I have never desired to study medicine so strongly in my life before until I stood outside the ICU looking through the glass at my grandmother.
I look at the numbers on the screen jumping about but I don’t understand a single thing.
The nurse goes in, looks at the screen, fills up a form, and leaves.

I have never felt so fucking helpless in my life.

I haven’t had a real blog since LiveJournal quite a few years ago. I write things on Myspace and Facebook, but I don’t write them for me. I miss writing for me.

When choosing a screen name for this blog I was taken back in time to my grandparents’ house in Tennessee. My grandmother had a little quilt shop that she ran from her basement. I can still smell the fabric warmed by sunny days. She had little kaleideoscopes for us to play with and I would look through them as I watched her quilting. Sometimes she had her old lady friends come over and they would all quilt together and talk about the things that seem important only to old women in the south.

My grandmother is gone now and has been for a long time. Her little shop is gone too, but I’ve been back to that basement since then and it only holds fond memories of distant family members.

I still have the quilts she made just for me.

Wow Thanksgiving is over – Had a wonderful day.  Everyone was a massive help.  Daughter-in-law Melissa help with the shopping. Hubby got up and put the turkeys in – we had two 13 pounders instead of one 25 pounder – meat is less dry and bird moving is easier.  I came in next; made the ruttabaga,  sweet potatoes, and right before serving the gravy.  Daughter Rachel made the mashed potatoes, green beans, corn stuffing and brownies.  Mother-in-law made the pumpkin pies. Grand daughter Caitlin worked on the cranberry sauce,  plates and silverware.  Son Joshua is away this year and couldn’t get leave to come home.  We also sent a plate to our friend and my father. 

After feasting we made up the left overs into sandwich makings and today a warm pot of turkey stew.  The rest is frozen for future quick meals.

 MEMOIRS

(Abridged)                                                                                         

By K.K.Subramanian

Waterfriend remembers his childhood

           Kunnathur Mana

My mother was born in a very illustrious family Kunnathur Padinjaredath.You can see the ancestral house near the Peruvanam temple south gopuram (gate)

I have vague memories of sitting upstairs; looking at the road. I must be four at that time.

The family came there in search of livelihood and became the tantry (main priest-they still are) of the temple. I can imagine mother (kali was her name-a goddess) walking towards the temple, holding the hands of the maid servant, almost naked, with only a plantain leaf strip to cover nakedness, not knowing what fate awaited her…tears swell in my eyes, even as I write these lines

She was married off at the tender age of thirteen or so to Subrahmanian Nambudiripad, aged forty plus, already having two wives, one living and the next one and her son still fresh in memory, and a daughter of mother’s age whom her brother married the same day, probably. Mother was dark, uncouth and short; my step sister was fair, lean and very handsome whom mother hated heartily!

I do not remember any one caring for her,  except her younger sister and some cousins. Uncle (eldest) never talked to her or even to her children (in all six, two died early). She had a sharp tongue and was outspoken but had a heart of gold. She was very lazy and father was the laziest!

I digressed…

Around 150 years ago, mother’s ancestor was married to the sister of the king of erstwhile Cochin State who was known as Shaktan Thampuran. He bestowed on the Kunnathur family tax free land. The family became rich.

Maternal grandfather was very intelligent, so too was my uncle. At that time a rich local Nambudiri of Chittoor mana established a school, where we all studied, and uncle was the first student, duly initiated before a lighted lamp etc. Of course the student was without a shirt! I had a few classmates, topless, in primary school. Grandmother was wise, cultured and well versed in puranas (old legends of Hindu religion).When she got angry and shouted like a lioness, her husband shivered like a mouse! She did like my mother, always told me to look after her well but did nothing when she needed assistance. In fact no one accompanied her when she left the house built by father, and we were travelling in a country boat, through the swollen river. Being a fool, I enjoyed the trip!…

Earliest memories centre around a small village Thalore, near Trichur. I was about four. Mother had given birth to a dead baby and so she continued to feed me. I just came in from the spacious orchard where I was playing, lay down in my mother’s lap and started sucking her big breast. (In those days our women folk did not wear blouse.) “Ma, who put sugar in your milk?” -I asked. She just pushed me off and that was the end breast feeding !

I had a playmate Bhagi about eight years or so . She was attached to our maid servant Madhavi. I always thought she was her daughter.

 One day the girl was mopping the kitchen floor. I said something .She didn’t listen and I gave a blow on her back with an iron ladle. The poor girl cried out aloud inviting the attention of mother and paternal grand mother I felt guilty and wretched. Perhaps that was the only time I used violence against any living creature…..

With just a piece of cloth tied like lady’s bikini, I used to accompany Madhavi to the grocery shop owned by a Tamil Brahmin .He would give a piece of jaggery. We never got chocolates in those days.

Father and mother slept in the upstairs bed room. I slept with them. Mother used to tell stories. Elder brother used to sleep with grandmother. He was her favourite. Paternal uncle Krishnaphan was an occasional visitor. We loved him, as he was a good storyteller. About Lilliputs we heard from him. He was dark and fat unlike another p. uncle Vasudevaphan who was slim and fair, the first person to go to school from K.K. family. He was teacher and a close friend of E.M.S. Namboodiripad.

