Eggsa Tradition

Easter is such a glorious time of the year, isn’t it?  And the liturgical weeks following the big day allow us to continue the celebration albeit with a continued focus on the cross and what it ultimately means for Christians.

So I was excited to spend the holiday weekend with my family ‘up Maine.’   On Easter morning, after church, my mom and I made a batch of deviled eggs.  It’s the tradition every year to have them.  Many Easters I made them for myself when celebrating with my husband.   So we make a batch and start looking for THE egg plate.  The one that my mom remembers her mama using when she was a little girl.   We search everywhere. When it becomes apparent that this plate is truly missing, both of us search harder.  With increasing anxiety.  I run to my sister’s home next door to see if it was left there from last year.  But no.   We question each other as to where it could have been.  Was it given to another family member? No she insists.    Definitely not at my house I tell her.  The only conclusion reached is that when my mother was jettisoning some excess clutter a few years ago it must have accidentally been set atop a giveaway box when she cleaned off a shelf.  Noooooo!

And slowly we begin to mourn its loss.  I had never bought an egg plate for myself all these years.  I just assumed one day my mom would tire of hers and pass it onto me.  She never did.  She loved that plate and the memories of all those Easters.  It was unique because it was the size of a dinner plate but had spaces for a full dozen eggs or 24 deviled eggs.  In the center was a delicate painted arrangement of small pink roses.  So me.  So her.  So my grandmother.    And so unique I never saw another that tempted me its acquisition. 

Far be it from us to spoil Easter dinner with the family over a lost plate.  We muster our spirits of gratitude and head next door to my sister’s.  She has an old egg coloring plate that we use.   Mom and I share a look as we reach for a deviled egg each.  So not the same and we sigh.   We two may actually be the only ones in the family who love deviled eggs.  The only ones to mourn this latest loss.   Nothing unites two souls like shared grief.   As we know all too well.  By the end of the meal we are feeling better about it.  After all- what can be done now?

A week or two later I decide to do a search on eBay.  And, yes, indeed there are a couple of egg plates.  They only have the standard 12 slots for 6 eggs and the flowers in the center are mixed colors but each one does have a pink flower.  So both are ordered.  One for me and one for my mum.   

It may never be the same as my grandmother’s plate, but we can move forward and enjoy our deviled eggs again.   And these new plates will have a story to tell as well.  A story of mother and daughter united in a traditional plate of memory keeping.   A mother and daughter who have shared grief and then understood each other better for it. 

My Father’s Voice

When I was young, the voice in my head was my father’s.  You know what I mean – that voice telling you to handle this situation a bit differently.  Such as:  ‘make more than one trip’ as I walked by with arms over laden- ‘you’ll drop something or fall on the stairs’.  Or the driving comments- he taught me to drive, you see.  Such gems as ‘don’t follow so close’ or ‘yes, you have the right away but that guy wasn’t looking.  Would you rather be right? or dead?’  I admit that to this day, every time I take a huge armful of something and carry it anywhere, I think of my dad. 

My dad was an advice-filled man and as reluctant as I was to listen to him, inevitably he was right.  How annoying is that, right?  But I’m showing you my stubborn side now.  Later in life my dad found it highly amusing that I fell in love with another advice-filled man who was inevitably right.   Robert was known to exclaim ‘stop typing so fast- no wonder your hand hurts’ or ‘be careful with that knife- I don’t want to take you to the ER if you cut yourself’ or, my favorite, ‘why are you carrying all that laundry in one trip?  Put it down.  I’ll take it upstairs.’   See, I really do have a stubborn side.  And for the record, I never cut myself while slicing veggies other than a one-time very small nick.  But, now I hear his voice too, every time I pull out that paring knife and cutting board.  And I think – gosh, now I’d have to get myself to the ER.  I better be careful.  And I picture him in heaven, smiling at me. 

As you may have surmised, today is the anniversary of my father’s passing.  Thirteen years ago he died on the 13^th of March.  The date is not without some family significance.  My parents were married on a Friday the 13^th and nearly two years later I was born on a Friday the 13^th.  My dad always said that day was ‘our’ lucky day – him, mom and me.  In recent years I have begun to wonder how true that is, but I like to cling to my dad’s belief.   As he was nearing death, he lingered in a coma and passed just a few minutes past midnight on the 13^th.   Coincidence?  I think not.  

I remember that week- in the midst of my grief  - just knowing that I would spend the rest of my life and never again would the phone ring and be him.  If I was having a bad week, at random the phone would ring and I would hear Dad’s voice saying ‘I’ve been thinking about you.  Are you okay?’  Or back in the 80s when the Bell Phone system was in place and they had frequent commercials with people saying ‘I just called to say I love you.’  Well, you guessed it.  My dad used to do that too.   Or the times he would tell his funny stories- with some facts created out of the blue with such skill that you couldn’t tell truth from fiction.  Consequently, Dad rarely met a stranger he wouldn’t engage in conversation.

And his utter pride the time I wanted shelves made for this tiny kitchen cupboard and he made them for me remotely.  I measured and told him the numbers over the phone.   ‘Yes, I checked them twice’, I said.  Then he cut out the wedges to hold the shelves and predrilled the holes for the screws.  He carefully used his saw and finishing tools to make the shelves.  He tossed it all into a box and mailed them to me.   I called him when it was being successfully put into place.  He was so proud of himself that it worked.  He had included a mini-level in that box so I could get the shelves mounted properly and he told me how to use it.  I still have that tool in my toolbox.  It was one of the few that got moved to the condo.

He loved to laugh and spend time together as a family.  And when we couldn’t visit – well, he picked up that phone to check in on his kids.  And at the end of those phone calls, then he would say, ‘Well, Karen Marie, I’m out of words.  I love you.  Goodbye.’  Right back at you, Dad. 

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.

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!