I guess I didn’t think about it from their point of view,” she conceded, as she agreed to join  the gathering crowd of holiday revelers.

       So we lined up beside the road, a misty drizzle frosting our heads, and prepared to celebrate the birth of a Son that we’re told is not sovreign in this nation.  I wondered how all the elected county officials,  the government representatives, the politicians and public servants  could be allowed to ride in shiny cars, grinning and waving, in a parade that celebrated the birth of a Savior?  Let them try to post the Ten Commandments in a government building or say a prayer in Jesus’ name and see what wrath and litigation they ignite. Yet the little town of Great Falls, all prettied up for the holidays, lights stringing the streets, wreaths on the windows of shops, trees sparkling and twinkling with tinsel and light, was ready to roll out the regalia of a full blown, band marching, candy throwing parade to celebrate the occassion of the birth of our Lord.

   “Look, Washington,” I wanted to yell, “You think you’ve removed God from this nation? You think you’ve wiped God out of public view?  Come on down south to a small town parade. We’ve still got Him down here, and we’re not only celebrating, we’re throwing Him a big ole parade!”

      The high school band (the very public high school band!) was  marching and blasting out Christmas carols on piccolos and flutes and clarinets,  drums booming and trombones blaring,  as they high-stepped down the street.  The flashing lights of the county fire truck and the blaring sirens of the city police cruisers hailed the beginning of the Christmas processional as floats filled with merry children and beaming dignitaries began creeping down the winding street.

     We waved to the school board chair, the public representative of the place where the mere mention of God would bring lawsuits and the full fury of the ACLU, yet there she rode in all her glory, Sunday hat perched haughtily on her head, smiling, waving to the crowd.  Next came the county coroner, and we all waved and yelled out “ Hey Terry!” to the man who will one day officially pronounce us dead, a laughing greeting now, while still alive, to the man who would eventually sign our death certificates. We yelled for the floating queens to toss us some stale Halloween candy which we scrambled for like rats in the gutter, snatching pieces of rain-drenched sweets we had no intention of consuming, the mere thrill of the find driving us to dive for the candy, darting in between the floats and cars to scoop up a tootsie roll or a peppermint or a piece of bubble gum before they were smashed by a tire. The local beauties smiled sweetly from their perches on the backs of convertibles, tiaras twinkling in their hair as they shyly waved and tossed candy to the crowd. The pharmacy, the bank, the local businesses, the phone company, the insurance companies and hardware stores and animal pound all processed by on homemade floats and decorated trailers. The local biker group noisily rolled by, revving up the throttles as they made lazy circles in the road, not to be outdone by the roar of the Shriners on their souped-up gokarts and miniature cars. And finally, in all his secular glory, red velvet suit glistening in the misty rain, Santa arrived on his truck-pulled sleigh, ho-ho-hoing and waving to the wide-eyed, excited children as they clapped their hands and cried out, "Santa, Santa, Santa!"

     It was a fine parade, and although there were no giant balloons or televised broadcasts, no big-name entertainers or celebrity marshalls,  the excitement and festivity the community produced had turned this little small town parade into an affair not to be outdone by Macy's on Turkey Day. All this, all this in preparation for a holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ. And they say we don't have religion in America? I say, bah, humbug to that and Merry Christmas y'all!

    

Pink Rainbows and Red Taillights

     Last night, I dreamt I was dying. It was one of those rapidly intense hallucinations where you rush through an entire lifespan in about three minutes and wake up gasping with your heart pounding in your chest. In my dream, an ugly and progressive disease ravaged my body in a matter of moments, leaving me paralyzed and dying. The experience was so powerful that it shook me awake, and when I placed my palm against my pulsating breast, I could feel the palpitations of my racing heart as if I held it in my hand.

