Dream Car

I’ve never been a car person. I don’t know about makes and models. I go by color. And I really don’t pay much attention to that. The Petersons, next door, drive a white car. I think.

I know what I drive. It’s an Isuzu Trooper. It’s silver. I don’t know what year it is, but it’s getting up there. It’s starting to make a lot of sounds. Squeaks and rattles. Yesterday it whistled. Just for a moment, but it was clearly a whistle. I’m getting a little nervous.

As long as I have something reliable to drive that doesn’t look so bad that it attracts all kinds of attention, I’m good.

My husband, Kent, drives a little pick-up truck. It’s a greenish-gray color. I think it might also be made by Isuzu. Maybe Toyota. I noticed recently that it’s starting to look pretty shabby. Not much paint left on the hood. But it runs well and gets him where he needs to go.

We had a series of unreliable cars during the first few years of our marriage, cars that attracted all kinds of attention, but at least we weren’t in debt. When we were engaged, I borrowed Kent’s white Volkswagen Rabbit one day. It was old and I think it had bald tires. One of my neighbors was a little concerned and asked “Are you sure he loves you?”

We once owned an old V.W. bus (not my idea) that we attempted to drive across the country. We broke down in St. Elmo, Illinois. I can’t believe I just wrote that because I try really hard to block the memory. Bad experience. I’m scarred from it.

We had a car that had a whole list of things wrong with it. For a long time, it wouldn’t go in reverse, so we couldn’t park anywhere where we’d have to back up. The only door that opened from the outside was the driver’s door (and it was a four-door). It used to get a mystery puddle of water on the floor of the backseat. Never figured that one out. And for a while, whenever we turned a corner, the horn blared. This was a bit humiliating. As we’d drive through the neighborhood, people in their yards thought we were greeting them, and would wave to us with strange looks on their faces.

But we had almost arrived at that point. Our next car was brand new. I was so excited: a reliable car! Wrong. It must have been one of those that came off the assembly line on a Friday. Or is it a Monday? Whichever day tends to produce lemons. Sometimes it just wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t even try to turn over. Not a sound. We took it in to the dealership for repairs.

“There’s nothing wrong with this car. It started right up,” the guy told us.

“No,” I told him. “You don’t understand. It only does it when I’m across town with two small children and need to get home. Or when I come out of the grocery store with frozen foods and my husband is working in the city and can’t rescue me. Or when I’m late for a meeting.”

The guy just looked at me.

“Well, it started right up. Apparently there’s nothing wrong with it. I can’t help you.”

We fought with them over this for months. Finally someone figured out that it had a short of some kind and they fixed it. We never had another problem with it.

And since then, I’ve always had a reliable car to drive. For which I’ve been very grateful. I remember one day driving my son, Jeff, and a bunch of his friends somewhere. They were about nine or ten years old at the time. They were talking about their dream cars: Mustang convertibles, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Jaguars.

Parker Almeida asked me “Hey *Sister Gassman, what’s your dream car?”

“This is it!” I told him with enthusiasm, referring to my red mini van. It was a Plymouth Voyager.

It got so quiet in the back of that van that you could have heard a Hot Wheels drop in a roomful of Cub Scouts.

I loved that car. It didn’t break down on me and the tires weren’t bald. It worked in reverse. I had complete control over the horn. Everybody was driving one just like it. It had two built-in car seats. We drove it for a long time. I never noticed when other people started getting rid of theirs. One Sunday in the church parking lot, a neighbor waved me down and motioned to me to roll down my window. She approached the vehicle.

“Melinda,” she said to me in a businesslike way, “Kent needs to buy you a new car.”

She’s a real car person.

From that day on, I began to be a bit self-conscious about my red mini van. I mentioned to Kent that it might be time to think about getting a new car. He agreed. It was a sad day when we sold it. That’s when we got the Trooper. And now it’s getting kind of old. I’m afraid my neighbor is going to flag me down soon and tell me that it’s that time again. But I do consider myself very lucky. Not many people get to drive their dream car. I wonder what my next one will be.