One day an old lady came, covered up to the neck in pure white dhoti (in north India only a widow will dress in white) Do you know her? –they asked. When I blinked, they all laughed . I felt ashamed. It was mother’s ma. As a girl, she was born and brought up in the same house where we were staying temporarily-the great Veembur Kadalayil Mana (which was lying vacant at the time. Mahatma Gandhi visited the house in 1929). Father who was a good architect and astrologer was making our house near the river, about four miles away. One day brother and I accompanied him to see the construction work. My legs were paining like hell. I earned the reputation of having walked four miles when four years old.    

 At that time , another paternal uncle, Parameswaran by name, took me with him to fort Tripunithura where royal family members lived. By custom, only a nambudiri may marry a princess. And, in a nambudiri family only the eldest can marry; others may have legitimate relationship with women of other upper castes, the latter not entitled for a share of nambudiri property. They are not allowed to share meals with us.(My grandfather’s younger brother’s daughter was my schoolmate .I never knew about the blood relationship, though I somehow liked her. Of course I was too shy to talk to her! )

That is how uncle married a real princess and lived in Palace no.11. I was too small to notice the clean bed, the sumptuous food (at home we had it only on birthdays or during Onam) The great festival was going on at the Poornathrayeesha (Krishna) temple and there were any number of elephants (I wanted to become a mahout-I am never tired of watching these majestic animals)

An elephant was being fed. Uncle asked me-do you want to mount it . I shook my head. The mahout lifted me and handed over to his colleague sitting on the elephant. He placed me on its neck. I felt uncomfortable, its hair pricking my naked bottom and I being lifted up and down by the motion of its head while eating; still I enjoyed it .

One day we were taken to Akavoormana near river Periyar. We enjoyed playing in the shallow swift flowing water. I lay down in the water and was carried away some distance. Flapping my arms I managed to remain floating. Thus I learnt the rudiments of swimming. I do not know how to swim really. Like cattle only my head remains above water.

There were two young elephants there. As a baby Ramankutty used to roam about in the house and snatch things from the kitchen. Even now I like to have a baby elephant ….

Vasudevan uncle (the youngest among five brothers, father being the eldest) was working as teacher in Namboori Vidyalaya at Trichur. I would look with admiration  the fat books in his shelf. One day when I grow up I shall read them!

Savithri was born. I refused to see the baby. I wanted a brother. This dislike of girls remained for a long time to come.

When Vas uncle brought a wife I was too shy to meet her. Afterwards the words “cheriamme “automatically escaped from my mouth and all exclaimed “today it will rain” 

   Recently, during morning walk I reached the church and, turning right, easily located the arch, proclaiming entry towards the Shiv temple. I went through it and turned right. A little further, I had hardly turned left when I could easily spot the old gate as it was in 1937! It was something like a flashback in TV screen! The front yard was very small. (in my mind it was very big.)The main building was intact, though concretised. I saw mother’s bedroom upstairs where I slept. Through the left side I traced a few steps and saw the workplace where women husked rice .It was locked. I could easily see the rope swing and Bhagi and I playing there. The reddish brown cow must be somewhere nearby. Bhagi showed me how to pick silky smooth, egg shaped thing (she called it pattunni) from the cow’s skin. She would place it on a stone and crush it with another stone spilling blood. Ma must be in the kitchen. The great surprise was when I turned to the east courtyard and looked to the flight of steps leading to the orchard. I was expecting at least thirty steps. I could count hardly four! To the child everything appears on a mega screen. To the grown up, it is all on TV screen. The surroundings had been cut into plots and sold. There are flats now. But the main structure is unoccupied till now.

Originally, it belonged to Moothedath Kadalayil which was merged with Veembur Kadalayil. On shifting to Pazhai, the house was sold to Akavoor Mana, my paternal grand mother’s maiden house (illam). We were just living there. The Akavoor namboodiri even suggested,” sister, why don’t you live here, why build a new house?” But father wanted to be near our village. 

She sits alone in the room
The smell of country pines
The thought of her mommy and daddy
Her notion that life is good.
-
She sits surrounded by these other people.
The smell of Thanksgiving dinner
The thought of their grandmother
Their notion that life is cruel.
-
They are nice strangers to her,
But she is family to them.

http://hubpages.com/hub/On-Being-A-Grandmother
Eleven short years ago, I learned that I would have a new title in this life. Twelve grandchildren later, I have become very fond of my new name of endearment, Grandma. With this new phase of my life have come several motivating challenges for which I am grateful. I have endeavored to be the best grandmother I know how, and in the process, have found that there are times when I need to speak up and times when I need to be quiet. There is an art to being a grandmother that involves knowing when to stop the spoiling and when to start the disciplining.

In an effort to get outside of myself and share where it was needed, I volunteered with Little Brothers on Thanksgiving to bring lunch to the elderly and hang out with them.  I did this for several reasons, 1) because I couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving and I thought giving would be a better use of my time rather than sliding into victim mode, 2) because when I visited my grandmother (who I was extremely close to) in a nursing home the last years of her life it was beyond depressing – even as she went out of her way to make the best of it and put on a happy brave face for everyone else 3) I miss her and I guess a part of me wants to alleviate the isolation of people in her position as an homage to her.  She more than any other human being I have met in my 33 years here thought of others over herself – so in a way I am doing this for her.

It’s not always easy though.  What is easy is to bring a meal to two elderly people in a nursing home one day out of the year.  What followed was not so easy:  hearing their stories and facing my conscience.

