We Remember

Today, two years ago, my family buried my mother.

In many ways, it was the hardest day of my life.

In other ways, it was most blessed.  If only you could have seen how full the church was that day at her funeral, to hear my family and our Church singing of God's promise and Hope in the life she lived, the life we have left to live before we see her again.  To be there with family and friends (and in-laws!) who traveled so far to join us in celebrating Momma's life--what a joy to have such a community.  This is what Christians do for each other.

2 Years?

Has it been two years already?  Twenty-four months is not a very long time--ask any parent of a toddler--and yet, it seems ages ago that I first learned my mother had died.

Last year, I shared the story of my mother's death, and how we celebrated her life in remembrance.  This year, unexpectedly, I am a strange mix of emotions: happy and sad; peaceful and unsettled.

I miss Momma more than I thought I could, and in ways I never expected.  I miss talking to her about adoption, even though I never did speak with her about it, about becoming a parent in this way--it is so different from being pregnant.  When I have dreams that I don't understand, I miss hearing her interpretation of them and what she thinks it means for my life.  I miss listening to her tell stories; stories she made up or stories from her past, or from her family's past.  She had a flare for story-telling.

Still, even now on the second anniversary of her death, I am giddy with excitement.  Today, Taylor and I get to go visit our Little Girl--the court date is getting so close!  All I can think about is whether or not we will have her home in two weeks.. in just 13 days.

#Googled

I really have to hand it to Google today, guys.  When I first saw the link in my twitter stream this morning, it didn't quite occur to me how awesome the idea was. My first "map your valentine" for Taylor today was only our apartment address: "My home is where you are, my Love."  Simple, sweet.  I didn't think of any grandiose locations to send him on a heart-shaped map.

But then I got his valentine back and I swooned.  Really!  I almost gasped out loud at work (ok, fine, I did gasp out loud at work.. but no one was near my office) :)

Really, the location might not mean anything to anyone else, but to me, it brought back memories of fresh pasta, hot humid days, warm vibrant nights, ancient history living all around me, and lounging in bed for hours on end, with nothing to do but eat tasty food and read Tolkien aloud to each other.  He sent me the address to the apartment in Rome where we stayed for our honeymoon.

Fiction Friday (continued...)

...

Once a month, Sophie's mother organized a community recital at the Home for the Elderly, and anyone could perform who wanted to.  Sophie's mother always signed her up to play the piano.  First she'd play, and then she'd recite the poem she memorized that month.  The applause were never very loud, and there were never enough cookies and punch afterwards and it was so long before everyone had finished their recitals.  Sophie's mother would sit and visit with the old men and women for what seemed like hours, and smile and laugh with them and hold their hand--listening to their stories and their jokes until they got tired and needed to take a rest.

When it was time to go, Sophie took her mother's hand and they walked down the street together.  Father was at work and her other brothers were in school, so it was just the two of them, the ladies of the house.  Down the street, two blocks right, and one to the left, past the big yellow house, through the park (and all those lovely trees), and up the steps of the large building.

Today, instead of letting her play in the courtyard after the recital, Sophie's mother brought her into the hall and introduced her to one of the old ladies.  

"Sophie, this is Meema.  She just moved in here." she said.  Meema had white hair and her face was pale, like the parchment pictures in Mother's bedroom.  She had thin lips and watery blue eyes, but she was smiling.  Sophie liked her smile--it reminded her of Jake.  

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Sophie replied with a little curtsy, but she hung back a little behind her mother. 

"Meema is Jake's grandmother." Sophie's mother told her.  "After his parents died, Jake lived with Meema and she took care of him."  

Sophie stared with wide eyes.  The more she looked, the more she saw Jake's face in the old woman.  Meema smile even wider.  "What a lovely little girl you are, Sophie!  I loved the poem you recited today.  Where did you learn it?"  

"Well, Jake wrote it down for me before he left, ma'am, and I've been memorizing it for the past few months.  He used to tell me all sorts of stories and poems and songs... b-before."  

"Ah, it sounded like something Jake would like.  Will you tell me again, dear, slowly.  I'm going to close my eyes, but I'll be listening.  Can I hold your hand while you say it?  You have such lovely little hands."  

Sophie put her hand in the old lady's.  It was warm and soft and dry--like old paper, like the old face, but it was strong.  Meema squeezed Sophie's hand, and Sophie began:

Christmas to Me

To me, Christmas is a time of creativity.  It always has been.  From my earliest memories, Momma was always cooking, baking, gifting, sewing, painting, and decorating.  She loved the holidays. 

Momma's nativity sets, for example, took countless hours of hard, detailed work from start to finish.  She even poured the ceramics herself, and had them fired.  Then there was the basecoat (which we kiddies got to help with--how hard can it be to paint something all one color? (turns out it's rather tricky, to get it not-lumpy and goopy)), which was sealed, then the antiquing, sealing, colored antiquing, more sealing, and finally, the painted details, which Momma mostly did.  

