Loaves and Fishes

In my house the freezer is prime real estate.   During my husband’s illness we moved from a townhouse style home to a one-floor condo.  Its spacious and well-designed floor plan captured my heart.  But there was no room for the small chest freezer that had been the mainstay of my kitchen creations for years.  I would make a batch of this or a pot of that and freeze our future meals and nest them safe and sound in our basement.  I actually made my own broths and kept them at the ready for future culinary sessions.

And so, since the big move, the bottom freezer in the new GE Profile unit has been a challenge.  I may have developed a complicated relationship with this freezer.  It’s become both a game – a large 3D puzzle- and a source of great irritation-  a ‘freezer volcano.’  It would erupt with various items whenever I was looking for something.  I would dig through layers of cartons and packages looking for broccoli.  Inevitably I would give up and eat the spinach I found.  Oh look, I knew I had blueberries in here.  Then I had to take a few minutes to fit everything back into the giant drawer at the bottom.   I confess to at times making food choices based upon the desire to not hunt in the freezer.

The months after my husband died my sister-in-law brought over endless bags of small containers of frozen meals for me.  What a Godsend!  Otherwise, I would have spent those early months eating cereal or toast for dinner each night.  We would joke as I would try to wedge them into the freezer.  I literally would say “okay, Jesus.  It’s loaves and fishes in reverse.  I need you to make room for this in the freezer.”  As the months went on, this kept working.  It really was quite miraculous.  Whenever someone visited, or I went shopping, I would end up saying – how am I going to get this into the already full freezer?  Then I would say ‘loaves and fishes, my Jesus’.  And it fit.  I began imagining a ‘build-out’ of my freezer located in heaven where it was all being stored.  

Then as the year continued to unfold, after those lovely ‘meals on wheels’ from my sister-in-law had all been eaten, I went through the inevitable ‘microwave a Lean Cuisine’ phase of widowhood.  The shape of the freezer made that difficult and the space wasn’t being used well.  Then there would be the bread or rolls I’d purchase that were too many in a package for me to eat.  The bits and pieces like turkey hot dogs leftover from that holiday weekend or that extra sliced baked chicken breast.  So I would toss them in the freezer.  Sigh.  It was always full.  Never any room to buy things I would spy on a good sale.

My sister gave me some great tips and I recently dug in.  I’ve been eating out of my freezer pantry for a few weeks. 

I now have organized it by containing the smaller bags of fruits and veggies into little plastic bins in a top drawer.  

I have a shelf reserved for proteins – meat and fish.  And I’m proud to say that when I recently saw a spiral ham on special for about $7 [instead of $28] I grabbed it.   I took the time to slice and dice the ham into baggies and placed those into a sealed container on my protein shelf.  I had the room!!  Let the freezer games begin.

The bottom ‘pit’ now has two plastic bins so I can at least remove one and search it if need be.  But the real goal is to eventually have space to store a few home-cooked meals.  With the bins I could store soups, stews, casseroles in plastic bags and lay them into the bin to save space as my sister suggested.  Or use the cute new Ball freezer jars a dear cousin recommended. 

Of course, the other problem is that any time you make a pot of something it is about ten to twelve servings.  I learned to cook by watching my Mom and Gram in the kitchen.  It was family meals – not a meal for a widow.  I’ll have to learn to cut the recipe in half.  Then freeze half.  It’s a system that may work.  And if not – ‘loaves and fishes, my Jesus.  Loaves and fishes.’

Highway Hazards

Construction boys are highway hazards.  Or to be more precise the haphazard way they toss their gear into the back of pickups and drive away.  They pull onto highways at high speeds.  And sometimes things fall out of those trucks.   Especially if I happen to be on the highway behind them.  What I am about to share are a few tales from my driving past.   They range from laugh aloud funny to scary to infuriating.   These tales give a sample of the interesting things that happen on our highways and byways when you’ve held a job that involves driving to various locations.

