The Glue of Love and Time

Monday Morning Musings:

“for us physicists believe the separation between past, present, and future is only an illusion, although a convincing one.”

Albert Einstein, in a letter, after the death of his friend, Michele Besso

To time we’re young

a blush over morning

brilliance that fades

repeating through years

and generations

 

Words sail through space,

bubble like champagne,

like the thoughts shared by friends over wine

through time

What is the glue, she asks,

that binds us,

that holds us together

some friends, but not all

over distance and years?

 

I have no answers,

the universe is a mystery

the dazzling beauty

of the night sky in June

the rhythms of nature and time

sometimes it comes together

IMG_6147

Heritage Vineyards Mullica Hill, New Jersey

other times though,

there is confusion and contradiction

the day that changes from sun to rain

and back again

we walk through city streets

see a bride and groom

IMG_6152

smell the scent of rain-damp flowers

IMG_6154

get caught in the next downpour

nature is confused

IMG_6158

 

We watch a movie

of family and history,

and family history

a mystery

life, death, survival

hiding underground

and then burying the secrets

the sins of the father

haunt him and his children

like ghosts

spirits that rise from graves

there is jealousy, too,

and sister-love

and music

some also underground

circling

becoming the means to an end

to forgive

to heal

 

We walk through crowds of people celebrating Philly Pride Day

rainbow flags on display

(people, too)

have dinner at a bar

then on to see a play

a musical

IMG_6171

another tale of family secrets

the father has a hidden life

(some boys, some underage)

many in the audience chuckle knowingly

watching his daughter coming of age

coming to know herself

and, of course, I remember

(not a letter)

but the phone call,

the funny, memorable, filled-with-laughter phone call

from my daughter

not that it’s a surprise

not that it changes anything for me

though it changes her world

and it must have been a scary call for her

and she must have sighed with relief afterward,

but love is love is love

and all I want is for my daughters to be happy

the show has more secrets

and more tragedy

and three versions of Alison—

not separated–

past, farther past, and present–

existing at the same time,

as it does within our minds

 

It is Father’s Day,

my father is gone for many years

I think of the secrets he must have had

the life before children

I see old photos of him

younger hims I never knew

IMG_3933

I can’t talk to him,

or I could,

but he can’t answer me

not in words that I can hear

perhaps in dreams

or illusions

or in a bending of time

still there are bonds, love,

glue that binds us

despite secrets

despite not knowing

he lives in my heart and mind–

is he gone–or not?

 

Welsh Cookies

I made Welsh Cookies–called Daddy Cookies at our house–for my husband for Father’s Day.

 

We saw the movie Past Life, an Israeli movie set in 1977 in Israel, Germany, and Poland.  Trailer here.  We saw the musical Fun Home, based on Alison Bechdel’s graphic novel. It won five Tony Awards in 2015. Here’s the Tony Awards performance.

Coffee and Home

Monday Morning Musings:

 “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

–J.R.R. Tolkien

 

“Coffee is a lot more than just a drink; it’s something happening. Not as in hip, but like an event, a place to be, but not like a location, but like somewhere within yourself. It gives you time, but not actual hours or minutes, but a chance to be, like be yourself, and have a second cup.”

–Gertrude Stein, Selected Writings

This universe must be home

(has always been home)

I wake warm and comfortable

drink coffee

(always coffee)

live mornings of caramel joy

remember a voice

a smile

cats

celebrate a secret sky waking

 

I wake to the smell of coffee

a childhood memory,

an adult reality,

a scent wafting through time

am image, too, coffee cups and morning newspapers

spread across the kitchen table

(now joined by laptops and phones),

the table in my young childhood home

lived in the kitchen-dining-den space—

my mother hated it—the space, not the table–

and when I was teen, she, no longer with my father,

bought a house with a separate dining room,

a large, center-hall house with five bedrooms

that became too much for her to keep up with

but it was the house by which my siblings and I later measured all other houses.