It was just stunning to see her finished sets arranged just so at the parish holiday bazaar.  I wonder how many of her sets are scattered through our home town--how many lovely pieces of Love and talent and dedication adorn the homes of our friends at Christmastime.  

And still, nothing puts me more in a Christmas mood than getting my full box of paints and paint brushes out and, stroke by stroke, bringing clay or ceramic pieces to life.  

My Christmas Dress

My very own Christmas dress.  A good friend sent me a pattern she thought I would like, and I finally cut it out last week.  I started sewing Friday evening and hand-stitched the hem yesterday afternoon, watching Wall-E with my Sweet P'Taylor...  

I remember Christmas dresses when I was a little girl.  Sometimes we would buy them; sometimes, Momma would make them.  On Christmas Eve we would all open one present from under the tree before going to the children's mass as a family.  Momma would often suggest a particular gift for us to open, and I remember once I received a pair of brand new, shiny black, heeled shoes.  I felt so grown up and beautiful walking into Church that night.  Rustling dress, new shoes, warm winter coat.  I sat up straight because I felt like such a lady.  I paid extra close attention because I was so grown-up.

Thanks Giving

Thanksgiving was always Momma's favorite holiday.  She told me it was her favorite because all she had to worry about was food. And--let's be honest here (in case you haven't figured this out yet)--my family was really into food.

Especially Momma.  

And boy did she "worry" about the food.  Not that she stressed out about it, but she planned and planned for it. I think she really looked forward to the holidays all year long, planning for months ahead of time: stocking up recipes and thinking about what she'd make and how she'd serve it. She loved parties.

She had stacks of magazines with recipes she wanted to try.  Countless cookbooks were piled on her bookshelves. Her recipe box was stuffed with 3 x 5 cards.  Every year she'd try at least one new dish.  Usually, there would be several--sweet, savory, and cookie-y.

The Baker In Me

I've always loved to bake.  I get it from my mother.  My earliest memories of her in the kitchen, especially around the holidays, were her baking.  She probably made something of everything over her lifetime.  Cakes, cookies, candy, baked decorations.. it was wonderful to see how she loved to make.

Her mother loved it too.  As Thanksgiving approached, Big Mom (that's what we called my maternal grandmother--she was, after all, from Texas) would start to bake sugar cookies. Batches of them! She carefully sorted through her two or three suitcases of cookie cutters, picking which ones she wanted to use that year, and she'd mix, chill, roll, cut, bake, and store the cookies for days on end. Then she would put her kids to work frosting them.  There were plain cookies and imprinted cookies and all shapes and sizes (we have a tree cookie cutter from her stash that's nearly a foot tall), turkeys, pumpkins, santas, stockings, even full nativity set figures.

Tradition

to Annie
from K.K.

It's not the same when I type it out.  If you want the full effect of the memory those words have for me when I think of them, they have to be in Momma's handwriting, scrawled in pencil on a Christmas gift tag, attached to an evidently hurriedly-wrapped present found on my pillow in the morning.

Kris Kringle presents were just one of the traditions Momma kept during Advent.  I recall, over the years, we did many things through the Catholic grade school we all attended.  Mostly it was a Jesse tree, which we'd color and cut and paste and decorate at school the last week of November and bring home to keep track on throughout December. There were also the paper chains--do you remember those? Each day's paper link had something helpful to do on it.  But it was our domestic church traditions that are most important to me.

Like those Kris Kringle presents.  Now, I could be romanticizing my past, but I seem to recall we got the best KK presents on the coldest, windiest days of the year, when we were most reluctant to get out of bed.  One morning (probably during Kindergarten), I remember waking up and, looking around, perceiving that it was not in fact Christmas yet, I immediately pulled the covers over my head to go back to sleep.  [Sometimes, I still wish I could do that.]

But, there were still those presents that Kris Kringle (who wrote just like Momma...) left for us as the anticipation grew. They were always rather small presents, nothing too elaborate.  Sometimes it was just a candy or treat wrapped up for us. On Sundays, there was a family gift--something we could all share and enjoy.  Sometimes it was a box of tasty Christmas chocolates, or delicious cookies.  Sometimes it was a beautiful Christmas book, which we would read as a family later that night.

In the evenings on the four Sundays of Advent, Momma would gather us around the dining room table which was always laid, quite simply, with the advent wreath and candles.  It was a gigantic wreath.  I have faint memories of it going with the (artificial) Christmas tree we had for years, but I can't be sure.  All I remember was that it was pokey and big and very green and huge. And it was the very first Christmas decoration we got out every year.  There was a white, 5-candle holder that fit nicely inside it, holding our purple and pink candles.  Momma always had a white candle for the middle, to light on Christmas eve.

So we would all stand around the table, holding hands, all the lights turned off except the candles.  The first week, Vivian lit the candle. The next week, I got to light two.  Bethany lit three the next week (she got to light the pink candle! Pink because the third Sunday means we're almost there. Christ is almost here!) and Summer lit four the Sunday before Christmas.  On Christmas Eve we'd come home from church and Ray would light all five candles (five, Vivian and I thought, that's a whole lot of candles. I wish I could light that many).