    It was not that I feared dying, for I do not, but the dream disturbed me with the intensity, the pace, the helplessness of my death. I awoke in the dark of the night, and as I lay in bed contemplating the experience of dying, my mind sorted through confusing and morbid thoughts. It was easy to understand why I had dreamed the dream, as we had driven back to Richmond to attend the funeral of a dear friend, one who had lost a six month battle with Lou Gehrig’s disease. His experience with an unseen foe was heavy on my mind, and my sleeping brain was processing his struggle against an enemy that had captured his body and rapidly torn it apart.

      The mind is funny in the dark of the night, the places it wanders, the thoughts it holds. Something about the dark, the absence of light, leaves one confused and fearful, and as I lay there, counting the vibrations of my pounding heart, the dark recesses of my brain rumbled and churned. So I did what I do when I wake in the night.  I began to pray, and as I prayed, the calm that surpasses all other things washed over my thoughts and comforted my unsettled soul. It was as if the very hand of God had touched my pounding chest, settled my heart, and lifted the film of fear that had enveloped my mind.

      Afterward, as I lay in the dark, I pondered two moments from the trip home. The six hour drive to Richmond had begun after a long day of classes, and it had been a tiring and trying drive in the rain and the dark. We were both eager to get home and get off the road, and as we drove, we chatted about the schedule for the weekend, the visitation,  the funeral, what time to leave for the church. Neither of us were expecting or anticipating our own near-death experience, an incident that happened in the blink of an eye, a sudden disruption in the otherwise  uneventful trip. It was a moment that could have been life-altering, a moment that ended almost as quickly as it had begun, a brief second that left us unchanged yet changed.

       In order to let oncoming traffic merge onto the road, the car in front of us came to a sudden and abrupt stop. Rather than merely slowing down as expected, the red taillights of a braking car flashed before me, and I screamed as I realized the car had completely stopped.  I quickly slammed on breaks, going from 70 to 30 in about 2 seconds, swerved into the adjacent lane, and fishtailed across the interstate as Sissey’s head and shoulder banged into the side of the door.  When I had regained control of the car, my breath, and my senses, I checked on both dog and daughter and realized we had not, in fact, passed from this life to the next. I cautiously began to proceed back down the rain-slickened interstate, trembling hands guiding a steering wheel I had almost torn from the column moments earlier.  Sissey rubbed her aching neck and with a nervous laugh said, “Mom, guess it wasn’t our time to go!”

     The second moment that I pondered was one which occurred shortly following our near-death experience.   After regaining control of the car, as the night progressed and the rain drizzled on, I nervously and cautiously inched down the road. Eager to get to Richmond and the safety of home, I was silently thanking God for preserving our lives but simultaneously contemplating the frailty of that same life. We were headed home for a funeral, one that easily could have been our own, and the propensity of things beyond our control, the unexpected and the unanticipated events that occur without forethought or warning, these aspects of life seemed to scream out to me. The night was darkening as I drove, and I peered tentatively up at the dusky sky, searching for a break in the steady drizzle that had trailed us from South Carolina, through North Carolina, and into Virginia. There, in the evening sky, hovering in the firmaments was a vision such as I had never seen. Stretching from one side of Interstate 85 to the other, against a backdrop of dark storm clouds and glaring halogen headlights, a solid pink rainbow glistened in the air.  A neon pink arc, an intense sweep of color painted in a bold stroke against a setting of storm. It seemed appropriate at that moment to remember a promise made by a loving God, a Father who will be with us through calm and storm, through life and death. So without forethought or fear, even after my close brush with death moments earlier, I drove down Interstate 85, in the dark, in the rain, snapping picture after picture with my camera propped on the steering wheel of my car.  It was a risk worth taking, to capture that sight in that sky on that night, and  I smiled as I calmly drove on home.

      I do not know what those of no faith do when facing conflicts of life and death. I do not know what hope they cling to, or what calms their storms, or what eases their fears in the dark of the night. The sustaining power of a compassionate God, the promise of an eternal life, the gifts of grace and salvation and forgiveness and love—these are the very foundations that uphold me as I weather the inevitable tempests of life, this is the hope I cling to in the storm.  

