A Different Method of Communication

When I was a kid, my only grandparent lived 257 miles away. I usually saw him for two periods of time each year. In the summer I would stay at his Wisconsin home for a week. And every year, until his health failed him, he would stay with us during football season, to visit Soldier Field for the college all-star game or to watch his beloved Green Bay Packers play the Chicago Bears.

I loved my grandfather and retain only positive memories of him. I never heard him raise his voice, although my uncle Gene assures me that, at times, indeed he did. I remember that his adult daughters would not partake of alcohol or use profane language in his presence, although heaven knows such use was a normal part of their lives otherwise.

He was an avid hunter and fisherman. (hello? did you not read Wisconsin?)

I have two, no make that three, especially vivid memories of my time with my grandfather. But, the third involves my thumb becoming caught in the tailgate of his pickup truck, so we’ll just skip that one.

One remembrance is of him cooking for me a rainbow trout he’d caught. He pointed out the rainbow on the fish, all pale tones of brown, orange, pink, yellow, purple and blue. I remember the spots on the fish. He was was crouched down next to me, so he’d be at my eye level, a sweet smile on his face as he whispered, “I’m going to share a secret with you, my favorite part of a fish.” I remember standing there with my mouth agape and eyes wide open. He pointed with a fork to the cheek of the fish and scooped a tiny pale salmon-colored morsel of meat out, and put it in my open mouth. “The cheek holds the sweetest part of the trout.” He was right. It was the best part.

My second treasured memory is of my grandfather making a tin can “telephone” for me. I think he might have even used fishing line for the wire connecting the two tin cans. I would sit at the top of the staircase and he at the bottom and we would talk.

Fast-forward to today, where my husband and I communicate with our two grandchildren, who now live over 700 driving miles away. We marvel at their savvy with Skype and FaceTime. It turns out, our younger 5-year-old granddaughter is quite the ham once the camera is upon her. The older grandson is 7, so he’s able to read and thus can also text us. We can ask him directly what he would like for a Christmas present (& later check with Mom & Dad to be certain it's approved).

Nothing can ever replace the feel of a grandchild’s head nestled against your shoulder as you watch a dvd together. Nothing can replace kissing their forehead when you tuck them in at night, or spoiling them with homemade donuts for breakfast. But, it's definitely the  highlight of our week to receive a spontaneous FaceTime from a five year old belting out a tune, or a seven year old sharing a photo of a chameleon he spotted. It surely beats the heck out of waiting for a twice-a-year in-person visit.

Different? - Visit California

Even though my husband lived there for 1 year or more, I found myself 40+ years old having never set a foot in the state of California. He was itching to show me the area. I’d read somewhere that, according to some public opinion poll, California is the most disliked state. (Hawaii is the most loved.) And, I’ll admit it: I had preconceived negative notions about the state. I came prepared to dislike it but, upon visiting, I found that it really had a charm. I could certainly understand the attraction. I’m not saying I’d like to live there, but if you like “diverse,” if you like “different” California practically owns it.

Why the hatred? Some theorize it is its left-leaning politics. That could be why it looked okay to me from my own port list.

CA attracts practically every ethnicity in the world. And in its terrain, you’ll find mountains, fertile farming areas, flatlands, hills, and breathtaking ocean shores with soft sandy surfing beaches and rugged rocky coast. For climate, they have both desert heat and snow (simultaneously) with Death Valley and Mount Whitney, the lowest and highest points in the contiguous 48 states. They have “wine country”, the Sequoias, the Redwoods, Yosemite, the Channel Islands, Joshua Tree Park. And how apt is having the Hollywood Walk of Fame right near the La Brea Tar Pits?

Their state song is “I Love You, California,” which begins with “I love you, California, you’re the greatest state of all.” I read the lyrics and hokey thought they be, I could see where the lyricist was coming from. And I’ll forgive the line in the chorus that reads: “Every breeze bearing rich perfume.” Written in 1913, she obviously never drove on today’s LA freeways.

Anyway, what brought me to this train-of-thought is those dad-blasted California Real Milk commercials they play on television here in America’s Heartland. If you haven’t seen them, let me tell you that it is a series of TV ads that portray bucolic scenes of sun-bathed, serene California cows happily munching away, contrasted with miserable-looking Midwest cows shivering in driving snowstorms. The ads go on to say something like “would you like your milk from happy California cows or from stressed-out Wisconsin cows?”