And, holding hands, we would sing. [No, not the song from the Grinch] :)  We sang an ancient hymn, blending our voices in the soft glow of candle light, letting the still, silent darkness wrap our melody round with holy waiting.  O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!  And ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.  

This seems to be the season for remembering traditions.  This is time of year when families gather and spend time together, close inside against the cold.  History emerges from dusty attic boxes; it comes to light at the bottom of a hot cocoa mug.  Tradition and historicity cannot be ignored during the holiday season, as they can much of the rest of the year.  But I say it is a blessing that we cannot hide it.

We can't ignore our past stories. We should seek to understand them and pass them on.  Maybe if they make sense, we'll feel more inclined to hold on to them.  I know I will keep mine close, especially as my family grows, and I have my own little ones to tell stories to.

Heart of the Home

The heart of our home has always been the kitchen.  Growing up,

I spent many happy hours in the kitchen with Momma and my sisters, baking, cooking, and painting (we always painted ceramics in the kitchen--as Christmas approached, the table was almost perpetually covered with newspaper, dozens of bottles of paint, and little ceramic figurines scattered about, waiting to be colored.)

Momma's remodeled kitchen

Although we didn't have family dinners on a daily or weekly basis, food was an important part of our experience. We had favorite things to eat and to make.  Momma's kitchen was always full of food and we were free to munch and nibble at our leisure.
It seemed to work best for our family that way.  When we moved to a bigger house outside the city, with a ginormous kitchen, we just spent more time in it together.  Tea parties, shrimp dinners, Saturday morning breakfasts, all happened in the kitchen.  Holidays were birthed there--the cookies and sweets and cakes and candies that shaped our savored memories of those family times could happen nowhere but the kitchen.  

 the goodies tower

tea party with the grandkids

helping Grandmama with breakfast

When we were little, she used to preheat the oven so it was warm when we got out of bed, and she'd open the door to let the warmth out while we got dressed in front of it.  I remember she used to sit on a stool in front of the oven watching her food bake.  We had many good chats in front of the oven.. such lovely memories.

"this kitchen is awesome!"

If you've ever wondered where I get my penchant for remodeling/refurbishing/building things, look no further than my parents :)  They were always tweaking things here and there in our house(s), improving little by little, making it more their own. I remember so many projects we did around the house, but especially in the kitchen. 

So it only stands to reason that my kitchen now is the heart of my home.  I gather people with food from the kitchen, and it's fun to work with others in preparing it.  Learning to make sushi rolls, chatting while the pizzas are baking, waiting for the delicious-smelling cake to come out of the oven, stirring the soup in between sips of your favorite brew surrounded by friends.  You can tell a lot about a home by its kitchen.

"the food's good, who cares what the cabinets look like!"

And I have spruced mine up a bit, having a week-long opportunity while T was out of town (it's still hard for me to cook only for myself).  I figured, if I won't be using the kitchen all that much anyway, what better time to repaint it?

So I did.

Here are some pictures. Enjoy :)

Kitchen

Retro-spect

I first met my husband spring semester my freshman year of college (2003) when he was a senior in high school (though actually, at that point, he'd "finished" his senior year and was in the midst of a 9-month summer vacation (no, his parents didn't make that mistake again)).  He and some of his friends (and a miscellaneous collection of their fathers) came over to the east side of WA to visit GU--just to see what it was like.  I introduced myself to him at a party, and we exchanged contact information.  We weren't interested in each other as more than friends--we both had other crushes, in fact.

We emailed back and forth a lot that summer. I was living with my sister-in-law, who was expecting her third kid and had a lot of baby stories :) The most memorable emails, though, were those we sent while I was on a retreat at a convent :) Oh, the dreams we shared that weekend. It was uplifting to meet a guy so excited about religious life.

I first met my husband's family while I was dating someone else.  My then-boyfriend was gone for the weekend so Taylor and a few of his friends invited me over to Seattle to get away from campus.  A timely invitation, just as fall semester (2003) was taking off!  We dropped T off at his house first. Their kitchen was being remodeled at the time, so "operations" were held in the basement.

Sebastian (now 9) was still a toddler, binky and all, and I think T's mum was just pregnant with Lydia.  I remember going down to the basement with everyone and simply being quiet, in the background, listening to T's friends chat with "Mrs. Black." T was cuddling Sebastian, who had run to him when T walked in the door, climbed into his arms, and stayed their the entire conversation.  Meanwhile, I spent the rest of the weekend with the girl Taylor liked.  I remember she and I talked about how she might marry Taylor someday.. if things panned out.

That was T's freshman year. We both maintained our other romantic interests, never guessing that in just one year, we'd be dating and on our way to marriage.  How funny to look back and see how things developed.  We lived in the same building on campus and would talk together about our relationships and friends.  I remember visiting T in his room one cold night toward the end of fall semester.  He had his heater on all the way and the window wide open.  I thought it was strange--what a waste of electricity, right?--but that it was also oddly refreshing to have the blazing warmth of the heater and the cold blasts of crisp air from outside swirling together all around me.