In that dining room, my boyfriend, now husband, learned about Sunday brunches

with lox, blocks of cream cheese, bagels, herring, boiled new potatoes, and crusty rye bread–

and on the little enclosed porch we’d sit before a fire late on Saturday nights and drink coffee and consume the treats, fried and sweet, from Dunkin Donuts, wiping sugar from our faces with paper napkins and kisses.

 

Food and friendship, more valuable than gold,

I eat Vietnamese food with a friend

we laugh and talk

she tells me (I had forgotten) that she dislikes tomatoes

then is surprised to find them in her stir fry,

we laugh and talk

I slurp vermicelli noodles with extra hot sauce

and we sit, chatting and catching up,

her mother’s house, her childhood home, sold

she is pleased that the new owners seem like good people

another family for the house

to imbue it with new dreams,

the old ones will fade from the walls

like night shadows gradually erased by the dawn

 

We don’t order coffee

though we laugh and talk for two hours,

the restaurant owners, mother and daughter, probably eager for us to go,

but we’re enchanted by the little girl, daughter of one, granddaughter of the other,

eighteen months old

she blows kisses and says good-bye.

 

A few days later, my husband and I go to a first communion party

the daughter of a daughter of long-time friends

we sat with them every Friday night in their first house

a TGIF Sabbath meal each week of dollar hoagies and beer

we were there when our friend went into labor with the daughter whose daughter

we’re celebrating at this party

where I sit and talk the entire time with another friend, my twin

though her skin is darker, her hair shorter,

we’re twins of the heart

we wear our matching bracelets

talk about another friend who could not be there

but who is linked to us

img_5011

New Year’s Eve, 2016 We are linked, heading into 2017.

 

and catch up on news, share photos, her sons, my daughters,

it’s a miserable day, cold and raining, more like March than May

but warmed by friendship

 

After that, my husband and I travel to my daughter’s house

bringing wine for her and her husband,

we laugh about all the wine we’ve ordered

delivered to our door all in one day in three large boxes

so that the UPS man thinks we’re having a party

we eat Pakistani food with them at a nearby restaurant,

the genial owner recommends dishes,

“We have new items”, he says,

“try the spring rolls, vegetarian.”

They are different from Chinese spring rolls,

delicious, though not as good as the vegetable samosas,

our favorites,

my daughter and I share the platter,

everything is delicious, eggplant, vegetable korma, naan, the goat our husbands have

(I suppose)

“Always a pleasure to see you,” the owner says as we leave,

and we assure him that it’s always a pleasure to visit his restaurant,

and it is, even on a cold and rainy night.

 

In the morning, a package of chocolate covered strawberries arrives,

a special Sunday delivery,

from my other daughter and her wife,

a thoughtful present,

a scrumptious treat for Mother’s Day

even first thing in the morning.

IMG_5951

Later I will talk to her on the phone,

hear about her trip to national parks in Utah

(while they still exist)

learn about her surprising facility for rock climbing

and allergy to Los Vegas

I miss seeing her, but it is good to hear her voice

from across the miles

 

We have lunch at my sister’s house

where we take my mother for Mother’s Day

 

Before lunch H. had made a grand entrance,

“Hi, I have to pee and sprints through the living room.”

18425058_10211565832597448_6403836512963152746_n

 

We later talk about the house she and her husband have fixed up to sell.

It was their first home, bought with an inheritance from my father,

her voice breaks a bit as she describes painting over the clouds in her first baby’s room.

The sun is out, and we sit for the garden for a bit

though it gets windy

My family is goofy and wonderful

I love them

 

I’ve baked a flourless chocolate cake

because there must be chocolate

 

 

and my sister buys, rather than brews, coffee

from Dunkin’ Donuts to have with it,

which makes me think again of those long-ago days

I think of all the mothers and daughters

the houses we’ve lived in

the coffee we’ve consumed

and despite all that is wrong in the world

I’m happy to wake in the morning to my coffee, newspapers, and cats,

to my husband saying, “Can I pour you another cup?”