I’m not sure why these ads get my goat (pun intended), but they do. I’d love to see the Wisconsin dairy marketers run my ads, which would picture California cows fleeing in fear from the earthquakes, wildfires, and landslides. (And now that I think of it those rolling power blackouts would have to impact those robotic milking machines.)

But, leave my Heartland out of this!

I think... at least I hope I put in my  Blogger information somewhere that my blog is an exercise in writing for me. Exercise, as in, using my brain to prevent atrophy. Anyway, sometimes I post fiction. And this tale is fiction. Any familiarity to anyone I know is purely accidental. This story is a product of my crazed imagination. (I can visualize my sister's eyebrows arching as she reads this. I anticipate the telephone call or email this is going to elicit from my sister. “You know, some people believe all this crap you write.” Or, “Dear, not everyone gets your humor.” Hmm, I guess she’s got a point. I’m probably the only person who finds me funny.)

Beans, A Different Tale

The phone rings. I glance at the caller I.D. and see my sister’s name pop up. I have the usual hesitation before I pick up the phone. “Okay, Sofe,” I tell myself, “brace yourself.”

“Hellooo!” I answer, in some goofy attempt to put gaiety into my voice.

“Uh..., Sophie?”

Yup, she heard me trying to force it.

“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Beatrice.” I call her by her given name and not the childhood nickname she’d never outgrown, Beans.

“Sophie,” she begins awkwardly. “Um, listen, did you know this is the 6-month anniversary of our sister, Lisa’s death?”

“Yes, I did. I saw it posted on Lisa’s daughter’s Facebook page.”

“Oh, I wish I had a computer...” She gives off a faint laugh here. “I’m so behind on things like that. Well, I just wanted to make sure that you knew. Did Mealy call you? I called her and she promised me that she would call and remind you.”

“Well, she didn’t!” I don’t mention that our youngest sister, Amelia, and I are barely on speaking terms at the moment. But that’s another story.

There is a long pause and I know that she’s bothered by the fact that Amelia has failed to pass along what she, Beans, considers to be vital information. Poor Amelia. I’m sure I just set her up for an earsplitting rant. Oh, well, too bad for her. That's what she gets.

“Anyway I just called because I wanted to make sure that you knew,” she repeats. Then hesitantly, “You..., you know, Sophie, um, we..., on the anniversary of our ancestor’s death, we, I mean our family, we have a custom. It’s a custom that we put out a little..., well you know, a little dish of the favorite food of our relative on their death anniversary, to sort of honor them.” Another pause. I wait patiently. “Not that I even know what her favorite food is!” She bursts out with a loud guffaw and I can picture her throwing her head back with laughter. She catches her breath. “So, maybe you could do that, huh? Oh, and while you’re at it, put a little glass of wine out with the food, if you know what I mean.” She has a good chortle here. Then, quietly, “Oh, but hey, I forgot, you’re Catholic now. So maybe you can just say a little Catholic prayer, you know, in memory of our sister.” Beans sounds like she’s crying now. Just a short conversation with ol’ Beans can run the emotional gamut like that.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking “What family is she even talking about?” Never, do I ever remember seeing or hearing of any relatives putting dishes of food out on the anniversary of anyone’s death. Not that I would challenge Beans about it. There’d be no sense in further upsetting her. Besides I do marvel at how she still attempts to finagle us into her made-up rituals.

My sister has always been, well, different. Her birth had been a difficult one for our mother and she’d suffered brain injury as a result. In those days, there wasn’t much offered my mother in the way of rehabilitation or early intervention. The rural hospital simply sent my mother and her brain-injured baby home with a wish for “good luck.”

When I was a child, I once overheard someone whisper that my sister, Beans, was “not quite right in the head.” I’d tried to research that phrase at the library and found a science dictionary that said it meant, “to be lacking in one or more of the mental abilities that most people have.” I guess that would sum up Beans pretty well. But, what the definition didn’t include was that she also had an excess in an area that most people don’t have. When it came to tact or diplomacy she had none, but what a talent she had for the theatrics. If I’d accuse her of taking a favorite sweater, she’d remonstrate with such emotion, that’d I’d end up begging her forgiveness for having even considered such a thought. Then later, I’d find my sweater, tucked under her pillow.

When our sister, Lisa, was in the hospital, the staff gathered my siblings and I to discuss “end-of-life” options. While a male doctor carefully explained the delicate situation, Beans, stood beside him, intently looking up at him, as though carefully discerning his every word. When he finished, she said, “Your teeth are so perfect. In fact, you’re so beautiful, I’d like to lick your face.” Yup, that’s my sister, Beans. She’s different and I love her. So, I dutifully promise her, smiling to myself, that I will both, say a Catholic prayer and put out a dish of food with a little glass of wine.