     That evening, as I lay in my bed after frightful dreams and wandering thoughts,  I remembered that bow,  and I slept.

The Horrors of Halloween

     Today is Halloween, the day each year that my daughter reminds me once again of how I ruined her childhood. I was not a perfect mother, I admit, and looking back, I must confess that some of my choices were rather dismal and damaging. On this particular today, we spend much time discussing the reasons I would not indulge my children in store-bought Halloween costumes, insisting instead on using my creative talents to whip up disguises of princesses or zombies, depending on gender preference.  I couldn't help myself, sometimes; my deep-core, fundamentally rooted frugalness refused to give in to my daughter's pleas and tears for a store-bought costume, and I was hell-bent and determined to get through their childhood without dropping a dime on a store-bought, flimsy, mass-reproduced, made-in-China costume.
      We had plenty of materials on hand to create every imaginable princess, fairy, or bride get-up that a young girl could possibly want. I was in the possession of a thoroughly reliable sewing machine, a cabinet full of make-up, and enough glitter and glue to create just about any illusion required to transform a young girl into a magical creature. My son was perfectly happy with fake blood and ghoulish gashes across his face. All he wanted was a pillowcase large enough to hold his candy, and he was good to go. My daughter, in training for a future as a fashion conscious shop-aholic, spent her years pining for a store-bought costume. Not just any costume, mind you. She wanted to be a blue M&M, perhaps in a subconscious nod to her love of chocolate.  I tried to convince her that I could whip up an M&M costume in any color her heart desired, in about three minutes time at that, and for about $1; plus, I argued,  it's so much more FUN to make a costume!! But somehow,  my home-made concept of a blue M&M just didn't compare to the store-bought version. There weren't enough tantrums, tears, or tirades, however,  that would make me cross the line of my philosophical commitment to refuse to buy-in to the childhood belief that commercial costumes are better than homemade ones, and she never, ever, ever got to buy that blue M&M.  
   It is one of the reasons my children will be left penniless upon my death, having spent all the family funds on therapy trying to correct my past wrongs.  Actually, there are three things I did in their childhood for which they will never forgive me, and for which they will spend the rest of their lives in therapy trying to figure out.
        1. I refused to buy them store-bought Halloween costumes.
        2. I refused to buy them store-bought birthday cakes, insisting instead on my own, thoughtfully inspired confections, whipped up by the loving hands of their very own mother.
        And finally, the Grandaddy of all bad decisions:
        3. I would not let them buy a bear from Build-A-Bear.
       Oh, don't get me wrong, I took them to Build-A-Bear all the time. We would watch the other children pay an outrageous amount of money to stuff a placid acrylic form with polyeurathane foam, then insert a tiny plastic heart that would magically give birth to their newly created, but still lifeless, pets.  They would watch those lucky children select tiny outfits that came with designer price-tags, watch them dress their over-priced bears as cheerleaders or doctors or such, and watch them march happily out of the store with a bear-in-a-box that cost their over-indulgent parents close to $100.  Nope, not for me. I let my children watch those other privileged children create and purchase their overpriced bears; in fact, we stopped at Build-A-Bear quite frequently.  But not once did I ever actually let them go through the process of creating, dressing, and buying their own bear. It just seemed like such a waste to pay $100 for a $3 bear.
      After years and years and years of hearing how damaged this left them, I finally offered on their 21st birthday to take them to Build-A-Bear and actually LET THEM MAKE and PURCHASE THEIR VERY OWN BEAR! They both politely refused, opting for therapy instead.
     So now, once again, as Halloween arrives, I must spend the day hearing how I have ruined the life of my daughter because I refused to buy her a blue M&M costume when she was five years old.  I think she has reconciled with the birthday cake thing, but we spend some considerable time rehashing the Build-A-Bear Fiasco.
     Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, parents just can't win. My decisions as a young parent were all done with the good intentions of instilling in my children a sense of frugality, self-restraint, independence and principles. I didn't realize at the time how much damage I was unconsciously inflicting on the psyche of my daughter.  And so, each year, as this day approaches,  and as the stores and magazines and commercials are flooded with the sirene call to purchase a costume, I am reminded of the  horrors I inflicted on her childhood Halloweens, of how my children had  to march through the high-brow neighborhoods of the toney West End in their cheesey, homemade costumes, and how it ruined her life.