The first man I visited was 78 and although physically decrepit, mentally sharp.  He had no children or family in the area.  He lay in bed in a cramped space with two other people sharing his room – neither of whom spoke any English.  He mentioned his son later in conversation and when I tried to clarify which children, he pointed to a picture of a Scottish terrier on his wall.  He has a friend who takes him to church every Sunday and brings her dog with him.  This two or three hours out of his week is the highlight of his week and one of his few opportunities at any substantive human connection.  “That dog loves me so much.  He almost licks my hand off every time he sees me.”  He teared up as he said this and I instantly felt my visit to him was so small.  Don’t misunderstand, he was so truly grateful for my visit – desperate for it actually.  But it occurred to me that to truly alleviate his loneliness this would need to be a regular thing.

We become so busy in our lives and take our mobility and freedom for granted, that it’s so easy to forget or even imagine how it must be to be bedridden in a veritable prison and forgotten with no family.  So while I might be praising myself for doing a simple kindness in an isolated incident, it is not enough.  How difficult would it be to visit him once a week for an hour?  It would be very little for me and mean so much for him.  Granted, walking into a nursing home is no parade.  It is depressing and seeing him in this pain causes a natural reaction of wanting to run the other way.  It is difficult to be there.  Hanging out in nursing homes certainly is not at the top of my list, but the reality of the situation is, any one of us could easily or will easily be in this situation one day.  We will all get old, we are not guaranteed to die in our sleep, our mind may go first or our body – either one rendering us unable to care for ourselves.  What if we don’t have family close by to take care of us, or what if we have no family at all by this age?  What then?  So as I argued with myself as to why regular visits wouldn’t be realistic or possible, I really couldn’t justify a reason not to.  I would want someone to do the same for me.

The other woman I visited seemed to be both physically and mentally sound.  She was a young 68 year old who had been sent here and possibly slipped through the cracks because her only son died two years ago and someone decided she couldn’t be trusted with a stove so sent her off to a nursing home.  I’m not sure which situation was more heartwrenching.  I asked her what she missed and as she complained about the terrible food, she said “Mexican food and….I just want to go out and see a good movie at a theater. ” We talked and laughed and she warned me to stay away from her mean cat who she had brought with her from home and had rescued from a shelter.  Again, I left her room feeling guilty; knowing what I had to do, but not wanting to do it.  Not wanting the responsiblity.  But I cannot forget either one of them.  And I imagine how my visit might have affected them.  They were probably grateful for it but as I left probably wondered, “Will she come back? Will I see her again?” They seemed to me like a couple of orphans (albeit orphans who had lived very full lives) who were in essence saying, “Pick me, pick me.”

Sometimes it is easy to give.  If we have an extra $5 and a homeless person asking for money or food.  It doesn’t take much to help them.  As I try to spiritually evolve and become a better person, the challenge becomes to do those things which are more of a sacrifice.  I would not choose to spend my time in a place that has a heavy cloud of death over it, where it reeks of loneliness and isolation.  I would not be going there to spend the last precious moments of life with my grandmother, listening to her reminisce about my grandfather or just sitting with her on a couch, leaning against her and hugging her, smelling her Chanel No. 5.  I would be going there purely for someone else.  Even to announce that you’re doing volunteer work is not pure giving because you’re receiving something for your Ego.  The highest forms of giving have to be true sacrifices and anonymous.

So as I left this place and became aware of their pain and what was needed, although it certainly is a nice sentiment to have that empathy, it means absolutely nothing unless I do something about it.  And the more resistance I have to do something, the more important it is to actually do it.  I heard somewhere that the right thing to do is almost always the hardest thing or the most uncomfortable. I believe this to be true; now it needs to be put into action.  Awareness is the seed, but without action it means nothing.  We can’t think our way out of problems, we have to be the solution.

Did Barack Obama learn a word or two from his grandmother? Well, maybe not — he didn’t grow up with the gran pictured here (it’s his Kenyan stepmother). But many people did learn their very  first foreign words from their grandmothers. The Big Show’s Marco Werman learned a Dutch curse. Nina Porzucki learned a Yiddish word that speaks to a existential Jewish mindset: dafka. Nina’s grandmother didn’t think she was conveying such a Big Idea. She was just describing the stubborn behavior of her granddaughter.

Marilyn Chin learned insults, puns and tongue twisters, many of which later found their way into her poetry. Chin has published three volumes of poems. Many of her poems are linguistic investigations of her own Chinese-Americanism.  Now she’s published her first novel, Revenge of the Mooncake Vixen. It’s the story of two Chinese-American twins, Moonie and Mei Ling Wong,  and their search for double happiness. Or maybe single happiness. Double Happiness is just the name of their family restaurant (wordplay and irony abounds). Between episodes of Chinese food delivery gone hilariously wrong — thanks to Mei Ling’s souped-up American need for sex and drugs — the twins enter a mythological world of Chinese fable. From profane to sacred, and back to profane again. In the pod, I interview Marilyn Chin, who like the twins in her novel, had an overly protective Old World grandmother raising her. Chin can still recite her grandmother’s curses and sayings, delivered in the Toisan sub-dialect of Cantonese. She also recites a super-punning poem from her 2002 collection, Rhapsody in Plain Yellow.

Listen in iTunes or here.

It’s 12:25AM, the “morning” after Thanksgiving and all the crazies are either at the local malls (which opened at midnight), or catching a few hours of sleep so they’re ready for the Black Friday bargains which generally start around 3AM. Well, all the crazies except for me. And I’m here trying to find a way – without whining – to write about Thanksgiving and my family.