A classic example was in Dallas at rush hour in the mid-80s.  I was driving my little blue Pinto.  I know.  One rear-end collision and it would have been all over.  Fortunately that didn’t happen.  At least not in that car.  But I digress.  I was heading to work in the early morning on the expressway.  I was all dressed in my little suit and pumps with big hair.  The ‘80s in Dallas, okay?   That day my suit was a pale pink Evan Picone beauty that I just loved for spring.  With the coordinating pastel multi-colored blouse.  And the perfect shade of pale pink pumps I had just found to go with.   It was a great hair day too.  The usual morning routine of hot rollers in while layering make-up on was very effective.  After slipping on the suit I would take out the rollers and run my fingers through hair to fluff out the curls and hit it with tons of hair spray.  If you forgot to hold your breath you would be choking at that point.  Not kidding. 

So there I was in my little Pinto listening to some pop song on the radio and driving along.  Traffic wasn’t that bad and I was cruising.  Cars all around me but we were moving.  And suddenly there it was in front of me.  A large white caulking compound bucket rolling along the highway.  There was no way to brake or switch lanes.  I kept my car straight and prayed it would roll beside my car instead of under.  And it did but unfortunately it rolled back and I caught it with my back left tire.  And that wheel stopped rolling.  So I had to cross two lanes of traffic to get to the brake down lane.  Dragging the tire the whole way.  And there I was in my little pale pink suit- oh so girly.  Starring at this empty caulking bucket wedged in my tire well. 

My first maneuver was to put my hands on the side of the trunk and jump on it with both feet.  Of course pink pumps may have slippery soles.  So as my feet slid off with some force I was thankful to hang onto the trunk with my hands.  Whew!  I narrowly avoided sprawling onto the highway.  Then I tried pushing the bucket off with my hands.   I broke a few nails on that maneuver and the ‘glow’ I was generating in the warmth of a Texas spring morning was impacting my makeup.  And frizzing my hair.  Next up I tried kicking and pushing on the bucket with just one foot.  Ahhh!  Sweet victory!  It finally came off and I was on my way.   A little rumpled and weather worn but the suit still looked fairly good.  And at least my fellow commuters got a free show.

Flash forward about twenty years.  I’m heading home from work on a Friday afternoon.  I’m on the highway known as Rt 128 just south of Boston.  And in front of me I see a contractor’s pickup crossing lanes towards me.  A very large painting ladder is leaning in the truck and bouncing around.  I watch in horror as the ladder jumps out of that truck and lands standing up in the highway.  Then it flips a few times end to end.  At this point I had already hit the flashers and slammed on my brakes.  I was able to cross over to the brake down lane and just stopped.  Because the ladder had finally landed flat onto the surface of the highway and it was snaking around at a rapid pace.  Finally it stopped moving.  It was fairly close to my CRV.  What are the odds that the ladder moved in tandem with me?  Yet it did.  My hands were shaking as I slowly pulled my car out and drove around the ladder.   Such a relief to get home and share the tale with my husband.  He told me the young man in the truck was probably more focused on getting to the bar to meet his buddies.

There are many other car stories I could share.   Let me ask - how many times have you been stopped at a stop sign at the end of a highway exit ramp or at an intersection and been rear-ended?  Try four times.  Granted it was due to slippery roads twice but you get the picture.   A third time a construction geezer in an uninsured battered pick-up claimed his brakes failed after the police arrived.   When in reality he had initially asked me why I stopped instead of yielding on the off ramp.  Hmmm, because it’s a stop sign?

I can feel my guardian angel cringe every time I pull out onto a highway.   
And neither of us enjoys visiting Home Depot.  Construction boys are highway hazards.  

To Uke or Not to Uke

I’ve been trying new things lately.  I signed up for a water walking class but learned that rushing to a pool based class in the middle of a workday is not my favorite thing.  Schlepping all the wet gear out into the cold while rushing back to work is not relaxing.  Neither was being the only woman younger than 70.  I don’t need to hear how much joint pain I’ll endure about twenty years from now.  Shudder. 

Then I heard about ukulele lessons.  My neighbor started a group in my condo building.  It sounded like fun and I signed up.  Then I had second thoughts.  Was I ready to try something so outside my comfort zone?  I decided it couldn’t hurt to give it a go. 