 

The joys,

transitory like the flowers that have recently bloomed

 

but no less beautiful for that

timeless in our memories

the sky has cleared in the morning,

there is a half-moon hanging crookedly in the sky humming a song of hope

I go inside and pour a cup of coffee

a cat settles on my lap

this universe must be home

especially if there is coffee

–and love

FullSizeRender 124

 

It Was a Fine Day for a Picnic

Monday Morning Musings

It was a fine day for a picnic—

The little bit of rain at the end doesn’t count.

An outing in the country for my mom

Who lives surrounded by the concrete

Of the city.

“I’ve never been to winery before,”

she said.

Well, she’s almost 93,

So it’s about time,

Don’t you think?

So I packed a picnic,

And since there were three of us,

I packed enough for 6,

Maybe 8,

Because what if there isn’t enough food?

A sandwich for my husband

And one for my mom,

And then–

Roasted red pepper hummus

Roasted Red Pepper Hummus

Roasted Red Pepper Hummus

Cheese, Manchego and Gouda

IMG_2600

Because I couldn’t decide.

Cut up vegetables, olives,

And,

The wine!

IMG_2599

I think I chose well,

The Cabernet Franc

Was delicious.

Of course

I’m not an expert,

But nobody complained,

And the glasses got refilled–

More than once.

So I guess they liked it,

And it went well

With the food.

There was also

My Mandelbrot,

My “Mommy Cookies,”

IMG_2606

Because every meal needs chocolate,

Doesn’t it?

And so–

We sat and talked.

While the clouds rolled like waves

In an aerial sea,

The white breakers

Tinged with gray.

Monroeville Vineyard and Winery

Monroeville Vineyard and Winery

And the bees danced

To their secret melodies

As they dipped into

The clover at our feet.

Vultures,

First one,

Then two, three, and four

Turned in graceful circles

Above us.

No, not quite above.

There was something farther afield,

Probably much tastier.

Well, tastier to a vulture

I suppose.

But then, I’ve never asked one,

Have you?

All was peaceful,

Just us, the food, and the wine–

And the soft buzzing of bees.

Friend Kelly stopped by,

But I forgot to take her picture.

You’ll have to trust me

That she was there with us.

She texted me later,

“Your mother is awesome.

Next time I’ll have to bring my mother-in-law.

They would really get along.”

I hope there is a next time.

But if not,

We had today.

Family, friends,

Food, and

Wine.

It was a fine day for a picnic.

A few hours of relaxing

In the open air.

An outing for my mother.

And the bit of rain didn’t matter

At all.

My mom and I--wine glasses in hand!

My mom and I–wine glasses in hand!

“Time it was and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you”

–Paul Simon, Simon and Garfunkel, “Bookends”

Showers of Memories

Monday Morning Musings

It was a weekend of memories and dreams, of laughter and tears, of toasts and roasts, and of introductions and farewells. It was a weekend of closing well-used doors and opening new ones, of hugging and kissing family and friends, of unwrapping gifts, and of feeling thankful.

Part 1—Retirement Celebration

Remember thirty-seven years ago when we drove miles and miles—

(Are we there yet?)

to a new high school set in a field

and surrounded by farmland

and nothing else?

It seemed like the middle of nowhere,

and it kind of was,

it kind of still is.

“This is where I’m teaching,”

you said.

And that is where you stayed,

your home away from home.

I heard you lauded—

toasted

and roasted.

There were tales of you “borrowing”

the grade books of other teachers–

right before an administrator came for an observation.

In retaliation, some teachers pooled their funds

and had your car towed from the high school lot—

as you watched.

Teaching requires creativity.

And improvisation.

You will be missed,

but our daughter now teaches in the same district.

She will not take other’s grade books—even if they still existed—

(everything is electronic now)

But she has already made her mark with her Hello Kitty socks—

and daily dance parties in her classroom.

Teaching is hard work, but it can also be fun.

Our daughter will continue the tradition of educating

young minds,

of helping them to think and learn.

Now it is time for you, my husband, to do new things.

Retirement Celebration

Retirement Celebration

Part 2—The Bridal Shower

10258435_774965211444_762445812939780587_n

Picking up my mom and her cousin,

we traveled to Manayunk,

the Lenape word for “river,”

or “place to drink.”