As a child, I grew up thinking that Thanksgiving was an extension of my birthday. We always had family over and even if my birthday was before or after the holiday, we always had a cake with candles.

During most of my marriage I looked forward to Thanksgiving, where we had intimate family dinners. And to the surprise of those who know me, I actually prepared everything myself – including a turkey that I shared a bottle of wine with (in the cooking process, of course), unbelievable stuffing which was never made exactly the same way twice, and homemade cheesecake. It was a wonderful feeling to prepare – and share – such a meal. And it was one of our family’s traditions.

But about ten years ago, my sister Deidre (my only sibling on this side of the Mississippi) started throwing huge Thanksgiving banquets at her home. I’m guessing she had anywhere from 60 to 75 (or possibly more) guests, cleaning crews before and after the party, and professional servers to assist. At first her guests were mostly people she worked with, as well as her longtime friends, but after a year or two – relatives starting coming in from other places to attend. But her friends weren’t my friends. The work associates were strangers and the relatives – well, let’s just say they were ones who were closer to her than they were to me.

… And then the stress started.

As I strived to keep our family traditions – including our intimate Thanksgivings – I was pressured about going to Deidre’s. “Mom” criticized my decision not to go, accusing me – in not so many words – as being anti-social, as I was expected to give up our family holiday for a Thanksgiving with mostly strangers.

Betty (mom) never meant to hurt me with her words, but years later – Thanksgiving is one of the most stressful times for me. I stopped the Thanksgiving cooking, sometimes opting for buffets at local resorts, and other times traveling to Mexico – or as far away as Germany, just to avoid the holiday stress. This year was no exception – I took Betty, my children, and even my ex-husband, to a Thanksgiving brunch at a local restaurant.

What about Deidre and her Thanksgiving banquets?

This year she’s vacationing in Florida.

And, Rick, Deidre’s 30-something son (and a father of four), didn’t even bother calling “grandma” to make sure she had a place to go.

Truth is, I was planning to go away for my 50^th, but mom told me about Deidre’s plans and I couldn’t leave mom alone during the holidays.

All my siblings (as well as Betty’s grandchildren) just assume I’ll be taking care of those things.

Betty’s Daughter

1:41AM – November 27, 2009

"It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown"

I love Charlie Brown holiday specials. They take me to the happy places in my past.

There, I’ve huddled in my Sacramento family room flanked by my mother, sister and a bowl of popcorn sprinkled with raisins. I’ve  planted myself at my Philly grandfather’s knee and munched Pepperidge Farm goldfish, his favorite snack.

I’ve also snuggled with my little ones on our Virginia couch, raisin-studded popcorn warming our laps, as Linus awaited the Great Pumpkin and Snoopy prepared the craziest Thanksgiving meal ever. Now that I fix my own Turkey Day dinners, I wonder who would eat a pretzel, popcorn, toast and jellybean feast. As a kid, however, the combination seemed a natural choice for a beagle chef and his yellow-feathered assistant.

Mary

Time-warping for those 20-some minutes puts a spit shine on the daily grind as well as the challenges scuffing my life. This year, especially, I’ve needed an escape from my grandmother’s losing battle with Alzheimer’s. Where brown-eyes sparkled or blazed, glassy impressions remain. Where wit and racy humor sparred, confusion overpowers.

She still knows me, yes, and she has many good days. But the lucid, cheeky woman who taught me the Jive in her kitchen is transformed and I hate that. No, I’m petrified. She is more than my grandmother, she’s a second mother and friend. Who else but those two would stay up until 2 a.m. to help type one of my high school papers when it became clear I wouldn’t get it done in time?

Oh, we had our clashes, too. Most involved her not wanting to hear my opinion about the way she saw herself.  For all her bluster and bubble, she never felt good enough. But don’t let my sister or I chime a similar ditty. My grandmother would lay into us but good about doubting our worth; wallowing in regrets.

Wedding day

I have plenty of my own including not taking the time to record some of her trademark stories. She had a clarity of memory I still envy. She could recite poems she learned in elementary school or the names of all the girls in her graduating class. She’d bring her South Philly childhood into whatever room we were in with HD-quality sharpness. And watch out if that focus turned on you.

The day she called a friend she thought was drinking too much a “liquor pig,” I winced and marveled at the richness of the description. Other classics include “Hard heads make sore behinds,” “Oh, you really be-stank your nest,” and “You’re about to tear your behind, but good.”

I miss hearing them from the woman who spends more time in what my sister calls “her happy place.” She shares the goings-on there in what seem like disjointed little bits, but I hope her time travels are as comforting as mine.

We’re full from the turkey, sure, but mostly all of the wine and the mashed potatoes and—because this is what we do here—little hot dogs wrapped in puff pastry and pickles and late-night kalua.

My grandmother, of course, had had too much wine. We know this from her headache, yes. But we also know this from last night when she thumped her 82-year old shoulder against the fridge and shouted at nobody in particular:

“So what if I’m drunk! I’m drunk and I like it! So don’t tell me what to do!”

And now maybe we feel guilty, because we most certainly did not.

in grandmother’s house -
crystal stemware with red bows …
a dream – where was she?

This poem captures my wish to (one day, far, far, away) be a grandmother as wonderful as my own. I am thankful for the food on my table and for my family and friends.