That summer, I broke up with my boyfriend, realizing the relationship had no future, and I made big plans to have a "single senior year" at college [I skipped a year, in case you were wondering where my junior year went].  I was going on to graduate school after I graduated, possibly all the way across the country, and I just didn't have time for any more silly relationships clouding up God's plans for me.  I had to be on track, and I had everything figured out.

Or so I thought.

I got back to GU, fall 2004 classes started, and I began to see Taylor more often around campus. We'd serendipitously eat together and sometimes walk to class together (his new dorm was on my way to campus).We went on the Pilgrimage retreat together--a long hike to the first Jesuit mission in ID.  I guess that's when we really started getting to know each other.

I was in a photography class that semester and he would accompany me on my photo walks.  To this day, some of my favorite pictures of him are ones that I took on hand-rolled 100 ISO black and white film, which I developed and made prints of myself.  Fun memories :)

Then Taylor proposed!  Wait--you want to know if I missed something? No. He did propose, but not like a real proposal.  We were chatting together, talking about all my sweet nieces and nephews, and T's wonderful younger siblings, and he said,

"Anne, why can't we just get married, start having babies, and have fun?"  

Naturally, I said,

"Ok! but you'd have to get me a ring."  

Without missing a beat, T pulled a rosary ring off his desk and handed it to me.  And there ya go :) for a whole week, we were "engaged."  Who says you can't make-believe as a grown-up?

But he went home to visit his family that weekend and, apparently, realized he really liked me enough to want to date me for real.  So when he came back to campus, he asked me,

"Anne, can I date you with the intention of discerning what God wants from our relationship?"  

Seriously! What more could I ask for!?

Two weeks later, he told me he was in love with me.  Three months after that, he told my father he wanted to marry me.  Five months after that, he asked to spend the rest of my life with me.  And 10 months after that, we were married.  Talk about whirlwind :)

The other day we were chatting with two of our dear friends about their pilgrimage/honeymoon.  Michaela was telling us about a slope they were laboring to climb.  At a certain point, they stopped for a breath and a drink of water and looked down the mountain.  And she told us,

"You can't see it, when you're walking, what it means to be where you are."

And that really struck me.  In fact, I wrote it down right there (I don't think they noticed) ;) and kept it.

I never knew, when I sat down in front of that "lonely little boy" at that party, that I was saying hello to the man who would come to know me better than anyone.  Looking back, I am in awe of the landscape of my past, the paths that led Taylor and me together, and the ways we've walked together.

I am so glad for memory.  It is true that we only have the present to live in, but to be able to look back and see how far we've come is a blessing. A tremendous blessing.  Because to see your past with the perspective of the present is revelatory and enlightening.  Michaela's right, you can't see it, when you're walking now, what it means to be where you are.  But that's a blessing too, really.

Nero Wolfe's Corn

My mother loved mysteries.
Especially murder mysteries.  I don't know why, specifically, but she loved to read (and re-read) her mystery books.  There were whole summers where I can only remember her sitting on the couch with two stacks of books nearby, one shrinking, one growing.  She loved to pick apart the mystery in her head as she read along.  My guess: she probably  knew who did it as soon as the author did.

She was a smart cookie :)

These weren't any mysteries either--she definitely had her favorite authors.  She loved the Judge Dee stories by Robert van Gulik.  She would check out the books-on-tape from the library and we would listen to them in the car on long drives.  Sometimes they were kind of intense for us kids, but they were still great stories.  And hey--they kept us quiet, mostly. 

I don't recall any books by Agatha Christie on her thickly populated paperback shelves, but I know she also loved the A&E Poirot series with David Suchet, and we would watch them while doing all sorts of things--Christmas baking, spring cleaning, painting, sewing, decorating for a party or baby shower or dinner.  Oftentimes, it would happen that those who hadn't seen the episode before, or hadn't seen it several times (i.e., most of us), would end up sitting down to watch the thing through while Momma worked.  It's hard to follow a detective story while doing something else if you don't know the ending, after all :) She didn't mind, I think.  Listening to the movies helped her work. 

Her other favorite detective was Nero Wolfe, an overweight eccentric who lives in mid-century Manhattan. With him in his 4-story brownstone live his cheeky, handsome, and rascally assistant, Archie Goodwin, a Swiss chef named Fritz ("Freetz"), an entire floor devoted to his orchids, and a full-time assistant orchid tender, Theodore.  Wolfe loves fabulous food, good beer, Iranian saffron, and great books, and hates onions, anchovies without heads, boiled corn, Spanish saffron, and women-in-general.  Eccentric is an understatement ;)


When I "got into" reading a bit more (sometime in high school), I decided to try one of her murder mystery books, just to see what it was like.  I picked Rex Stout's Some Buried Caesar.  For those of you who know Wolfe and Archie, Some Buried Caesar is the book where Archie meets Miss Lily Rowan :)  I was hooked. I love Stout's quick-moving writing style and the bits of himself that he cast into both Wolfe and Archie (mostly Archie).