I had a couple lessons and then joined in on the ‘jam sessions.’  I learned about frets and chords and strumming.  I progressed from Three Blind Mice and Row, Row Your Boat to new songs such as My Darling Clementine.  I faithfully practiced everyday.   I was starting to feel very musical.  Although if you’ve ever heard me sing you would know that I can’t carry a tune.  In fact that could be problematic for a uke player.  It’s not like when I took piano lessons in high school.  On a piano you are playing the whole song.  On a uke it’s just the chords and you’re suppose to sing along.  But I was excited to try this new venture. 

As the days of practice went on I realized it was aggravating an old hand injury.  I rested it and tried again on another day.  Same thing.  Sigh.  Since I need to be able to use a laptop for my day job I had to admit defeat.    It seems I am not meant to uke after all.   At least I have the memories of trying something new and getting to know a few of my neighbors. 

Sippin’ Cocoa

I heard we might have warmer weather by the end of this week.  It may get into the 40’s.  I’m sitting at home sipping on a mug of cocoa enjoying a relaxing winter morning on a long weekend.  I figured it would be good to get in some cocoa time before the ‘warm-up’.  Wink.

I remember cold Maine winter afternoons coming home after school when I was a little girl.  We would get chilled to the bone after navigating our 300+ foot driveway once we left the school bus.  Brrrr!   Then we would have some chores – feeding and watering whatever critters my parents thought were a good idea that year or bringing in kindling or helping my brother bring in wood for our wood stove.   And once we were done my mom would have made a pan of hot cocoa.  Sometimes there would be little marshmallows.  There were days when she would have made a batch of cookies and we would have those with the cocoa.  It always made us feel so special that our mom made the homemade treats for us. 

This past Christmas my mom came to stay with me.  My first holiday without my husband.  It was a quiet visit.  We stayed at home and watched movies a lot.  And a couple afternoons I surprised my mom with a cup of cocoa.  Topped with whipped cream and a little drizzle of caramel and dark chocolate.   As I brought it into the living room to where she was sitting her eyes lit up.   I could see it made her feel pampered and loved.   And I in turn felt all warmed inside for having made the effort.   Sometimes there’s a lot of love to be found in sippin’ some cocoa together.

A Girl from the Village

Have you ever cozied up in front of the television with a cup of tea to watch a British period drama like ‘Jane Eyre’ or Miss Marple Mysteries?  Inevitably there is a scene where someone has hired cleaning help or needs extra cleaning help.  It’s always ‘we’ll send for a girl from the village.’  

Last year I joked with my mama that I needed to send to the village for a girl to help with the cleaning.   After decades of housework under my belt, it really isn’t my favorite task.  I’d much rather spend the time in the kitchen trying a new recipe or in the closets and cupboards getting everything organized. 

So this week I decided to treat myself and hired a cleaning service.  I worked away in my office one afternoon and listened to the young girls chatter in the other rooms.   Was I ever that young?   Thirty years ago- did I have that much energy?   And it brought back memories.

Because back in the day I was that girl from the village.   I started working as a hotel chambermaid summers in high school and actually did that work full-time a couple years in college to pay for tuition.  I’d layer all my college classes onto Tuesday and Thursday and work the other five days at the hotel.  But before all of that, back my senior year in high school – I was that girl they sent for to help out.  An elderly lady named Julia needed a nice high school girl to stay over on weekends and do light housework and cook for her. 

Julia was in her 80’s and liked things done a certain way.  She had a full-time nurse during the week and needed light coverage on weekends.  So I’d get off the school bus on Friday night at her house and my dad would pick me up late Sunday afternoon.  She would have me dust and do meal preparations.  I would tackle her laundry.  I remember ironing the sheets and towels.   I know that was the first time I saw someone put a plate atop a bowl to seal the contents rather than use plastic wrap.  I still do it today and it works great.  In between all this ‘girl from the village’ time I was able to get my homework done.  After all – there was no television allowed.  She liked listening to music.  And we’d have conversations.  She told me stories about her family.  And so my senior year this pattern continued until the spring when she took ill.  One week I was told the nurse had to stay for the weekend and then Julia was gone. 