Gumbo
by Michael Otieno Molina
from Vegan Soul Kitchen by Bryant Terry

Granny was God in the kitchen
Her ladle
sunk deep in swamp green
Ground brown
Grey soup
vanished
and came up full
a mound of sea creatures
A crab leg reached over the lip
Out of the primordial roux
Granny turned and filled my bowl
Gumbo swirled around its parts
And left a spiraling galaxy of spice
In my warm palms
Its scent
swaddled in my own breath
soaked my tongue in savory
And when Granny looked down
at what she made
She knew it was good

As you may have guessed from my posts over the past 18 months, family is a big part of my existence – my past, present and future. For my birthday this year, I received a very special gift. My grandmother’s ring. This isn’t the first time I have received this ring. I was 14 when it was first gifted to me by my mom for my confirmation in 1996. (It had been given to her when she was 16.) I wore this ring religiously. It was incredibly special to me – mostly because of its history and sentimental value.

In Fall 1999, I was eating dinner at Victoria College’s Burwash Dining Hall on the University of Toronto campus – an hour before my evening class. I looked down at my hand and with sheer panic and horror, discovered that my grandmother’s ring was missing its STONE. An emerald-cut pink sapphire. My fork dropped. My heart stopped. And before I knew it I was crawling on the floor teary-eyed desperately trying to find the family stone. I searched the tables, the floor, the entrance, the garbage….everywhere I could think. And nothing. It was gone.

My grandmother – Jesuina Amaral Calisto – died on December 27, 1995. Two days after Christmas.  She was only 58 years old and her death followed a short two-weeks of invasive brain surgery and improper medical care. I was devastated. I was also 14. So like any teenager dealing with death and loss, I locked myself in my room for two weeks.

My grandmother was a huge part of my up-bringing. When I wasn’t with my parents, I was usually with her. She taught me what she knew. She wasn’t literate and never pursued studies or a career (not that she had the option anyway). But she knew about other things. She taught me those all important life skills so that I could care for myself and others. Before I was 5 I knew how to do laundry, bake cakes, wash a floor (on your hands and knees with soapy hot water, a rag and elbow grease is the only way to really do it). She even taught me how to polish silver (which later became one of my favourite pastimes. It’s surprisingly therapeutic.)

I spent a lot of time with her during my early years. You couldn’t help but want to spend time with her. She was extremely loving and caring to me. I always found her to be so genuine. She was the archetypal “grandmother”. I don’t remember her EVER getting angry with me or being cold toward me. She spoiled me in the best possible way. As all good grandmothers do. My favourite thing about her was her laugh. She had the greatest laugh. If I close my eyes and clear my mind, I can still hear it. My grandmother wasn’t a glamorous woman in her day-to-day. But when she dressed up, she wore what I call dangly earrings (i.e. drop earrings) and beautiful rings.

For a decade, the band and setting of my grandmother’s ring has been kept in a box in the hope it could one day be reunited with its stone. Although the family stone was lost, a new one has replaced it. My parents had the ring restored with an emerald-cut citrine – my birthstone. I am deeply honoured to wear it and with any luck, pass it on to my (future hypothetical) daughter some day.

I remember specifically sitting around the kid’s table, I was the oldest of the cousins and proud to be their “leader”.  Additionally, I had a major advantage over them.  Thanksgiving was my day (my birthday).  I felt like the entire gathering was just for me.  All the presents, the attention, the cake.  AND I still got the obligatory molded chocolate Thanksgiving turkey at my place.

The dinner would linger on and we’d eat and eat and enjoy the camaraderie, then dessert, the cake and as the adults stayed sitting savoring their drinks (and refilling them), “Grandmother” as my great-grandmother was called, would start to walk towards the sideboard.  A hesitant silence filled the room as we all knew what lay ahead.

She would shuffle back from the cabinet with a big box of fancy chocolates with a huge grin and white curly hair and she would present these very proudly on the table with a flourish.  There would be a huge inaudible groan and then a big sigh.  We were all satiated after such a huge meal, could barely eat another thing, but we also knew what the boxes held.

We’d say, “Thank you Grandmother, but we are just stuffed,” but she would insist.  And she would pass that box to each of us individually with her gray-blue hawk-like eyes piercing us, imploring us to take one and not taking no for an answer.

We all dreaded this part of the meal, as we knew the secret behind the chocolates.  Each and everyone was a fruit-filled chocolate and each was at least twelve months old.  How did we know?  Despite all our efforts, the gifts of nut and chew assorted chocolates would go immediately into that very same cabinet, but were not shared.  Grandmother continued to have other chocolate “suitors” who would give her chocolate gifts, and it was these mixed chocolates that we were expected to eat.  We knew that when she’d receive them and dive into the box she’d flip over every one of those chocolates, and with her chubby index finger would push into the bottom of each to decipher its contents.  Chews and nuts were devoured and the rest left for us and our Thanksgiving festivities.

Despite this somewhat unsavory ending to the evening, we still relished our Thanksgiving meal.  Now that we have dispersed across the country and Grandmother is no longer with us, we sort of miss those chocolates.

©Rebecca Chapa

The Author and family... Grandmother is fetching the chocolates

My maternal grandmother invited me over to her house to shop. What fun, I thought. She brought out her notepad and pen and offered her things up for grabs. Tiffany-style lamp? Check. Glass top table? Check. Milkglass vases? Check.

The three generations: my grandmother, my mother and I, walked through the house examining dishes, appraising collectibles and ignoring the elephant in the room. She will die someday soon. Of course, we could all go, really. But probability will have it that she will depart from here before we are ready.

She says she is ready. My whole life she has told me she will look down on me from heaven. I know she believes her mother is waiting for her there. Her ex-husband and her brother, too.