As I read more and more books, I began to realize (to myself, of course) that Momma reminded me a lot of Nero Wolfe.  At least, she reminded me of him in some ways.  She hated onions, too, and she liked whole anchovies.  She didn't have a particular affinity to orchids, but she was very particular in other ways, and was never afraid to let you know exactly what she thought.  I miss her.

"But," you're thinking, "What does all this have to do with Wolfe's corn?"  And you are right to ask. I promise this post has a point.  A&E also made a series for the Wolfe mysteries and Momma and I both bought the full collection.  Just like Momma, when I need to get some good work done, I put on my mysteries to listen to as I putter around the house cleaning, cooking, tidying, and folding.  For some reason, they keep me on task.

In one of the episodes, centered around a delivery of not fresh summer corn, Wolfe rails against the evil of boiling corn on the cob in water on the stove.  While Inspector Cramer just wants to find the murderer, Wolfe goes on about the perfect way to prepare corn.


Here, then, is Wolfe's recipe as taken from the episode.  I have to admit, he's absolutely right.  This is the best way to prepare fresh summer corn on the cob:

"Boiled in water, sweet corn is.. edible, and nutritious.  But roasted in an oven, at the hottest possible temperature for 40 minutes. Shucked at the table. Buttered. Salted. Nothing else! Ambrosia."

Pretty simple, right? :)



First, though, I trim off all the corn-silk scragglies so they don't smoke up my oven too much (warning: your kitchen will smell like roasting corn husk).


I roast them at about 500 degrees, put 'em right on the rack, and set the timer for 40 minutes. That's it. No tending, no turning.  Just let them roast contentedly.

Unlike Wolfe, and probably because I just have a smaller dining space that he does, I don't shuck the corn at the table.  But I do shuck it in the kitchen, right before we all sit down to eat, and I let each diner butter and salt it for himself.

It's quite a treat, this summer corn thing :)

Adventures in Sushi

I love sushi. I mean, I really love sushi.  I could eat it every day for lunch and dinner without ever looking back.  It's fresh. It's simple. It's good for you. And it's so tasty!  For me, the simpler the better--no funny mayonnaises (I don't think they use mayo in Japan) or gloopy sauces on top.  I like the rice and nori best. Add in avocado (another non-traditional ingredient, admittedly) and some tasty fish and I'm one happy eater.

Clearly, on a limited (ahem--law student) budget, we can't afford to eat sushi nearly as often as I'd like.  If I could, I'd probably vote for sushi every time we did go out to eat.  Others are of a different mind (for some strange reason)... so my sushi-eating is at a relative minimum. Sadly.

Something had to be done!
and I did it :)

Two weekends ago, we were wandering around a kitchen store with a friend (who's setting up house) and I found a $6 sushi making kit ($4 on amazon).  T agreed to get it and I set myself to learning enough about sushi to try making it at home.  Fortunately the kit came with a good set of instructions on what ingredients are best, what methods work well, and a suggested list of filling ingredients.

We went to the Asian market last week and found the items we needed.  The total came to $40, and I also got about $15 of filling ingredients (most of which was the fresh crab I picked up at the farmer's market) :) but we definitely should be able to get several batches of sushi from the main ingredients, so that's good. Even though we've already spent $60 getting ingredients, that's equivalent to just two meals at a restaurant (for only T and me)--I'm hopeful about the return on our investment :)

So, to begin.  I had my sushi kit, and I had decided what to use for the maki: varying combinations of avocado, green onion, sliced cucumber, and fresh crab meat.  Of course I had a cup of tea handy for me to sip while rolling :) Tea makes everything better.



I also had Teahouse of the August Moon playing in the background.  My favorite Marlon Brando movie. Ever :)



Next, I had to make the rice.  This helpful FAQ page gives great instructions on how to make sushi rice (and they're the same as the instructions that came with my kit, so dig in, folks!).   I had gotten everything out and ready beforehand, making sure it was all within easy reach.  T volunteered to fan the rice for me while I mixed the seasoning in (it has to be cooled to room temperature relatively quickly to get a nice sheen on it).  We were a pretty good team :)

But I still had to assemble the rolls.  No matter how nice the ingredients are sliced and arranged and laid out, messy rolls just don't cut it for pretty sushi.

In picking a mat, I decided to go for the traditional bamboo slat mat. There are numerous "sushi made easy" kits, but if that "old" mat has worked for thousands of years in Japan, it's good enough for me. Besides, I love bamboo and Momma had a sushi mat in the kitchen for years--the smell of it is so nostalgic for me.  We never made sushi with it.  In fact, I don't remember what we did do with it, but I loved playing with it and the smell of the bamboo slats will always stay with me..