Or so I’m told.

It is a former industrial area, just northwest

of Philadelphia,

But now there are many trendy restaurants,

and we went to one.

Set on the canal.

Picturesque.

Getting my mom down the steps,

and into the event space

took some time,

but it was worth the effort.

Last summer at another restaurant

younger daughter hosted a shower for her sister.

This year their roles are switched.

Sister love

Sister hugs

Sister gestures and sister speak

I gaze at them with love,

awed that they are mine.

We will not cry.

Nope.

Maybe a little.

The guests swirl around,

the young ones like freshly-picked flowers.

We older women, more like—

No.

Not going there.

The young women like young wines,

delightful and full of promise.

We older ones,

robust, but still velvety—

elegant, but still playful,

aren’t we?

We have aged well.

Delicious brunch.

Perhaps a bit more.

Must try some dessert–

of course.

Chocolate.

Games played.

Laughter.

Presents opened.

We depart.

The young ones will

continue to celebrate

late into the nights.

Bachelorette night.

Cousin Sali amusing

on the ride home—

“Your mother was the good girl.”

‘Why can’t you be like Sylvia?’”

She said the aunts told her.

There were many aunts.

“They pointed out my faults

so they could improve me.”

“But your mother was always kind to me

she always let me tag along–

even though she’s older.”

Part 3—Baby Shower

Two days of seeing some special friends!

Yay!

For the past few years

we’ve been attending the showers and weddings

of our children.

Wasn’t it only yesterday that we were having baby showers for

one another?

Remember the one at the lake?

And remember when Pat punched a hole

in the wall?

Baby Big Hair.

Baby No Hair.

Now our babies are having babies.

Irene bravely driving,

Chris navigating.

“Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike,”

We don’t have to look for America.

We’ve found it

in our daily lives

and with our family and friends.

Showers, memories–

and dreams of moments

still to come.

Borscht Memories? Beets me.

A recent NPR story about borscht at the upcoming 2014 Winter Olympics at Sochi made me reminisce about my own experiences with the flavorful cabbage and beet soup. (Really, you mean you don’t have borscht memories of your own? How odd.)

         As twenty-somethings, my husband and I lived for a few years in a wonderfully peculiar first-floor apartment in Woodbury, NJ. (Among the odd features–the bathroom adjoined the eat-in kitchen making it. . . uh. . .”interesting” when we had dinner guests. Also, the bathtub hung down into the basement so that someone standing in the basement could actually rap on bottom of it.) The apartment was one of two on our side of a large, old, twin house that had been converted into apartments—two on our side, and three on the other side. The house sat on a on a quiet residential street, lined with tall, stately trees, from which bats, raccoons, and even an occasional flying squirrel would come to visit us—the type of guests you really don’t want to host, especially at 3 AM–whether they use your bathroom or not.

         Our good friends lived upstairs. Let’s call the man John. That may or may not be his name. John’s mother is Polish. She grew up in a Polish enclave in Philadelphia. My ancestry is Russian-Jewish—all four of my grandparents came from Russia. We both grew up eating borscht. One week we decided to make and compare our versions of borscht. As I recall—and this was close to thirty years ago–John’s borscht was a meaty broth that included large chunks of potatoes and other vegetables. It was much different from my sweet and sour soup, which was more tomatoey and did not include these vegetables, but it was still delicious.

         I made my borscht the way my mother did. Those familiar with my blog know that my family uses the shitarein method of cooking. That is, we throw in this and that without measuring. At some point after moving into our first apartment, I must have called my mom to ask her how to make borscht. This is what I wrote down (on old, left over stationary from my parents’ store). You have to understand this is actually my version of what she told me—so it’s sort of a shorthand shitarein “recipe.” I’ve had similar phone conversations with my own daughters. Apparently, it’s genetic.

Image

Borscht recipe from my mom

 

 

 

 

The second borscht memory is also from our BK (before kids) days, but involves another set of friends. We used to sometimes get together with this couple and combine our dinners. I was making borscht one afternoon when the call came. “Want to get together tonight?” “OK. I’m making borscht.” “We’re having spaghetti.” “What time should we be over?” Yup, borscht and spaghetti—a combination that’s hard to forget! We had so much fun though talking and laughing at those dinners—and we all enjoyed eating, of course.