“When I’m gone,” she has said countless times. So she plans for the future, the certainty that she will go. C will get this and E will have that. Distributing what things she has amassed throughout her life. Those things that gave her joy. Oh, the thread count! Oh, the bone china!

“They are collector’s items, you know,” she states, “worth quite a lot of money if one were to sell them.” As if she would tag them and sell them on the market. She always looked the part. Hair in place, age-dulled red. Full makeup. Designer outfits. Tres chic.

Now, she wears her husband’s workshirt, burdened by the weight of her body, moreover her sadness. I don’t want these things in place of you, I say. She smiles and says, “You’re sweet.” I imagine she already has her funeral planned, too. My coworker died recently and her eulogy described her as having a “zest for life.” It couldn’t have been further from the truth. The difficulty of life had gotten the best of her optimism.

When I die, I don’t want church music or cliched remembrances. I want some Chopin, Willie Nelson and Coldplay. I want an open bar and good food. Save the walnut or maple and give me a pine box. Send with me notes about our relationship. Laugh about my angry sense of humor. Curse my annoying traits. Walk, run or ride a bike to breath the air, I cannot.

When in Oaxaca, Mexico, we grieved alongside a family for their grandmother. We walked for miles on cobblestone streets. The steady pace and physical exertion was comforting despite the sadness. Knowing that we will not all be together one day is difficult to keep. Living life to its fullest is easier said than done. I try, I fail, I try, I fail.

Since you all where so helpful – NOOOT! when I requested help with my christmas gift for boyfriend’s grandmother, I take it, you liked the bracelet just the way it was. So I kept it that way and just did some remaking in the way I attached the clasp. Instead of only the crimp beads that I used before, I now have bead tips for terminators (Kalotten), it looks more professional like this because you can’t see the wire anymore. You still have to use the crimps though, they’re hidden inside the tips. Now, I think the clasp is the pretty side up and I hope ol’ polish Gran will think so too.

The photo is lousy, I know. It’s not that ideal to photograph beads and pearls with photo booth, especially not on my imac because the screen is so darn light, the light reflects in the pearls and they all kind of turn into this white blur. This was the best pic actually – all the others kind of looked like this:

If you know me or  you’ve been more than the most occasional visitor to my blog you’ll know that I take food pretty seriously.  I don’t just love to eat (and yes, I am working on that, thank you very much) but I love to be in the kitchen cooking.  Unlike some people I know I enjoy shopping for food and choosing ingredients whether I’m doing so at an independent/speciality retailer or the nearest supermarket.  When I go to a restaurant I love it if I can see the pass or, better yet, through the pass into the kitchen.  Conversations about food thrill me; I often start mentally planning my evening meal when I’m having my first cup of tea or coffee in the morning.  I have a small notebook where I can record the steps of successful gastronomical experiments and new recipes  (they have to prove more than just edible and sufficiently complex to make it into the book) and I’ll soon be enrolling for my second stint at a nearby culinary school.  Once I even spent the afternoon with a two-man camera crew in my house filming me cook and talk about food as part of an audition process for a TV cooking competition.   More examples of just how food-focussed I am could be added to the list, but I think you get the picture; I’d have a hard time proving anyone who called me food obsessed wrong.

While I’m not denying that I enjoy food for its own sake I don’t spend the time thinking about and preparing food that I do just because I’m some kind of glutton.  At this point, I know some of my readers will be raising their eyebrows with incredulity.  Surely my love of all things cookery is just the outgrowth of a tasty, belt-busting hobby, right?  I don’t think the answer is that simple.

When I was growing up in the United States there was always plenty to eat as the familiar stereotype suggests.  At holidays and other gatherings of friends and families the amounts of food on offer were even more ludicrous.  In this respect my experiences were fairly typical of most middle-class Americans of my age.  What wasn’t so typical was the fact that there were actually some very good cooks preparing that food and that some of the people eating it had rather discerning palettes.  While this meant that I did learn to indulge my propensity to pile more food on my plate than I needed, eat it all and go back for more, I also absorbed some unarticulated sense that nice food and good ingredients were special things to be respected and shared.  Calorie content and the possibility of processed cheese being melted over a dish weren’t, in other words, my only criteria for evaluating the worth of a meal.

Out of all the amateur chefs in my family my father and my maternal grandmother who had the most influence on my own culinary aspirations as wells as my attitudes toward cooking for and feeding myself and others.  In certain respects my grandmother was a very different kind of chef from my father.  She was from West Virginia and some of my earlier memories involve her making what would have been a fantastic roast beef and telling an entirely credulous 5 year old Omphaloskeptic that it was old hound dog.  At about the same time I can remember standing on a stool next her stove while she made pancakes on her aged cast iron skillet, teaching me how to recognise a frequency and pattern of bubbles on the uncooked face of the cakes that meant they were perfectly cooked on the other and ready for flipping.  Another time she mistook an electrical lead she’d left in a slow cooker for a snake that had somehow invaded her soup but that, I think, is a story for a different post.

From my father, most obviously, I inherited a love of grilling and barbecuing.  He also taught me to go ahead and be adventurous in the kitchen, to combine ingredients in unexpected ways because the results could be special.  As a necessary caveat to that he also helped me realise that a certain amount of common sense and basic knowledge of flavour combinations should always be exercised when experimenting with a new recipe.  When I was 7, possibly 8, I fancied myself something of an amateur cocktail maker.  This meant I used to add things to tomato juice.  With a dash of lemon juice, an olive or two, perhaps some Worcester sauce I was, essentially, making myself virgin marys.