*These were neighborhood kids who belong to our church. We use Brother and Sister like Mr. and Mrs. I’m thinking about starting a new blog called “Every Weird Thing You Wanted To Know About Mormons But Were Afraid To Ask Because Then The Missionaries Might Show Up At Your Door.”

Low Rider

Last week my son Jeff and I were in Walmart. Have you ever seen any of those People of Walmart slide shows posted on the Internet? Jef and I saw the live version. There was a young man in the men's department, bent over looking for the right size t-shirt on a low shelf. He should have been looking on a higher shelf, where they keep the large shirts, not down low where they keep the small shirts. Usually larger shirts mean longer shirts. This kid definitely needed a longer shirt. We could see half of his underwear. I nudged Jeff and gave a nod toward the show. Jeff immediately started walking faster to get away from me. I think he was afraid I was going to tell the kid to pull his pants up. Actually, I've seen worse. Fortunately, it seems like the trend to expose as much as you can get away with has waned over the past year or so. Evidently there are a few hold-outs to the fashion. This kid better be careful. He might find himself part of  the People of Walmart collection.
I wrote the following about two years ago after I had a close encounter of the very disturbing kind in the K-Mart parking lot.

“Guess what I saw today in the parking lot of K-Mart?” I asked my husband and our three teenage boys as we hung out in our family room last evening. “Or maybe I should say 'Guess what I almost saw?'”


“What?” one of them responded warily, while the rest just wore that look that says “Oh, no. Here she goes again.” They've learned to recognize a moralizing tale before I even get started.

“I was on my way out of K-Mart. I saw a young adult male, I'd say between eighteen and twenty years old, and what looked like his mother and a couple of younger siblings walking toward me in the parking lot. This young man had on a t-shirt that came down to about his bellybutton, and a pair of jeans belted around the tops of his thighs!”

They all stared at me.

“Really!” I insisted. “There was nothing between his navel and the tops of his legs but a pair of cotton knit boxer briefs! I could see the entire fly of his underwear! I could pretty much see his underwear in its entirety. I was so shocked, and so sure that I must be seeing it wrong, that after we passed each other, I turned around to get a view from 'behind'. I could see his complete backside, clad only in a piece of jersey knit.”

“Now, that is wrong,” my husband rejoined.

“You're sick, Mom,” one of the boys commented, then each one wandered off or busied himself with something. They'd obviously heard enough.

I'm still in shock. I mentioned it to some neighbors of mine, a teenage girl and her mother. They thought it was pretty bad, but they didn't seem as shocked as I had been. Obviously, they'd seen it all before.

“Yeah,” said the girl, “you wouldn't believe what you see at the high school.”

I've been seeing the top part of boys underwear above baggy pants for a long time. I've been seeing a lot of top halves of underwear above very low riding pants for a while now. But to wear a pair of pants belted around your thighs? Does that even technically qualify as wearing pants? And you should have seen how this kid moved. Using an odd gait that it must have taken a lot of practice to master, he managed to move himself along in basically a forward direction. And all this effort for what? To keep the pants in place so they wouldn't fall down and expose his legs?

What brand of modesty is this? If these young men really want to cripple themselves walking around with pants belted around their legs, that's their business, but they should have the decency to spare the rest of us, and wear shirts long enough to cover their bottoms.

And it's definitely time to rethink all those “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” signs.

I read an article by Jay Evensen in the Deseret Morning News a couple of weeks ago headlined Reining in a Sexualized Generation. He wrote about the Louisiana town of Delcambre, where the town council is considering prohibiting the showing of one's underwear in public. I remember reading this and being a bit skeptical. Hmm, I'd thought. As much as I agree that underwear should be worn underneath clothing, sometimes a strap here or a band there is accidentally exposed. I'd hate to see decent people get the book thrown at them on a technicality. But after the spectacle I witnessed in the K-Mart parking lot, I'd like to throw in my support. Maybe even move there.