In my sophomore year of college when I was living in Providence, Rhode Island, once again an inquiry came in for ‘a girl to help out’ an elderly lady.  So off I went a couple afternoons a week to do housework.  I can’t remember her name but she was very sweet.  But she had a very large collection of porcelain figurines to dust.  Shudder.  I did that in addition to two other part time jobs.  Such energy I had then.

And so I watched those two young women – the modern equivalent of girls from the village.  Life has come full circle.  Now I have the opportunity to provide work for someone just starting out in life.   May they too be blessed on their life journeys.   And as far as what it’s like to have ‘the girls from the village’ in to do your housework?   I think I could get used to this lady of the manor routine.   Is Downton Abbey on yet?

Chowdah Weather

As a New Englander, I think of one thing when I see the snow flakes start to fall- my grandmother’s chowders.  She loved chowders and when I was a little girl she would cook up a pot for our family quite frequently.   Clam chowder, fish chowder and then there was her corn chowder.   It wasn’t my favorite dinner as a child but as an adult I enjoy trying seafood chowders at different restaurants.  As the snow started to fall this afternoon I decided to make myself a bowl of seafood chowder for lunch.

Last fall I called my mom and asked her how she and her mother used to make chowders.  Turns out it is so easy to do.  I’ve made it a few times now and I think I’ve come up with a method that works for me.  I’ve taken Gram’s ideas and my mom’s and brother’s and created my chowder.

I finely diced an onion and sautéed in a large saucepan with olive oil and some butter.  Yes, real butter.  I cut back fat elsewhere.   I seasoned with a bit of sea salt, fresh pepper and a dash of Old Bay.  Gram would have added a bit of finely diced salt pork to the pot.  I tried adding some bacon one time but I didn’t like the taste – too strong.  So I skip that ingredient.

While onions hang out in pan I peeled and diced up 2 to 3 small potatoes.   I tossed them into pan and stirred around.   Next I added about a cup of water.  You want to cover the potatoes but the goal is to have the right amount of water later on-  you do not want too much at this point.  If necessary you could add more later.  Cover pot with lid.

When the potatoes were about halfway cooked I took a piece of frozen white fish and stuck it into the liquid.  I added about a cup each of frozen baby scallops and baby shrimp [peeled and prepped kind].   Cover pot and let that hang out until the white fish was thawed and cooked halfway through.   Then I added some fat-free half and half.   Pour and stir till it looks like the consistency you want.  Put cover back on and gently warm through and finish cooking fish.    Duly noted of course that Gram used cream.    I added a couple dashes of worcestershire sauce as my brother suggested.  Not too much – balanced flavors is the key.

In her chowders it was canned clams or fresh haddock pieces.  She used cream style corn for the corn chowders.  The basic process remains the same.   And naturally you should be topping your bowl of chowder with some oyster crackers. 

This chowder makes 3 good servings – with lots of fish in each bowl.  Nothing is worse than seafood chowder that is all potatoes in your bowl.  Which is why I finally learned how to make my own.  Enjoy!

That Easy Bake Oven

I was relaxing with a television program the other night.  Some sitcom that happened to be on.  Well, two of the characters were middle-aged women who found an old Easy Bake Oven and some mixes in a closet.  They began oohing and ahhing over the thrill of making a cake with a light bulb.  I burst out laughing.   There is a story running through my life about that old easy bake oven. 

When I was a little girl I desperately wanted one of those easy bake ovens.  The commercials made it seem so enticing.  But my parents held firm to their believe that if I wanted to make a cake I could learn how to use the oven in our kitchen.  Don’t get me wrong – I was hardly deprived.  I had MANY other toys.  But that Easy Bake Oven was the one that got away. 

So at age nine my grandmother took me into the kitchen and taught me how to make a cake from scratch.  I was a bit naïve as to what that meant.  It all seemed glamorous at the start.  Until I started beating the batter in that giant bowl for 800 – 1,000 strokes with a wooden spoon.  Just when it became apparent that my little arm may actually fall off my Gram took over the beating process.  But after it was mixed she quickly gave full control back over to me.