The third memory is a recent one, from this past fall. As the weather got cold, my mom was in the mood to make some borscht. Since she can no longer shop on her own, she needed someone to bring her the ingredients. She thought it would be a great idea to have my niece pick up the ingredients on the day before Thanksgiving, when they were going to make the cranberry sauce at my niece’s house for our family dinner (yes, Faithful Readers, for THE squirrel mold). For some reason, my mom could not understand why this idea was less than thrilling to my niece. (What could be more fun after driving with her three kids in the car on the busiest travel day of the year to pick her up?) For one thing, no one at my niece’s house even likes or would eat borscht. For another thing, making the cranberry sauce is always a production in itself. Well, they didn’t make the borscht that night, but the next week, my brother brought my mom the ingredients and she was able to make a pot for herself.

(In the summer my mom loves cold beet borscht that she buys in a jar. For the record, I think it’s disgusting.)

So since my head was filled with thoughts of borscht, I decided to make a pot of it yesterday. I make a vegetarian version now. It always seems like such a comforting and nutritious soup—filled with Vitamin C and antioxidants—but more importantly to me, it’s also delicious. I like it a bit spicy, too, which helps to clear my winter-clogged sinuses, so I add ginger and lots of freshly ground pepper. Here is the method. In the best shitarein tradition, you will have to guess at amounts. Come on, cooking is an adventure—at least it is for me. Sometimes I start making one dish, and then halfway through it turns into something else. This time though, I was determined it would be borscht. So here it is.

Image

Vegetarian Cabbage-Beet Borscht

Sauté one large onion; add two chopped carrots, and cook until soft. Add 4 (more or less, depending on their size and your inclination) minced cloves of garlic. Mix in one can finely chopped beets with juice. I use the food processor. If you use fresh beets, I suspect that roasting them first will add sweetness to the mixture. I will try that next time, but the beets at the store didn’t look very good. Add one large can of tomato puree. Then add approximately one qt. of vegetable broth (homemade or purchased). I like Mark Bittman’s One hour vegetable broth recipe, which I follow—more or less. Chop cabbage—I used about ½ a head and add to the pot. Season with lemon juice, brown sugar, ginger (I used a combination of ginger root and ground ginger), salt, and lots of freshly ground pepper. I lost track of the lemons and amount of brown sugar I used. Start with the juice of two lemons, plus some zest if you want and about ¼ cup brown sugar and adjust from there. Remember the adventure. I also added a tablespoon or two of apple cider, because I had some in the refrigerator. So why not? Cook everything until all the vegetables are cooked through. Add more broth if needed. The result should be sweet and sour and a little spicy. If desired, serve with a dollop of sour cream.

Borscht is great with black bread. I baked some to go with the soup, using the Smitten Kitchen recipe (omitting the shallot because I didn’t have one.) Really do try this bread.

Image

Black Bread from Smitten Kitchen recipe

We added some dill Havarti to complete our delicious meal.

But now I’m craving spaghetti.

Hope you are warm and cozy wherever you are. Thanks for reading!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Empty Nests, Friendship, and Bread

With the start of the new year, our younger daughter moved into her first post-college apartment. I suppose I am now officially an “empty nester,” although I dislike the term. I understand the analogy of the fledgling leaving the nest, but guess what? The nest is not empty—my husband and I are still here! Everyone understands what the term means, but it is a cliché.  I will miss having our daughter living here. Yes, she is and will always be my “baby.” I love and adore both my girls. I will miss our fun TV-watching nights when we would chat about friends and catch up—often while eating a special dessert. My husband will miss having her in the car with him on the ride back and forth from work. BUT, just as her sister was, our younger daughter is eager to move on with her “grown up” life. She is happy and in love—and how can I not be happy for her? 