It's a shame that city officials anywhere even have to think about issues like these. It's all about pushing boundaries, isn't it? If enough mothers, fathers, girlfriends, employers, shop keepers, restaurant owners, etc. would set their own immovable boundaries, maybe we could nip this thing in the butt---sorry, I mean in the bud.

Happy Birthday To Me - and Extreme Chocolate Cookies

You know how birthdays are really not a big deal once you’re grown up? Try spending your big day with a classroom full of third graders who all think you’re great; I just had the best birthday I can remember since I was a child!

I’ve been substitute teaching these children while their teacher has been out on maternity leave. They are really sweet kids. We’ve gotten to know each other quite well over these weeks. And they were so excited to celebrate my birthday! All day long handmade cards were delivered to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. One little girl even made me a bracelet by straightening out a jumbo paper clip and bending it into a curve. She fashioned a paper charm for it that said Happy Birthday. We talked about my birthday all day long. I think the subject came up every few minutes. By the end of the school day, I was starting to think that my birthday really is a big deal, just like it was when I was in third grade.

I took treats to share with the class. They loved them and they all want the recipe.

Extreme Chocolate Cookies

2 cups brown sugar

2 cups white sugar (granulated)

1 lb. real margarine or butter (I use Western Family brand Real Margarine)

5 extra large eggs

2 tsp. almond flavoring (1 tsp. if using real almond extract)

1 tsp. vanilla extract

Cream together above ingredients.

3 (12 oz.) packages milk chocolate chips

Mix chocolate chips into above mixture.

1 cup cocoa powder

6 ½ cups flour

2 tsp. baking soda

2 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. cinnamon

Combine dry ingredients. Add to creamed mixture, mixing well. Don’t burn out your mixer; you might have to finish mixing by hand. Scoop dough using an ice cream scoop. (I use one with a two inch diameter.) Pack well. Flatten dough slightly with hands. Put some granulated sugar in a bowl. Press formed cookie dough into granulated sugar to coat. Place on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 or 8 minutes. (Oven temperatures vary; do not over bake. If cookies crack, you're baking them too long. If you use a small scoop, bake for about 5 ½ to 6 minutes, but watch for cracking!) Remove cookie sheet to cooling rack.

This recipe makes 4 ½ to 5 dozen big cookies. Sometimes I form the cookies, freeze some of them on a cookie sheet without baking, then dump them into a Ziplock bag and freeze them for later. You can also bake them all and then freeze some. Or, just eat them all!

Avocado Milkshake - A Brazillian Specialty

How about a recipe from Brazil? In some parts of the country, they drink avocado shakes. It sounds a little weird, but as soon as you taste it, you'll forget you ever thought so.This is one of the most refreshing drinks I've ever had.

1 large avocado
1 1/2 cups milk
2 T sugar
juice of two small limes

Put all ingredients in blender and blend well.

The Foreign Language House

Do you remember the movie Breaking Away from back in the seventies? The main character was obsessed with the Italian cycling team and drove his father crazy speaking Italian around the house? We have a similar situation in our home. My husband, Kent, served an L.D.S. mission in Germany from 1980 to 1982. As is the case with most L.D.S. missionaries, he developed a love for the people he served and for their language. He’s still speaking it. Which is great - how many of us can speak a second language? He probably speaks it better now than when he lived in Germany all those years ago. But sometimes, usually when it’s early in the morning and we’re all getting ready for work and school, it can be a little… Well, Kent’s a real morning person, and the rest of us really aren’t. He’s quite chipper around the house in the morning, and chipper in a foreign language somehow comes across as extra chipper. And when he speaks German, he tends to shout it out:

“Guten Morgen, Meine Frau! Gut geschlafen?”
“Ach! Meine Kinder! Habt ihr gut geschlafen?”
“Was soll ich zum Frühstück essen?”