It’s funny that I remember spending that time in the kitchen with my grandmother.  I remember how we greased the pans with Crisco, lined the pan with cut out circles of wax paper and finally tapped flour all around inside.   I remember learning how to scrape the batter out with a rubber spatula so none was wasted.  And later scooping up leftover icing from the bowl with our fingers.  But I can’t recall what the finished cake looked like.  Nor serving it to the family or what it tasted like.  It was all about the process and spending time with my Gram.

Many years later my brother-in-law and sister found an Easy Bake Oven at a yard sale and gift-wrapped it at Christmas time as a little joke gift.  When I opened it my inner child was initially excited and asked if it really worked?  Alas, no.  Just a joke.  Hmmm   then it’s less exciting.   A few years after that my sister decided that my niece was old enough for an Easy Bake Oven.   I was so excited to purchase one and make a pan of brownies with her one Christmas.  But they had changed the toy by that point and I didn’t feel it worked as well as ‘the one that got away.’

Then last year, after my husband died, I was making toast one morning and the toaster just stopped working.  Seriously?  Now I’ve got to buy a new one.   I had fond memories of my husband and I picking out that toaster.  It was one of the first things we bought together to use up at our getaway cottage.  It was one of the first things we packed to bring to our new home when we sold the cottage.   After some research I replaced it with a small toaster oven.  As the months went on I found myself using that toaster oven all the time.  I rarely turned on the brand new gas oven across the room.   The little pans were the perfect size for meals for one. 

One day I realized that I had my easy bake oven after all.  It just took a few extra decades to arrive.   I think that God usually provides the things we want.  It just may not be when or how we expected them.   And in the meantime, while waiting, I had some really special moments all surrounding that easy bake oven or the lack thereof.   Moments I wouldn’t trade.  I think perhaps that oven arrived at the perfect time. 

Tortoise or Hare?

I used to love the fable of the tortoise and the hare when I was a child.   The idea of that little tortoise just plodding along at a measured pace.  And that boastful hare just darting around and using up all of its energy resources and ending up behind.

Over the years my husband and I used to joke that we were definitely tortoise people.   We loved to pull into our shell and cozy up at home in times of stress.  We would chuckle at all the ‘hares’ running around using their financial and energy resources for today’s moments with no regard for the challenges of tomorrow. 

And now as a widow I am definitely more of a tortoise.  I pulled myself into that shell and allowed myself to grieve.  Allowed myself to begin to heal.   I came out upon occasion and when the pain levels grew to be too much I would ‘shell up’ again. 

Recently I feel myself poking out of my shell and looking around with curiosity.  What have I been missing?  Lately it’s just been a view of lots of snow.  Brrrr!   But spring is coming.   And I am rested up.   You’ll see me out and about at a reasonable measured pace.   No need to get ahead of myself.   I’ll let those hares dart about me.   If I keep plodding along I’ll get to that finish line just fine. 

River of Joy

The other day I saw a beautiful sunrise.  A special winter one full of soft muted color.  It reminded me of the conversation I had with my cousin the morning after my husband passed away.  It was early morning and we were watching the sunrise from the dining room window.   I remember how beautiful the colors were.  Much like this past week.   It's amazing how our memories are connected to our senses.

She kindly told me her theory about the river of joy running throughout life.   This river is running parallel to us all our lives.  Even in the midst of great sorrow or anger we can choose to tap into that river of joy.  It's there for us whenever we want to reach for it.

And I have clung to those words this past year.  How comforting to reach for a river of joy when all else is lost.  If even for a mere moment.   We can pass back and forth between tears and laughter if we only just allow the fluidity of our thoughts and emotions to be as they are.   It means we can't edit ourselves as we so often do.

I wonder today if this river of joy is not connected to our souls.  The lifeline for our eternal selves.   A way for us to experience life today as transcendental beings.   A mere hint of what is yet to come.