A Different Choice

“It’s all about choice.” She wasn’t exactly hemming and hawing, but she definitely began using care in choosing her words.

It was my first visit to our new dentist’s office and as my hygienist and I were becoming acquainted, I’d asked her if she lived nearby and she’d replied, “Yes, but like you, I’m originally from the city.” “So, how do you like it here?” It’s a question I’m constantly asked in regard to our move to the country, so I tried it on her. Though she’d been chatting away, I noticed her pause, both physically and verbally. “Well, it’s definitely different.” She was quiet for a second then, with a sigh, “My husband was born and raised out here.” She offered no other explanation.

We went on to talk about the things from the city we’d both enjoyed and now missed. She became more animated again. “Oh, how I miss the little ethnic neighborhoods. I miss being able to go into a little European bakery, or stopping for a spicy bite of vegetarian aloo at a Nepalese restaurant. And the nearest Starbucks out here? 40 miles, at least. I mean, I hate to complain, because you end up sounding like a whiner. And certainly people who are from around here don’t understand.” She’d waved her hand in the direction of her co-workers with that last sentence.

She slowed her movement again, took a slow breath, and said. “It’s all about choice. And we certainly don’t have much choice out here.”

As I was making my next appointment with the reception clerk, my hygienist leaned near me and said, “You know, you don’t have to wait six months, if you feel like talking to someone who also misses the city, stop by anytime. We can be each other's ear.”

Both of the photos below were taken from the same distance on the new, much maligned, Apple maps. So they should, I hope anyway, show the proper perspective.

Below, the red pin shows the location of our beloved "city house"

City Mouse, Country Mouse

To me this is the classic tale of “different.”  You know Aesop’s fable, I’m sure. But, just in case you don’t, here is my digest version: 

There are two mouse cousins, one resides in the city and one resides in the country. The City Mouse visits his country cousin, who offers a meal of simple food. I don’t exactly remember, but it was like biscuits and gravy, or gruel seasoned with fatback grease, or such. His hip city cousin, who, may I add at this point, was apparently lacking in manners, balked at having to eat such fare. “You must visit me in the city and see what fine cuisine we have.” (I don’t think those were Aesop’s exact words, but it’s what comes to my mind.)

Anyway, Country Mouse makes a visit to the city for a taste of the "good life," and is properly wined/dined like royalty. I’m certain that they also traveled about in limos and visited all the “hot-spots,” etc., but that was not part of Aesop’s version. In his story, however, the pair is subsequently attacked by feral city cats, rats or terriers. The moral of the story being the trade-off of simple food and a simple, but safe life versus opulence, big-city lights and big-city crime.

Now, some time after Aesop’s tale, Beatrix Potter “reworked” the story and reversed the visits. As an aside, I do like this woman and find her personal story fascinating. So, Ms. Potter has the Country Mouse first visiting her city cousin. I’m not sure if she made them females, but I’d like to think that she did. The Country Mouse is abhorred by the rich, foreign foods, and is also chased by feral cats, rats or terriers. Upon her cousin’s visit to the country, the city girl is thus frightened by the noisy farm machinery, the tornado-prone weather, and the multitudes of huge farm animals, that can squish a tiny mouse in one step. Like I said before, not exactly Potter verbatim, but my take on her work.

But, here is where I like Beatrix’s version better. Her moral is definitely “it’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just different,” no trade-offs, just different. Each mouse is apparently in the right place for herself.

Just Different

Moving from "Delicious" to "Different"... kinda deliciously different? Anyway my inspiration for December, and I hope this works, is the word "different."

Just Different

I’ve never considered myself much of an athlete. So, it’s kind of funny that I was standing in the middle of a ball court when I had an epiphany. It was a hot, sunny day. I was listening to a local guide tell us about the ball games played at the Gran Juego de Pelota in Chichen Itza, located in today’s Mexican state of Yucatan. He vividly described a grueling, sometimes multi-day event. As his voice reverberated off the walls, I swore I could hear the crowds cheer. I closed my eyes and I could picture the athletes, I could feel their exhaustion, I could sense their determination, I almost could smell their perspiration... Well, anyway you get what I'm saying. I was there.

The guide pointed to the goal. It was a seemingly, way-too-small stone hoop, high up on a side wall, through which the ball had to pass in order to make a goal and win the game.