Fortunately, I speak some German and the kids have studied it at school. When they reached junior high they thought “Why not? We’ll probably have a head start.”

We also, of all odd things, have memorized quite a few hymns from the German version of the L.D.S. hymn book and we sing them during Family Night regularly (if you can call what we do singing). At church one recent Sunday, someone made a comment about occasionally singing a hymn in a foreign language. My son Jeff turned to me and whispered, “Sounds like us.” I whispered back, “No, we occasionally sing a hymn in English.” But only if the kids and I insist.

Two years ago, our oldest son, Kurt, received a call to serve a mission in Brazil. He was really excited. And so was his dad. Kent went right out and bought the Pimsler Language Course for Portuguese.

The next morning we got up for school and work.

“Bom dia! Como vai?”
“Você fala Portuguêse?”

And it was on to Portuguese. Kent was riding his bike to work most days. Ten miles there and ten miles back listening to Pimsler CDs through his ipod.

“Adeus, minha esposa!” he’d holler at me on his way out the door in the morning.

And “O restaurante fica na esquina!” he’d holler at me when he walked back in at the end of the day.

We’ve all picked up a few phrases over the past couple of years. And Kent can’t wait to try out his Portuguese on Kurt when he gets home in a few weeks. But in the meantime, Jeff has received his mission call. He’s going to (drum roll) Germany! He is very excited. And so is his Dad.

The morning after we got the big news, we all got up for work and school. Naturally Kent was the first one up and I could hear him in the shower, belting out the German National Anthem:

“Deutschland, Deutschland über alles
Über alles in der Welt!”

When Kurt found out where Jeff was going, he wrote the following in an e-mail:

Dude, Germany! That’s awesome! Dad must be off his hinges with joy. I bet he’s already trying to teach you German. He tried to teach me Portuguese and he didn’t even speak it.

Yes, it’s been back to German around here for the most part. Imagine how interesting it could get in a few years when we find out where Joel will serve?

German Cooking

Kent got me a special present for Christmas – a German cookbook. Oh great, many of you women may be thinking, a cookbook, just what every woman wants for Christmas. But the real gift is that, after twenty-five years of marriage, Kent is taking up cooking. I really don’t know if that was his intent when he bought me the cookbook, but that’s how I chose to interpret the gift. He’s gone along with it. So far he’s made potato pancakes and deep fried cauliflower. The potato pancakes were pretty good, but the cauliflower was fabulous. I know. Deep frying cauliflower kind of takes away from the whole idea of its being good for us. But I really don’t think it’s in the nature of cauliflower to absorb a whole lot of oil. It really didn’t seem too bad. Besides, I’ve heard that in the Netherlands they deep fry Milky Way bars. Makes this recipe seem okay.

Gebackener Blumenkohl

(Deep Fried Cauliflower)

from Culinaria Germany

1 head cauliflower

salt

3 eggs

white pepper

¼ tsp grated nutmeg

4 tbsp flour

½ cup white breadcrumbs

oil for deep frying

Rinse the cauliflower, trim, then divide into florets. Cook the florets in boiling, salted water for about ten minutes, until just tender. Strain the florets, refresh in cold water, and drain well. Beat the eggs with a little salt, white pepper, and the nutmeg. Toss the florets first in flour, then dip them in beaten eggs, and toss them in the breadcrumbs. Fry batches of cauliflower in hot oil and drain on paper towels.