Reverse: Not My Strong Suit

I pulled my small SUV into my assigned garage parking space and carefully lined up the car so I centered the car in the spot.   As the past year has taught me it makes the reversing out of the parking space so much easier.  The interesting thing is that the more experience I’ve gained maneuvering my car between the neighbor’s SUV and the wall and large support post is that reversing the car is less intimidating.   I don’t think about it anymore.  Not like the early days after the move when Robert taught me how to pull in and out with ease.  I joked with him that the spot was so difficult for me that the second time I hit something I was getting a smaller vehicle.  After all, reverse had never been my strong suit.

I began wondering if my not liking to reverse has been limited to the world of driving?  I don’t like to read the same book twice.  Not even a book that I truly treasured as a favorite.   I don’t see the point in traveling to the same distant vacation destination more than once – haven’t you already seen everything?  There are so many new places to visit.  On a menu I am always scanning the choices looking for something new to try.   Perhaps I have a natural ability to be forward focused? 

But is being perpetually forward focused necessarily a good thing?  In its own way it may be as limiting as dwelling on the past.  You could get lost in the endless possibilities of ‘what’s next?’  The older I am the more I understand that more choices do not lead to happiness.  I can’t help but believe that being fully present in the current moment is an even better state of mind.

It brings to mind a scene from the movie ‘Star Trek: Insurrection’ in which Captain Picard learns how to capture and slow down the perfect moment.   It is something that practitioners of meditation know well.   Now, how to continuously achieve that coveted state is something to ponder.   It sounds a bit lofty, this new goal.   It may take a while to get there.   No better time to start than right now.     This very moment. 

The Mask You Wear

I ran an errand on the way home from church today.   I wanted to organize the contents of my freezer  into plastic bins of some sort.  My sister told me that you can't beat the plastic containers at Dollar Tree because so inexpensive that if it cracks you won't care.   I happily approached the register with my new little bins in hand.   They were stacked together by type of bin as I placed them on the counter.  The cashier sighed heavily.  I politely asked if she would like me to separate them and she said no.

 I asked how she was and she ignored me.  Hmmm, I thought.   I asked if she liked football at all or if she was looking forward to the game.  She said she was cheering for Denver Broncos in the Superbowl because they had beat the Patriots.  I gently teased her 'hey, them's fighting words here in New England'.   Her response was a bit hostile 'I don't care.  I hate the Patriots'.  I just nodded my head and was wondering if I would ever shop at this store again.

But something made me look at her necklace.  And then I was prompted to look again.  She had a cross on a chain hanging in front of a ring.   So,  I told her that I really liked her cross.  She looked up startled and said 'WHAT?'   I gently repeated myself.  She got all teary eyed and told me it was her mother's and so was the ring.  She had recently lost her mom.  I told her that was such a wonderful thing to do keeping them close to her heart.  She thanked me for noticing them and for telling her.  I told her I'd lost my husband last year.  She lost her mom's brother just two weeks ago.  She questioned why all the folks carrying guns into schools and malls are allowed to live but good people are taken early.  I just nodded my head.  We exchanged a glance of understanding.  She smiled at me and wished me a good day.  I saw a different woman when she did.  I saw her true self.  I realized that all that anger was her mask.  A mask over the pain still so close to the surface.

On the drive home I felt gratitude that I'd been persistent.  This interaction probably took all of two minutes.   The homily today had been on the presentation of Jesus at the temple for a blessing and how each of us has the ability to bless others every day.  Perhaps I did that today.  I know that those few moments with that woman blessed me.  It led me to question what masks we all wear.

I recalled a book group meeting a couple months back.  The book we discussed was "The Art of Hearing Heartbeats."  One of the characters had chosen a difficult life path by marrying a man who admittedly did not love her.   She spent decades trying to change his feelings and ended up an angry and bitter person.  One woman in the book group expressed the view that that character had a right to be bitter.  I expressed the view that the character choose to be bitter.  If she had been more accepting and forgiving perhaps she could have been happier.  I said that I thought you could choose to be joyful even when enduring sorrowful events.  In subsequent discussion the woman in the book group shared that she was in the midst of caring for a very ill husband.  I came to suspect that she was projecting her own feelings onto the character.  She was developing a mask of anger.

And so I challenge you:  what mask will you wear?  As life unfolds and the decades begin to accumulate:  will it be a mask of anger?  or a mask of contentment?