    But at least now, in all my aged-wisdom, I'm willing to spend a buck on some real good therapy-- just not on a store-bought costume.
    

Ode to October

Ode to October

Summer has withered and leaves turn to flame,

the air takes a bite from your lungs with each breath.

The sky hovers azure, the sun starts to wane,

as each day gently shortens in breadth.

The crunch of each step as you walk through the woods

leaves a pattern of footprints in acorns and oak

Painted umber and ochre and chocolate and gold-

nature dons such a colorful cloak!

 What artist could fathom such richness of hue?

What designer could sew such a dress?

What creation of man could earn the review

as the splendors of autumn possess?

Oh! give me a day in the fall in the woods

You can have all your treasures and fame-

I wouldn't trade money or riches or goods

for a walk when the leaves are in flame.

Does this Butt make me look fat?

        When you walk into a restaurant and the waiters are wearing T-shirts that read " Fat People Are Hard To Kidnap," it might be a clue that this is not going to be in your best interest, health-wise.  You might even think that you're going to be in for some gastrointestinal, cardiac, and vascular trouble.   Normal people would. Healthy people would . Most members of the 21st century, endorphin-pumping, power-walking, vega-vita-juice culture to which we belong would.  I, however, clapped my hands excitedly together and thought, "Come to Mama! I'm home at last!"  as I headed straight to the bulging buffet of The Smokehouse Restaurant in Elgin, SC. 
      Sissey and I had spent a long but successful day shopping in Columbia  with our friend, Annette. Nothing works up an appetite quite like a day of  walking mile after mile through store after store, and by six o'clock, we were sorely in need of some sustenance.  Annette's brother, his wife, and their mother had suggested we meet them at a local roadhouse where we could experience some real gustatory delights.  In particular, they wanted us to ingest the regional version of Elgin pig, namely because all southerners boast that they have "the best barbecue anywhere on earth, " and we figured this claim was one worth checking out.
     When we pulled into the parking lot of The Smokehouse, the tantalizing smells of smoking pork and frying chicken were so strong they fairly pulled me through the doors. I marched straight past the stuffed bear (not sure why there was a bear, perhaps bear had recently been on the menu?) and right up to the food line. At this point, I was too far in to turn back, so I decided to push the health-conscious chip on my shoulder deep into my sub-conscious memory and commit whole-heartedly-- at least while I still had a viable heart--to dinner at The Smokehouse. I was going to sample my way through as many items as possible on the "all-you-can-eat-take-a-new-plate-each-visit" trip through the cardiac arrest line.
          It seemed to be a fairly good sign that the buffet began with a rather healthy salad bar.
         "OK, " I reasoned, " lots of raw fiber, roughage.  This is good, this is good. Healthy so far."
          I piled my bowl high and  made a mental note of the sign that read, "Take all you want, but be sure to eat it."  Not a problem here, I murmured, as I reached for black olives, pickles, and croutons. For my first health-conscious bonus point of the evening, I skipped the catfish chowder, then jumped smack-dab into the middle of the mashed potato- macaroni and cheese- rice and hash station. Just a little sample here, not going overboard with the carbohydrates;  I put an ever-so-teensy dollop of creamy spuds on my plate and  gave myself another bonus point for going lightly on the carbs.  That would be my second and last healthy decision of the evening, for it was all gastro-gourmet-gluttony from that point on as I headed for the hot lights that hovered over  fried chicken and BBQ.
       Piles of crispy,golden-brown, fried chicken perfection perched beside platters of  BBQ chicken and BBQ wings. Of course, you can't have fried chicken without fried okra, corn on the cob, fried potato wedges,  green beans and collard greens, so those delectables naturally accompanied the chicken.  For some reason, huge pans of banana pudding and Oreo-cookie-pudding-delight were stashed right between the chicken and the pork, perhaps as a subtle reminder to leave room for dessert. I, however, being of such noble self-restraint,  was not tempted at all, having already decided to come back later for the sweets.