Recalling my first sushi-making experience, my rice was a tad starchy (maybe I added too much of the sushisu?), and some of the rolls were, um, ambitiously stuffed.  But those are things I can improve on.  If I get wracked with despair at never making pretty maki, I can always make temaki and go for a less-formal feel :)

I think the rice recipe made about 10 rolls.  We gobbled up every last piece of the sushi!  It was not the prettiest or most artfully presented sushi ever, but I wasn't expecting it to be.  I am completely happy with how my first-try turned out, and am excited to try again this week.

And did you know I've even managed to find a convenient source for sushi-grade tuna?

On the menu for this week:
makizushi with bluefin tuna, avocado, cucumber, and maybe green onions and carrots.  Are you as excited as I am? :)

Just Dishes

I picked them up in the car and drove them home.

I carried them up the stairs all by myself and set them in the kitchen where I opened the boxes and begin to gingerly unpack each bundle.  One plate, two, three.  Three nested serving bowls. One cereal bowl and another, and another. A dinner plate, and two more.  Another small plate. Another bundle of bowls.

Until I had them all stacked on my counter, layered one on the other, presenting themselves to me almost with a smile, ready for a new home:

"Here we are! What do you think?" 

When I was engaged and setting up my wedding registry, I knew I didn't want to spend hours finding "just the right pattern" of china for Taylor and me.  [That's also the reason I didn't buy a new wedding dress--I wore Momma's. It was better that way for me.]  So, I decided to register for the same pattern Momma used for her everyday china--Blue Danube.  I've always been one for "matchy" things, and this set is the creme de la creme of coordinating pieces!  If you can imagine it, Blue Danube probably has one in their pattern :)

So I've been eating off of "Momma's" china for years.   I have done dinner parties, dessert parties, brunches, pizza nights, formal dinners, buffets--all on the same pattern Momma always used at her events: our birthday dinners, tea parties, holiday meals, Saturday morning breakfasts.

She and I even used to talk about our various pieces, "Oh, I used the square salad bowl for the potatoes and the fish platter for the chicken.  Do you ever use your chop plate for a salad? It looks really pretty."  And, truth be told, I think she was always a little jealous of my pentagon platter ;)

And I never really noticed anything unusual about having the same china.  Even after Momma died, using my Blue Danube was the same as it had been before.

And so I was a bit surprised when, after I had put my lovely new pottery away in my own cupboard, arranging it "just so" so that the odd-sized, handmade pieces had enough room without scraping against each other, it hit me--these were Momma's dishes.  Her own. That she used daily.  She loved these dishes.  She handled them and served her food on them and welcomed us all into her kitchen with them.

She spent several years building up her set, requesting pieces from Lois in batches and occasionally asking for custom serving dishes.  She would go to the shop with my sister and ask her advice on which piece she should get.  Not only was she supporting a local artisan, but I think these dishes were her way of paying tribute to the desert she found herself in 20-some years ago.  She loved the desert too.

And now I have both in my cupboard.  The dishes she loved, inspired by the desert she grew to love.

When Taylor and I sat down to dinner on Monday--the first day we had the pottery--we served up hearty helpings of the fig and olive roast chicken, the rice, and the broiled kale, arranging it all on our pretty plates.  We said our prayers, and then I said to the dishes (but not in a crazy-talk way):

"What do you think of my food? Is it as tasty as Momma's?"  

Of course, I was being silly :) I don't really think the dishes heard me.. But it got me thinking.  In a way, these dishes do have a "personality" of their own.  Not only are they used (and well-loved) but I have been a part of their use in another household.  I have known how well they were loved, and by whom.  I know where they come from.

I have inherited many things of my mother's since she died: jewelry, tea cups, teapots, other dishes, small nick-knacks.  But the pottery is the first thing that I've received that I also used, regularly, with Momma.

And using it now, in my own house, makes me want to cry just a little bit.  Not in a bad way, really, but in the same way that those gentle but firm reminders do, as they pop up here and there, telling me things aren't the same, that she's gone.

"But they're just dishes, Annie," a little voice inside tries to tell me.  

And they are. But not just. They have carried so much more than food over the years--memories, smiles, laughter, and even tears. I am very thankful to have these dishes, to welcome my family and friends to my table with them, in memory of Momma, and with her very much by my side.

And here's to that!

things and Things

While we were in CA Daddy wanted us to go through some of the (mountains of) kitchen stuff so that he had more room in the cupboards.  We went through the mugs and he picked out a dozen or so that he liked and we loaded the rest into the van to take to Goodwill.  We rearranged glasses in other cupboards to mostly fit in the space left by the mugs.

We went through some of the baking pans and got rid of several dishes that probably won't be used anymore.  The tricky thing is that we wanted to keep enough "stuff" around so that, when we all come home for, say, Thanksgiving one year, we'll have plenty of pots, pans, and serving trays to still have a family dinner. And really, our family won't be getting smaller anytime soon.  I did get to take home two beautiful wooden "toastmaster trays" and a stainless serving tray.  I haven't figured out where to put them yet :) but they're lovely to have around, reminding me of Momma.