It sometimes took days, he said, for a team to make a goal. The first team to make the goal was the winner. Our guide, who claimed to be a Mayan descendent, explained that some archeologists believe that the losing team was sacrificed, possibly decapitated. He let that sit with us for a moment or two, then challenged us to consider that it is also possible that the winning team was the actual group sacrificed. “They had different spiritual views back then,” he continued. “They may have believed that it was an honor to be sacrificed and sent to the next life. We don’t and will never know for certain.” Again, he let that sit with us, just for a bit.

And that’s when he pronounced the words that would, from that point, alter my thinking. Simple words that had more impact on me than any preacher’s sermon. “Just consider it,” he said. “And remember, it’s not right, it’s not wrong, it’s just different.” He may have talked some more, I don’t remember. Those words tumbled sweetly in my head.  It’s not right, it’s not wrong, it’s not good, it’s not bad. It’s just different.

I wanted to have a photograph of the Chichen Itza Great Ball Court here, but since we recently moved, and we still haven't sorted out all of our boxes... So, try as I might, I couldn't find the photos we took in Chichen Itza. I'm actually thinking of doing an "artist's rendition" of the scene. Tune in to see if I put, what I'm certain will be, a childish cartoon drawing.  ;-)

The End of Delicious

This is the End My Friends...

Here is the Cookie Central Shortlist 2012. I will ask each of our cookies

 to step up and introduce themselves:

Hi, my name is Chocolate Citrus Truffle. You can find my recipe on the Land O’ Lakes website.

Heath Bar Shortbread here, deliciously dipped in chocolate, (basically because she can’t make a

recipe without trying to fancy it up.) Google me if you want my recipe.

Kourambiedes is my name.  I’m Greek. She found me in an old Joy of Cooking cookbook. But, like Heath Bar Shortbread said, she just can’t leave well enough alone. So, because she didn’t like the idea of putting a clove in each cookie and, because she didn’t have Ouzo on-hand, she substituted sherry, in which she steeped the cloves for 24 hours before removing them and using the steeped sherry.

That's me on the right there, next to the cappuccino brownies and chocolate-covered strawberries. She actually had to pull this photo out of the archives, because, and I'm not kidding, I got scooped up before she could even take a picture of me. As you can probably tell, I have the distinction of being the top favorite of the girls this weekend. They call me “Pinks” but, my real name is Cherry White Chocolate Shortbread. And this is crazy, but google me, maybe?

I’m called Strawberry and Cream. I am brand new to her list and I don’t mind saying, I also was a hit with a couple of young ladies who sampled me this weekend. You can find me on the King Arthur website, but be forewarned: I require special molds.

I’m the big brother of Strawberry and Cream. I’ve been around, if you know what I mean. My name is Chocolate-Filled Walnut Cookie. You can find a version of me on the King Arthur site, but like my little sister said, you can basically throw away the mold when you make us.

Hi, (blush) I’m, uh, my name is Butter Mint. I'm kind of shy. I came from the Land O’ Lakes website. I think she added a light mint-scented buttercream, and then sprinkled on some pink finely-chopped Andes chocolate mints. The girls did so like me. They even asked her to quadruple me for next year. I overheard them call me the sleeper fave. Tee-hee!

I'm Chocolate Cherry Cookie and the bee-atch, uh, I mean, the Boss, is leaving me off the list next year. Can you believe this? She said I was nothing but trouble and I spread too much. Whatever that means. I'm suspicious that it was something she did wrong. All I'm sure of is that her husband liked me, liked me a lot. I'm wondering if she's just jealous.

I wasn’t on the longlist, but somehow she finagled to get me on the shortlist. My name is Linzer. And like my cousins Choc and Strawb, I originated on the King Arthur website. But, just between you & me, I overheard her say, when she read the recipe, “That’s way too much cinnamon! I’m cutting in half.”

Hey, s'up? I’m your basic butter cookie. She prefers the Land O’ Lakes recipe version of me, in which I have the name Best Ever Butter Cookie. The name says it all. And do I clean up nicely. Oh, and she made me say it, otherwise I wouldn't bother to mention it - The cookies  in this photo were decorated by one of the girls at "cookie central" & so are not a true depiction of her own precious little cookies.

And last, but not least... I’m the other basic, go-to cookie. I’m Scandinavian and my name is Spritz. She loves me because I make it so easy for her to look like she’s some kind of pro. I do require a cookie press, but I’m worth the investment, a little make up and I look like I belong in the finest bakery. ;-)