      It was pig I had come for, and by golly, I was going to have some pig.  The BBQ was available as chopped pork, pulled pork, sliced pork, roasted pork, and of course, greasy, saucy, hot-off-the-grill, finger-licking, bone-sucking, lip-smacking ribs.  A massive Boston Butt rested on a carve-it-yourself board, just waiting for someone to slice off a chunk of meat in an instant liposuction procedure that would reduce it's heft by a pound or two.  After sneaking a quick taste while still in line, I immediately understood why the other side of those foreboding T-shirts had boasted  that "We have juicy breasts, meaty ribs, and the best butts in town."  They might have them at The Smokehouse, but judging by the size of my plate, those same attributes would not be going home with me tonight. I was quite sure that perfectly roasted Boston Butt would,  indeed, make me look fat, but I whacked off a slice anyway and added it to my plate.
     With a groaning tray loaded with enough calories to sustain a starving nation, I headed back and joined the others.  I plopped my pile heavily onto the oil-cloth table, said a prayer of thanks, added a silent plea for health and digestion, picked up my fork, and  plunged  in.
      After the first few bites, I thought,  "Yes! This is surely worth dying for!"
      If I had stopped here, perhaps I would have had some small chance of redeeming myself with the Weight Watchers of the world, but unfortunately, my slide into gustational sin was not yet finished.  There was one final stop, and it was hovering just inside my left peripheral field of vision. It was the dessert table. Now mind you, I am not one who is prone to gorge on sweets, quite unlike some unnamed people who just happened to be dining with me this night. These unnamed entities each had an incorrigible sweet tooth, and it was truly for their sake alone that I even ventured near the trays of sugar-laden temptations. Being the ever-so-helpful person that I naturally am, I, of course, volunteered to survey the sweets and fetch a few tidbits. I felt obligated to serve up some banana pudding, because it was a house favorite.  I didn't want the Oreo cookie pudding to feel cheated, so I plopped a few spoonfuls of that in a bowl as well.  The peach cobbler had to be healthy, it was a fruit after all, so in it went right beside the German chocolate cake. There, I was done, and had skipped the cookies and vanilla cake to boot!
       And then, as we sat moaning and groaning over our engorged bellies, here comes the devil in an apron with a tray of  fresh, hot, homemade donuts. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to go away? Turn my nose up at such an offering of southern hospitality covered in sugar? Hurt her feelings after she had labored so hard over a hot oven just to feed us????  Of course not! I was raised better than that, and besides,  she practically waved them right under my nose. I was powerless to resist, so I took two.
     You may as well have hooked up an IV to my arm and infused a stick of butter straight into my veins after what I had just endured, but I was happy, because I knew for sure that nobody was ever going to be able to kidnap me. I thought as extra insurance,  I might pick up a couple of those t-shirts on the way out, just as a warning to all those would-be kidnappers hovering in the bushes waiting to snatch an obese, fifty year old  cardiac risk inflated with BBQ and hyped up on sugar.
        As I drove back  home down the dark, isolated  road to Chester, I argued with my engorged, pig- sated, digesting self and tried to assuage my guilty conscious by saying this was a one-time deal.
      "Anyway, who cares what all those reports say about monounsaturated versus polyunsaturated fats?" I muttered. "I am sick to death of hearing about trans fats, and Omega fats, and fat this and fat that.  What do all those doctors know? Just call me fat and be done with it, but I sure am glad we stopped at The Smokehouse! "
       I was willing to bet  that not a single one of those doctors had ever chomped down on some real southern BBQ. If they had, they'd tell everyone to forget everything they read, go get some good BBQ, and die happy.