It's funny the things that you want to keep when you lose someone close to you.  So many gatherings of our family were centered around the kitchen--food of all sorts was very important to Momma.  We all have distinct memories of this or that food which only made appearances for certain occasions.  We all have a favorite dish (or seven) that Momma would make..  and we all have those foods we weren't too fond of!  Likewise with dishes and china and cups and mugs and such.  Some Things we treasure dearly and everyone wants to keep them. For other things, we really wondered why Momma even had them (like the collection of computer company mugs that Momma kept for Daddy--even though Daddy didn't particularly care for them).   Such is life, I suppose :)

One of the Things that was very important to my mother was china (and crystal--and other hostess/entertaining accoutrements).  Did you know my mother had six sets of china?  And four sets of crystal? And, while I'm listing things, she also had four patterns of silverware!

She started with two patterns in china, Blue Danube (I picked the same pattern for my wedding china) for her every-day set, and Cleopatra for her fine china.  She picked these out when she was in high school in Japan.   My grandmother spent $100 on dinnerware for Momma that day and she got full sets for 8 in each set of china.  Yes--full service for 8 (including serving dishes!) was only $50 in Japan at that time. Incredible. [as a comparison, one place setting in Blue Danube these days runs for $200.]  Vivian will inherit the Cleopatra (and Momma's bronze silverware from Asia).

Over the years, she increased her two patterns to many more place settings. I think she has service for at least 12 in the Cleopatra now, and service for something like 24 in the Blue Danube (which is really more like two sets).  Serving dishes innumerable--and of all shapes and sizes.  She even has full tea and coffee service in each pattern.

Once she moved to the desert, Momma fell in love with Lois Hinman's pottery and built her collection of the blue petroglyph (on the right) up to service for 8 with serving pieces.  This also was one of the things Daddy wanted "cleared out" from the cupboards.  My brother and I split the set--I got the plates and bowls and he got the serving pieces (he has pottery already that will go well with the petroglyph).  I'm so excited to get these dishes.  I didn't realize just how much I really did want it until it was settled and set aside for me. They have always been favorites of Taylor, too.  Daddy (very graciously) said the "JLM estate" will increase the set to 12 for me, and add a couple serving pieces, so Summer went to Lois and commissioned more pieces.  I should have them by Christmas. I cannot wait :)

Another set of china Momma acquired in CA was the "kutani."  I don't know what the proper name of the pattern is--I'm not even sure there is a proper name.  It's all hand-painted Japanese fine china and there are as many "kutani" patterns as there are painters, I believe.  We all loved this set--it was so striking and so bright.  This is the set my brother wanted, his first set of fine china from Momma.

The other set of china Momma has is a Noritake pattern called Effingham.  None of us are sure what to do with it yet :) but I'm sure we'll figure it out eventually.

I know that, for the next several years, any trip home to Daddy's house will probably involve sorting through more of Momma's things (and through some of her Things, too).  We will get rid of a lot and leave a lot in the house and probably take a lot with us.  In a very tangible way, I think it helps with the grieving process.  As you sort through the various physical objects the person has left behind, you are also able to sift through your memories, weighing each of them in turn, and treasuring those most dear until you see her again. I do look forward to the day when we go to Daddy's house just to visit, but I am thankful that we have time to remember Momma in her Things and in each other.

Forecast..

Happiness

a weekend retreat with my Wonderful Love, in all the sunshiney goodness of Acadia National Park.

Bringing back sweet memories of our first visit to Bar Harbor. Making lovely new ones.

Can you feel how excited I am?!  Does the breathless anticipation come through on the interblag? I don't know what it is, precisely, that makes me so excited.  Perhaps it's the wonderful time we had two years ago when we went to Bar Harbor.  Maybe I'm excited because I will have a school- and work- and homework-free Husband for two whole days :)  It could be I'm ready for fresh air and hiking and cozy fireside reading and great food and no cleaning.  Maybe it's just that Taylor takes the time to be with me, just me, when it seems I need it most (even if I don't realize it).  He's pretty smart like that :) I'm infinitely lucky to be married to him!

I also can't wait to take lots of pictures with my new camera all over Maine!  My pictures from last time were, I think, pretty good (especially considering it was a point and shoot)--the scenery is so picturesque there, it's hard not to get good shots.  It's a perfect place to become more familiar with my new toy!

The rest of today, then T's LAST FINAL on Friday, quiet evening with friends, then we go. Saturday morning can't come soon enough. So. Excited.

:)

of Capistrano

Did anyone else do a Mission Report in fourth grade?  I realize it was probably specific to California schools, probably even to California Catholic schools, but I have good memories of my mission report.

I chose San Juan Capistrano, the "jewel of the missions" as it is nicknamed, for my mission in fourth grade.  Myself being only 10 years old, and the report being a scratch-the-surface-at-best delving into the history of the mission, I don't remember very much about Capistrano.  I didn't even know who St. John of Capistrano was...