A "Stupid Moment"

I was at the gym working out on a treadmill. There is a TV in front of every three or so pieces of equipment. On the screen in front of me was a talk show. The host was a middle-aged woman with red hair. I suppose she’s famous, but I don’t know who she is. She was interviewing Dolly Parton. I know who Dolly Parton is, but I wasn’t really interested in watching this. What I really wanted to watch was the Food Network. I had seen it at the gym a few days before and went home and made Thai peanut sauce and grilled chicken skewers from memory for dinner. It was delicious. Besides, the volume on this TV was really low and I could hardly hear what either Dolly or the Red Head were saying. The closed caption was on, but it was delayed. So I was hearing little bits of the red headed woman and Dolly (but mostly hearing the football game on a TV somewhere down the row which had its volume turned up really loud), and then reading what they said about thirty seconds later. Really annoying. I looked up at the controls on the television set and noticed that the buttons to change the channel were gone. Empty holes in their place. But there were volume buttons. If I had to watch the Dolly interview, at least I could turn the volume up enough to compete with the football game. The TV wasn’t too far in front of me, and just a little higher than the level I was on. I tried reaching right up there while treading on the mill and nearly wiped out. Not a great idea. I paused my workout, awkwardly leaned up between my machine and the one next to it, and managed to reach the up volume button. I pressed it a few times and resumed my workout. It still wasn’t loud enough. I paused my treadmill again and awkwardly reached up there again. Better. I could hear them pretty well now, but I was still compelled to read the delayed captions. And by now, the Dolly interview was pretty much over. The Red Head announced that next up was Valerie Bertinelli. I know who Valerie Bertinelli is. But I really wasn’t interested in watching this. What I really wanted to watch was the Food Network. I had to go home and make dinner and I wanted some fresh ideas. Instead, I was forced to watch the Red Head quiz Valerie about her recent weight loss and bikini photo shoot. By now, I knew more about Dolly, Valerie and the Red Head (except her name) than I ever wanted to know. And then came the “stupid moment.” It was now forty-eight minutes into my workout. Right there, no more than six inches from my left hand, in the cup holder of my treadmill, was the remote. But by now there was someone on the treadmill next to mine and she really looked interested in Valerie’s weight loss. I finished up my workout, transferred the remote to the woman’s cup holder, and left. Bean burritos for dinner.

Ruth's Salsa

My sister-in-law, Ruth, brought salsa to a recent family gathering. It was delicious, as is everything Ruth makes. She told me she had made it using bottled tomatoes from her garden. She chopped fresh peppers, onions, cilantro, and whatever else, added it to the jar, and shook. Voila. I don’t grow enough tomatoes to bottle any. We eat them all. But I tried Ruth’s idea using a large can of diced tomatoes I bought at the grocery store. I chopped up two different kinds of hot peppers, orange and yellow bell peppers, green onions and cilantro and put it all in a good-sized Pyrex bowl. I added the canned tomatoes, some fresh lime juice, and salt and pepper. I made sure to put the lid on nice and tight. Shake, shake, shake. Salsa. It was delicious. You get some of  that fresh salsa taste even though the tomatoes are canned. Since it’s virtually impossible to get good tomatoes in the winter, this seems like the way to go. We had it on breakfast burritos for New Year’s Day, and then ate the rest with tortilla chips during the afternoon football games. Yum. Thanks, Ruth!

Nativity by Brian Kershisnik

This is a little embarrassing to admit, but when I first walked around a corner in the B.Y.U. Museum of Art and found myself face to face with a myriad of the heavenly host, a mother nursing a minutes-old baby, and a rather grief-stricken-looking father, I didn't realize I was looking at a nativity painting. At least I didn't realize I was looking at a painting of the nativity. There was no identifying plaque on the wall next to the painting. I did, however, immediately recognize it as something very familiar and right away I felt a connection with this work. A legion of angels dressed in the familiar clothing of L.D.S. temple patrons was passing by to get a glimpse of what I saw as the newest of their earthly kin. I saw these angels as ancestors and possibly descendants of the small new family depicted at the bottom of the canvas. To me, it showed the close connection between the birthing experience and heaven. When I went up to the front desk to inquire and was told that the roughly seven foot by seventeen foot oil and acrylic expressionistic painting was Nativity by Brian Kershisnik, I felt a little foolish that I hadn't recognized the Holy Family right away. I returned to the painting and immediately noticed the stable-like setting, complete with a mother dog and her recent litter. Of course I had seen it before, but it simply hadn't clicked. And the traditional blue of Mary's dress. And the attitude of singing praises of those angels who were preparing to fly off one side of the canvas and out into the night. And the tears streaming down many of their faces. Okay, so now the painting meant even more.