Neither daughter is now living at home, but they are still in our lives. They will always be my daughters, and I will always be their mother. They are wonderful, talented, kind, smart young women. It is ok to miss their presence in the house. But I am not devastated, I am happy for them, and feel lucky and grateful to have them in my life.  Some of my friends no longer have their children. That is devastation. We will still see both of our daughters; we communicate regularly by text and phone. We can SKYPE or do Facetime. It is the end of a stage in all of our lives, but it is also the start of a new one.

On New Year’s Day, not knowing when our daughter or her boyfriend were going to arrive at our house before their move the next day, I decided to bake some bread and make a pot of soup. That way, the food would be ready at any time, for whoever wanted it. I decided to make a curried red lentil soup—the golden color symbolizing prosperity in the new year—and the touch of sweetness and the spice added further symbolism, while the touch of coconut milk gave it a bit of creaminess that was perfect for the cold, winter day.

I decided to make Honey Wheat Berry Bread. It’s our daughter’s favorite, and I made one loaf for her and one loaf to have with dinner. The recipe comes from Anna Thomas’s The Vegetarian Epicure (1972). When I was in high school, a friend—my then boyfriend, now husband’s best friend—gave me this book because he knew I liked to cook. As far as I can recall, it was simply a random present, and I realize now, how kind and thoughtful that was. The book is now tattered and falling apart.

 Image

I am fairly certain that the wheat berry bread recipe was the first recipe I made from the book, and that I then presented the friend with a loaf.  In those days, it was an adventure trying to find wheat berries. It usually meant a trip to a “health food” store. Now I can find them at my local grocery store. When I made the bread on New Year’s Day, I was inspired by another blogger (check out Shanna Koenigsdorf Wards’  recipe for Spiced Fig and Apple Bread on her blog Curl and Carrots) to add fruit to one loaf, leaving the other loaf plain for my daughter to take to her new apartment. After kneading in the cooked wheat berries to entire amount of dough, I divided the dough into two portions, and added dried cranberries, golden raisins, and about ¼ cup of finely ground walnuts to one loaf. I have to say, it was scrumptious, and delicious with goat cheese! But this bread is even good eaten dry.

So my history with this bread began with an old friendship, received inspiration from a new blogger acquaintance, and became a new home gift from mother to child. I think I will have to rename it New Year Friendship Bread. And I will have to look up the old friend’s phone number and give him a call!

So ring out the old and ring in the new. Let’s see what 2014 has in store for all of us–hopefully, good friends, time with cherished family members, and lots of good bread!

 Image

Honey Wheat Berry Bread (aka New Year Friendship Bread)

Adapted from The Vegetarian Epicure by Anna Thomas

½ cup dry wheat berries

1 2/3 cups milk (it works with almond or soymilk )

1 Tbsp. (1 package ) yeast

1/3 cup honey

2 Tbsp. butter

2 tsp. salt

5 ½ -6 ½ cups whole wheat flour

½ toasted wheat germ

Dried fruit and nuts as desired

Simmer wheat berries in 2 cups water for about 2 ½ to 3 hours, or until the wheat berries are tender. Add water as needed. Wheat berries can be cooked ahead of time and stored in a container in the refrigerator for a couple days.

         The recipe says to scald the milk and then let it cool to room temperature. I think it’s fine to simply warm the milk. Make certain it is not too hot before adding it to the yeast. Dissolve the yeast in ¼ cup warm water. Add the milk, honey, butter, and salt. Stir in about 4 cups of flour, and mix until smooth. Add more flour and the wheat germ. Knead the dough and place in a greased bowl to rise for about 1 ½ hours until doubled. Punch down, and knead in the cooked wheat berries—and fruit, if using.

         Divide the dough into two parts, form into loaves, and place in greased loaf pans. Cover and let rise for about 45 minutes. Bake in preheated over at 375° for about 45 minutes. Try not to eat an entire loaf by yourself in one sitting.