One weekend afternoon there was some series of ingredients I had lined up on the counter when my father walked into the kitchen as I happily added a pinch of this and dash of that to my tumbler of tomato juice.  He watched me for a while and when I picked up the Tabasco sauce and shook it once, twice, three times he grabbed my hand before I did it again.  “That’s hot,” he warned.  I was indignant and added more anyway.  He just looked at me.   Then I went to fridge for the crown jewel in my achievement, or so I thought, a nice sweet gherkin.  The jar was empty.  I was distraught. Then I realized there was still plenty of sweet gherkin juice left in the jar.

I had an idea.

Taking the jar back to the counter I began to unscrew the lid.  My father saw what was transpiring and suggested something along the lines of “pickle juice in tomato juice with lots of Tabasco will taste very bad.  It might make you feel sick.”  Looking him square in the eye I added a healthy dash any way.  For good measure I then dribbled just a bit more into my glass.  Then I picked up a spoon, stirred my drink, raised my glass to my lips, took a very large mouthful and swallowed.

At first nothing happened.  Then my throat began to burn.  My tongue and lips burst into flame.  The sheer saltiness of the drink made my stomach hurt.  Then, as the more immediate effects of the hot sauce began to fade the sweet pickle juice made an appearance.  Combined with the all the other flavours in my mouth and the fact that some of my taste-buds had just suffered a death by fire it tasted like nothing other than the flavour left in your mouth after a particularly productive bout of vomiting.  I stood there, eyeing my glass and what was left of my drink in what I hoped was a nonchalant way and heard my father observe “some ingredients don’t go with others even if you like them.  Make sure you clean up.”  He left and I was able to pour the rest of my drink down the sink but not before trying to get my younger sister to imbibe.

Such memories aside I learned something even more important about food from both by grandmother and father.  It’s a lesson that others helped teach me and that has been reinforced many times over.  At it’s best food is about more than good flavours and nice ingredients.  The best meals I’ve ever had have all involved great dishes, but those same dishes haven’t been the stars of the show.  Instead they were a vital accompaniment to the main attraction like the orchestra at an opera, or the soundtrack to a film.

As humans we all have to eat.  There’s no getting around it.  What isn’t always the case is that the necessary occasion of eating becomes  an opportunity for social interaction and sharing.  Think about this the next time you walk past a McDonald’s or a Burger King and see people seated on the stools facing out the window to the the street chewing forlornly on their meal deals and I think you’ll get an idea of what I mean.  When we eat we are engaged in an unavoidable act that we all have to practice from time to time, an act that can be accomplished in utilitarian isolation or, if we’re lucky, in the company of friends or family providing a sense of respite and refuge.

I’ve thought about this a good deal and I’m not sure that I can explain why I believe that in the right circumstances a good meal can provide the space for a kind of conversation and mutual recognition that doesn’t happen say, over a few drinks, or a game of bridge.  It’s something I can sense more than something I can see or know.  Partly I think it has to do with pace.   To a greater degree, I think that it stems from the fact that we’re engaging in a basic, fundamental action that neither we, nor the other animals on our planet, can avoid.  When we eat some ancient part of us recognises that we are vulnerable, that we are lucky to have food in front of us.  Though it isn’t something that occurs to us at a conscious level, when we have good food, when we have enough of it and when we have someone or some group of people we care about to share it with, that same part of us fully relaxes.  It tells us that life is good, that we are lucky and that we should make the most of the meal and bonds we share in the time we have to share them.

I think that’s why I like to have good meals with the people I care about whether at home or out.  I’ve found that if I’m cooking for myself alone I have a hard time getting motivated to do much more than make a sandwich or bake a potato with some carrots.  I also think that it’s part of the reason I like to cook so much.  Sure the alchemy of turning a pile of unwashed, unprepared ingredients into an attractive meal is great.  At the same time, cooking also gives me the opportunity to spend just a little bit more time in that realm of subconscious reflection I’ve posited.  If I’m really lucky I might be able to help the people I’m feeding join me there when we all sit down together at the table.

It was a tough year to give thanks.

Grandmother had seen it in the depression,
but she learned a long while ago to stay out of it.
The teenage daughter wanted a Blackberry
and the mother used to like an Italian Prosecco
before Thanksgiving dinner,
but after being out of work for nine months,
worried the unemployment was going to run out
he took a job at ShopRite bagging -
and they gave him a free turkey for Thanksgiving -
that was the only way they made it.

When he was a young boy, his parents had little.
He was happy then with little.
They were happy then with little.
Gave thanks for the little they had.
He and his family now had much more
and would not be happy until they had much more yet.
These are hard times….

Ray Brown

Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Waxing Moon
Uranus Retrograde
Cloudy and mild

I’m headed up to Maine for the Big Dinner with 50+ people. It’s always wonderful — especially since the agreement is to keep conflict outside the door, and, for over 30 years, that’s the way it works.

It will be slightly bittersweet this year. My grandmother died a few days before Thanksgiving last year, and, while we missed her, she still felt very present, especially since her memorial service was the day after Thanksgiving. This year will be the year we realize she’s truly gone.

I’m feeling tired and run down from all the dealings with scumbag landlords and corrupt state agencies. Too many entities feel they are above the law. And they count on grinding down those who won’t just roll over and take it. I’m glad to have a few days to regroup and dig in again.