I spent quite a bit of time in front of Nativity during two separate visits to the museum. It was interesting to me to see the reactions of people as they rounded a corner and came in contact with this enormous picture. Old people, young people, tiny children literally stopped in their tracks and paid considerable attention to this painting. Because it's so large? That probably has something to do with it. But I think it has more to do with Kershisnik's appealing style; he uses color, line, and texture in a way that makes me feel comfortable and somehow included in his work.

The painting's dominant line is the river of angels flowing basically in a horizontal current across the canvas, containing soft interior curves along the way. Another significant line is found where the “river” diverts up and over the stable's earthly occupants, leaving them enclosed (in the negative space) in a soft, rounded, cozy setting. Some other important lines are that of the fence cutting Joseph off from Mary, and the vertical forms of the stable occupants suggesting that, unlike the visitors passing through, they are staying put---earthbound for the time being. Even these lines have a soft, rounded quality, and it is Kershisnik's use of curving lines that creates the overall warmth that is so inviting.

The color scheme of Nativity is appealingly simple, using mainly contrasting browns and blues. The differing values of brown Kershisnik uses in the basic stable setting, Joseph's attire, the subjects' hair color, and the mother dog and her puppies remind us again that, unlike the heavenly host passing over, this place and these beings are of the earth. Mary, however, gets to wear blue. Blue has been Mary's signature color throughout the history of Christian art. Kershisnik uses the deep blue of the heavens (shown mainly in the top left corner of the canvas) and Mary's blue (in the lower right) to physically give balance to the painting. It also designates Mary as the chosen vessel of the Lord and lifts her to a more divine status; she belongs to the heavens as well as the earth. A lighter value of blue is reflected in the dress of one of the midwives to further balance and give interest to the work. Kershisnik repeats the brown values in the hair color of many of the angels. Not only does this serve to aesthetically balance the lower right stable setting with the rest of the painting, but it also reminds me of the angels' connection with the earth; perhaps it hasn't been long since some of them dwelt on earth as mortals. The balancing act is completed by the use of brilliant white in the robes of the angels. High-key is tempered by the low-key blues and browns, giving an overall sense of balance and unity to heaven and earth.

Texture plays a big part in what makes this picture so enjoyable to look at. Of course the medium itself lends texture to the canvas, especially in the stable; the artist builds up with oil paint a suggestion of straw on the dirt floor. But the more noticeable display is the implied textures in the wonderful array of fabrics that clothe the host of angels. Many common textile patterns are represented and we (especially L.D.S. temple patrons) feel a certain familiarity and sense of identity as we pick up on them. I had to smile when I saw a woman point out a specific angel and heard her say to her daughters, “Notice how the red-headed angel chose this swirly pattern for her dress.” Another texture is seen in the glossy, mosaic-like pattern that makes up the sky. It adds visual appeal and also reminds me of the mosaics of the Byzantine and Christian styles, and seems like an appropriate way to paint the heavens.

In addition to his use of line, color and texture to draw us into his work, Kershisnik masterfully depicts emotion through the faces of his subjects as well as through symbolism. While Mary and the midwives emote a sense of peace and an admiration for the newborn Christ, and the angels display various emotions on their faces, it is Joseph who stands out individually. The conflicting combination of relief and grief and despair clearly comes through. I can see what Joseph is feeling. He is physically separated from Mary by a section of fence. The placement of the fence symbolizes what I think all men must feel when their wives give birth; in spite of being present, Joseph cannot fully be a part of it. He has seen the pain and the endangerment to life and, as a man (the protector), he naturally feels like he should have been able to do something to help. He is also feeling the magnitude of being responsible for this special child, the Son of God. I think it was Joseph that originally threw me off about the content of this work; we don't usually see Joseph depicted the way we see him here. With one hand on his grief-stricken face, he reaches through the fence to attempt to comfort Mary. She places a hand on top of his and is actually the one doing the comforting. It is amazing to me that an artist can convey these emotions so clearly and so strongly. I can also read meanings on the faces of many of the angels, one of whom seems to be noticing me as the viewer and giving me a look that says “I hope you realize how important this is.”