The Sweetness of New Beginnings

 

 

I spent part of the past weekend baking challahs for Rosh Hashanah. Here in the United States, Monday was Labor Day, and many people here consider Labor Day weekend the unofficial end of summer. We’ll be having a small family dinner on Wednesday night, and a big extended family and friends’ meal on Saturday night at our house. In addition to the traditional staples–challahs, apples, and honey–we’ll have pumpkin-yellow split soup, brisket, noodle kugel, and many more luscious dishes–including apple cake, baklava, and maybe something chocolate, too, for dessert. Because chocolate is always appropriate and sometimes necessary. We might even have a kitchen disaster for extra excitement. There will be a variety of dishes to satisfy both meat eaters (did I mention a turkey breast, too, in case someone eats meat, but not beef?) and vegetarians (who needs brisket and turkey breast when there is good bread, soup, kugel, and vegetables?), and sufficient quantity (see above) to satisfy my own fears that there might not be enough food for everyone to feel totally stuffed and ready to vomit by the end of the meal. There also has to be enough food to send everyone home with leftovers. Yup, I’m not religious, but culturally, I’m the stereotypical Jewish momma, at least when it comes to holiday meals.

 

Challahs cooling on the counter

Challahs cooling on the counter

 

We had an extra freezer in our basement that broke at the beginning of the summer. I told my husband there was no real necessity to replace it because we don’t really use it that much. Then a couple of weeks ago, I told him in a panic that I needed a freezer to store all the challahs I bake for Rosh Hashanah. True story.

 

It seemed odd at first to be baking and preparing for the holiday on a warm summer afternoon when its seems more of a cool weather fall holiday to me. You might think I could adjust the menu for warmer weather, but then you don’t know my family. We don’t just have food traditions–we worship them.

 

But as I’ve been thinking about the end of summer and the start of fall schedules, the timing of the holiday seems perfect. Here in the United States, most schools have just recently started their fall terms or will soon do so. For my family, it is a fall of new beginnings. Our older daughter started graduate school last week. Our younger daughter just started her first grownup job as a high school English teacher. Since her Dad teaches math in the same school, this job is extra special to them both. It’s a one-semester position, which means they will cherish their temporary carpool and colleague status all the more.

 

During this past weekend, my mother was in the hospital. It appears to be nothing too serious, but her hospitalization is a reminder that she is 91-years-old, and it makes me reflect at this new year on the fleetingness of life and the need to live it to the fullest.  (Add resolution to avoid clichés in future writing.) As we dip our apples in the honey this year, I will look at the faces of my family members and friends, and I will consider all the wonderful things in my life and all that makes it sweet—from family and cats to books, TV shows, movies, theatre, and reading the morning newspaper while drinking that first morning cup of coffee. To seeing a beautiful sunrise and feeling satisfied at the end of the day that I accomplished the work I set out to do. To finishing a killer workout at the gym and appreciating that I can still do it. To hearing laughter and to crying tears of joy.

 

As much as I love good food, I love sharing it with family and friends even more. I need to remember to make time for them. I will remind myself to meet my deadlines (oops!), but to remember to play and laugh, too.  I will cherish my family, friends, and my pets. I am thankful for all of you who take the time to read my blog posts. I wish all of you a sweet, healthy, and happy New Year. Don’t forget the honey.

 

For You: Bok Choy and Kale Chips

How do you make the brisket?
Can I have your recipe for Snickerdoodles?
What do you do with bok choy?

baked kale chips

baked kale chips (Photo credit: eraine)

The calls and messages come.
Sometimes they are frequent;

sometimes not often enough.

My friend calls it “the lost years.”

Those years when we were so caught up with our children,
their activities, and work
that we had little time to connect with each other.
It went by in a flash.
I’m past that time now.
My children are young adults.
They do not need me to take them to rehearsals

or lessons.
We talk companionably,
and sometimes with tears,
but more often with laughter.

I cherish every moment.

Your children are still young.
You chase them, and love them,

and take them here
and there
and here again.

“I love your blog posts,” you say,
“Even when they’re not about me.”
You laugh.
So this is for you.

“Make kale chips, “ I say.
“Bake them at three hundred,
but watch them carefully so
they don’t burn.
Maybe you can use the bok choy.”

I know I will not be lost to you.
We’re both amazing women.
But I’m the one with the recipes.