Migraine yesterday didn’t help, either.

In the category of Unbelievable Ignorance, I was tweeting about editing/revision/cutting with some people and mentioned how much I love to cut and edit and that “The Red Machete is my best friend” meaning I use a red pen when I edit and I cut a lot. I’m not unnaturally attached to words, I know nothing is ever wasted, etc. So what happens? In a matter of minutes, I get a slew of nasty emails and DMs from right wing nuts accusing me of all kinds of things because they think “Red Machete” has a political or religious connotation. Which, of course, it doesn’t — I did my research before starting to use the term. Don’t these people have lives? They’ve already proven they don’t have brains or hearts, but one would think they’d have more important things to do than troll the internet and attack people for imagined contexts.

It’s part of the deal if you’re going to be out in public, and, if you’re a writer, you have to spend a certain amount of time out where people can take shots at you. If you’re going to cave or threaten to pack up your toys and go home every time someone behaves like a dick, this is not the line of work that’ll make you happy. I have no problem with legitimate discussion of different points of view, but in our current Culture of the Screech, far too many people make judgements with nothing to back it up.

Let’s just say being offline for a few days will be good for both body and soul!

Ran errands. Baked Toll House Cookies. Made a shepherd’s pie big enough to feed 10 people. Cooked dinner for myself and another. We did all the dishes. At the time I had to post this, I still had to wrap presents and decide what the heck I’m wearing to The Dinner!

The shepherd’s pie tray doesn’t fit into the cooler, so I have to build a make-shift cooler to transport it and the cheesecakes. Oy!

When I get back, I need to go back to storage and get out all my other cookie sheets. I accumulated a lot of them over the years, especially the year I baked 30 cakes and 1200 cookies. I’m not going quite that far this year, but it will be . . .a lot.

I love using parchment paper to line the sheets, though. I prepped all the sheets with parchment, stacked them, then just filled them and slid them into the oven.

Considering I have a galley kitchen, it’s amazing how much I can get done!

Signing off until the weekend. Have a great holiday, everyone!

Devon

A very quick 6-year history (with the nitty-gritty likely to follow another time):

My father died suddenly 9 years ago and my mother, independent, yet struggling with severe arthritis, was living 2000 miles away from me in the snow-belt capital of the mid-west. I live in a very mild southwest desert climate and after 6 years of watching her slip-and-slide on the ice, struggling with an old two-story basement home and watching her make tiring 3-month long journeys to the desert every winter, I decided that she needed to move to Arizona. Specifically, near me.

Our two-story home would have been an accident-waiting-to-happen as far as my mother was concerned, so my husband (we’re since divorced) and I took out a new 30-year mortgage and built a ranch-style house with my mother in mind: A large bedroom with an attached bath, customized to her needs, as well as making sure she had a private den (which she never used). We customized the swimming pool steps (everyone has swimming pools here in the desert), attempting to make it easier for her – and even added a heated spa after she mentioned she’d like one. And to make it more like home for her, I bought a beautiful Thomasville hutch to showcase her treasures (she gave her old dining room furniture and two hutches, and a piano, to my nephew, Rick).

But fast-forward to the present …

After a year on Facebook and seeing my sister and her 30-year old son, Rick, post picture-after-picture, month-after-month of their family’s events – my sister’s birthday, Rick’s children’s birthdays, Halloween photos, family Christmas gatherings and so on, I was deeply hurt – and hurting for my mother, that my sister and her son seemed to feel it was an imposition and inconvenience to pick up my mother and let her enjoy these events with her daughter, grandson and great-grandchild. So, in a typical PMS moment, I sent Rick the following letter:

“…I’m astonished and so disappointed at all the “family” times and joyous occasions you have – that your only surviving Grandmother is never invited – never has the joy of experiencing…

… is it too much to expect – too much trouble – to have YOUR Grandmother at the children’s birthday parties? Visiting at Halloween to see the children in their costumes? And the list goes goes on and on.

I just can not believe all the times your Grandmother has been excluded – by both you and your mother – when it comes to your children. Her Great-Grandchildren. I am disgusted to think that it’s too much of a burden for you, and saddened that you don’t realize how much your grandmother loves you and your children, and would do anything in the world for you…

I could go on-and-on, but what’s the point. I can only hope that one day – before it’s too late – you’ll open your eyes and see what you’re missing. And what your own children are missing.”

The reply?

My nephew replied directly to my mother, saying in part: “ … my relationship was strained with my aunt when I, along with other family members, felt that she stole your life saving and personal belongings so she could get her big house…”

Do you want to talk about tears?

It was more like a monsoon that lasted several days.

Years ago, as I was planning for my Mother’s move, friends and business associates warned me that this would happen. It’s just so ironic that the one who risks the time, the money and possibly even one’s heath and marriage, never gets even a simply thank you from their siblings. Only blame and criticism.

Betty’s Daughter

November 24, 2009

When I was a kid and the Lunar New Year rolled round the corner, I went home from school every day knowing that the smell of fresh pineapple tarts baking would greet me once I walked through the door.

My grandma – whom I call Mama – would have Milo tins filled with the tarts as she baked them, never managing to fill them to the brim because our naughty fingers would push these babies into our mouths as soon as they came out of the oven.

Even now that I’m grown and living 30,000 miles from home,
Mama never forgets how much I love these.
My jetsetting father makes the delivery.

One of my favourite pictures. Ever.

So beautiful.

This is what love is.

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