Brian Kershisnik's Nativity expresses his vision of and his feelings about the birth of the Savior with real emotion. His amazing use of the elements of art results in a unique warmth, a welcoming spirit, and openly invites anyone who sees it to actually be a part of it. I, as the viewer, have had a phenomenal experience with this painting. I have felt an overwhelming sense of somehow belonging to this picture and feel like I now have a whole new and more meaningful perspective of the birth of the Savior.

Christmas Lights

We have one very selfish Christmas tradition that I just love. We put Christmas lights in our backyard. We have big windows across the back of our family room. That's where we spend most of our time. It's really nice to be able to look out and see strings of colored lights adorning our kids' fort and the pine tree right next to the house. In the front yard, we just do the simple New England thing - wreaths and candles in the windows. I think it's beautiful. The kids think it's boring. Kent is working on building a new shed in the backyard. Next year I'm going to decorate that as well. Maybe turn it into a gingerbread house. Some people collect those miniature Christmas villages and set them up around the tree. I'm thinking of creating a life-sized Christmas village in our backyard. Okay, maybe two-thirds scale. Some of those reindeer made of white lights that move their heads up and down like they're grazing, a big snowman that waves to us as we watch him through the window, a pond with skaters... Someday we'll have grandkids. Wouldn't they just love it? I think I'd better hit the post-Christmas sales.

Christmas Day in the Morning

So you get up early on Christmas morning, charge into the family room and rip open the presents. Then what? It’s all over. Our kids figured out when they were still quite young that it’s better to stretch out Christmas morning as long as you can. They developed a Christmas morning ritual. They force themselves to sleep in as late as the oldest two decide. This about killed our youngest son for several years. Then we all get up and go downstairs. The kids open their stockings while Mom videos and Dad takes pictures. They look under the tree to see more wrapped gifts than were there before they went to bed the night before. He came! But nobody can touch. Believe it or not, we all go and shower and get ready for the day. Then we gather for Christmas breakfast. When the breakfast mess is at least cleared away from the table, it’s finally time to open the presents. But we don’t just rip into them. We alternate each year, starting with either the youngest or the oldest (somehow the kids keep track of which year it is), and open the gifts one at a time. In this way, we manage to stretch things out until at least ten-thirty or eleven. It seems to make it all much more exciting.

This has been our family’s favorite Christmas breakfast for the past few years. It’s also great for the Fourth of July.

1 loaf French bread
3 eggs, beaten
1 ¼ cups milk
3 T sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup blueberries (frozen blueberries are fine)
½ cup flour
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 ½ tsp cinnamon
¼ cup butter
1 package frozen strawberries in syrup

Cut or tear the bread into small cubes. Arrange cubes in a buttered 9 x 13 baking dish. Combine eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla. Mix well and then pour over the bread. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. In the morning, sprinkle blueberries over the bread mixture. Combine the flour, brown sugar and cinnamon. Cut in butter with a pastry blender until crumbly. Sprinkle crumb topping over the blueberries. Bake at 350 for forty to fifty minutes. While it’s baking, thaw and heat the strawberries. To serve, cut in squares (big squares) and top with strawberries. We’re actually going to use raspberries this year, as one family member has discovered he’s allergic to strawberries. Maple syrup is also good.

Merry Christmas!

One Neti Pot For Sale - Cheap

I bought a sinus irrigation system a few days ago. I have some sinus issues so naturally I’ve been self-diagnosing on the Web. I read about these sinus rinse products that are available. So began my quest for pristine sinus passages.