I do remember a few things, though.  Capistrano is famous for the swallows that would return to the mission, nesting on the ruined church walls.  Traditionally, the city of Capistrano would celebrate the return of the birds on St. Joseph's day (March 19) and bid them farewell around St. John's Day (October 23).  Sadly, it seems that the swallows have not returned for the past several years.

I also remember the fountain in the courtyard.  I love the way it just drips the water out the side, trailing down the plants that over-grow the main bowl.  I remember the coi in the pond as well.  Those were a big hit with little Madelyn, the daughter of our friends who took us to the mission.

It was so much fun to walk around the mission, though we didn't stay very long.  Momma kept the diorama I made (which she helped me with, of course), and it still hangs in the nook of Daddy's house (I'll take a picture next time I'm out that way).  Because of the diorama, I remember the ruined church attached to the mission.  Before an earthquake caused the roof to collapse, it was the largest of any of the mission churches.

Capistrano also boasts the only surviving chapel where Fr. Serra (the founder of all the California Missions) said Mass.  I remember when we visited the mission (as a family, a sort of field trip together), I got a lovely book of post cards, mostly pictures of this chapel.  Beautiful.

This church has a side chapel dedicated to St. Peregrine, patron saint of those suffering from cancer.

This was the first (California) mission T has ever visited.  Not a bad starting place, huh?  It convinced him to use the mission's central open courtyard model for our hobbit hole on our farm someday :)  Which works out well because I've already designed our house like that anyway ;)

Someday, T and I want to drive all the way up El Camino Real, visiting all the missions one by one, taking a leisurely vacation along coastal California.  I have only ever visited three: Capistrano, Carmel, and San Miguel.  I'd love to go back again (and again and again...).

Buttermilk Oatmeal "Icebox" Muffins

I've had this recipe in the "drafts" section of my blog for months now.  I keep meaning to make it, take pictures, and post a nice version, but it hasn't happened yet.  Also, I haven't experimented with it using egg replacer, so I'm not sure how it will turn out for egg-free me :P

BUT! here is the original recipe. It's fabulous because you make the batter and store it in the fridge for up to 6 weeks.  Why is that fabulous? Because you can make as many or as few muffins as you want, whenever you want to make them.  Just preheat the oven, plop the batter in, and presto: delicious homemade muffins in 15 minutes.  Warm breakfast in a pinch? no problem.  Company coming and no fresh bread to serve with dinner? simple. And tasty :)

I remember these muffins so well growing up. Momma would make a huge recipe of batter and keep it in the fridge.  We would have them with potato soup (with a big dollop of butter melting bit by bit in the hot bowl of soup) or pea soup or we'd have them with skillet hash or stuffed green peppers.  Sometimes, we'd just have them as a treat, home from school, warm out of the oven.  Nothing beats warm homemade bread with butter. Nothing.

"Icebox" Oatmeal Muffins
Makes 11 c batter
cream together:

1 c (+ 2T) solid shortening (use at least part shortening, if you want to use butter)
2 c sugar (play with the amount. They don't need to be as sweet)
4 eggs

combine:
4 c oatmeal
1 T salt
5 tsp baking soda
5 c flour

add wet to dry alternating with 4 c buttermilk [did you know you can "fake" buttermilk? add 1 tsp vinegar to each cup of milk to mimic buttermilk's sour taste].

Fill muffin tins 2/3 full. Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Serve warm with butter.
or homemade grape jelly?...

Store any remaining batter in fridge (in non-reacting leftover container) for up to 6 weeks.  In my experience, the top "layer" of batter tends to gray a little bit. I think this is fine--just oxidation.  Probably preventable by layering plastic wrap over the surface of the batter.

Rich Memories

Memories are rich. The last week has been especially rich with memory for my family.  One week ago, Taylor and Viv and I celebrated the anniversary of Momma's death.  We had a nice Tea Party "Brinner" (that's Breakfast for Dinner) of scrambled eggs, bacon wrapped sausages (baked in brown sugar and maple syrup), potatoes O'Brien, and guacamole.  For "dessert" we had the Bass Cottage Inn's oat scones, which were delicious, and bacon shortbread cookies, which were also delicious, and tea.

It really was a fitting celebration.  I knew Momma was there with us--her first tea party at my house in Boston :)

Each of us went in turns telling one memory we had of Momma, which, of course, led to other memories and stories and jokes.  At the end of the evening, we said a prayer of Thanks for Momma's life, and that we were able to know her and Love her.

Then yesterday, the anniversary of her funeral--St. Patrick's Day--we had a traditional Irish boiled dinner.  My first ever.  We has corned beef brisket, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and cabbage.  I even grated a little Dubliner Irish cheddar cheese to top things off, but the flavors were all so beautifully simple that not much garnish was needed.  I'm happy to report that it went well.  We had four people over, bringing the total eaters to seven--the number in my family.  We had a jolly evening.

St. Patty's Feast

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And so, we go on and on.  A year has past. Before we know it, it will be two years, then five.  But we won't forget.  And we look forward, with great hope, to the day when we can all enjoy a Sunday High Tea as a whole family once again.  And it will be Beatific.