I bought this device called a neti pot – a cross between a little personal-sized teapot and a genie’s magic lamp. Neti is an Indian word for nasal. Apparently, people in India have been irrigating their nasal passages for centuries as part of practicing Yoga. I tried Yoga once. It was painful. My neti pot instruction manual assured me that irrigating my sinuses would be a soothing and enjoyable practice.

The neti pot comes with little packets containing just the right amounts of sodium chloride and sodium bicarbonate. When mixed with eight ounces of filtered water, they produce the perfect saline solution, guaranteed not to cause stinging or burning sensations in the nasal passages. Well, that's a relief.

So the idea is to pour the saline solution out of the neti pot through the spout into one of your nostrils. The solution goes up and over and comes out the other nostril, flushing away all your sinus problems. The booklet gives helpful hints on the whole process: use lukewarm rather than hot, boiling, or cold water, perform the procedure over a sink, since a whole cup of water is about to pour out of your nose, and my favorite tip, and I quote “Do not hold your breath and, if possible, make the sound ‘KHA…KHA…’” I loved this part. For the rest of the day, as each family member came through the front door, I ran to get my little neti pot booklet. After a quick explanation of nasal irrigation, I’d show him this part.

“Mom, you’re a freak,” they each said, but they couldn’t suppress the grin.

“KHA…KHA…”

That evening, I was ready for my first treatment. I gently warmed some filtered water in the microwave, making sure there were no hot spots, and poured it into the neti pot. I added the contents of one packet and, with my thumb over the spout, shook to dissolve. I then carried the pot and the instruction booklet into the bathroom. I gave the pot a little rub for good luck and imagined a sinus genie rising up out of the spout and granting me three sinus-related wishes.

“Standing in front of a sink, bend forward to your comfort level and tilt your head to one side’” I read. Here goes, I thought.

I poured. Some of the solution did start coming out the other nostril, but the rest of it was suddenly filling up my mouth. I quickly tried to make the “KHA…KHA…” sound and nearly drowned in the attempt.

After recovering, I looked at the booklet again.

“It should not come into your mouth unless you are tilting your head backwards.”

Oops.

I tried it again, positioning my head more carefully, but I skipped the vocals. I’d decided that the KHA… KHA… must have some kind of mystical yoga benefit that was way beyond my experience.

This time it worked fine. I wouldn’t have called it soothing or enjoyable, but I was hopeful that all my sinus issues would soon be resolved.

Within a couple of hours, I had a terrible sinus headache. It lasted all night. And I must have washed away some brain cells, because the next day, after the headache had subsided, I irrigated my sinuses again. Well, it could have been a coincidence, right? It wasn’t. I was almost immediately struck with the worst sinus headache of my life.

My face hurt.

Ugh.

For two days.

And so ended my quest for pristine sinus passages. If I want to cure my symptoms, I’m going to have to do it some other way. Better keep searching the Web.

In-n-Out and Krispy Kreme

The recent In-n-Out Burger craze in Orem, Utah reminds me of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut craze that occurred just down the street about a decade ago. At that time, I wrote the following piece. I’ve been to In-n-Out Burger in California. The hamburgers and fries were just like the cheapest burger and fries I’ve ever had at any fast food place. At least Krispy Kreme brought back fond childhood memories.

Kind of long, but I hope you'll read it anyway!




“Crusty Crisps? Crispy Whats?” I intentionally get it wrong.

“Krispy Kremes!” my kids chant. “They’re the best doughnuts in the entire world!” they exclaim.

Sounds like a lot of hype to me.

“How do you know?” I ask. “You’ve never had one.”

Well, so and so, they assure me, had one while visiting cousins out of state, and he says it’s true.

“Maybe it’s kind of like The Emperor’s New Clothes,” I suggest. “People just want to be popular. They go along with the crowd so everyone will think they’re hip.”

“What’s hip?” they ask.

And so go our conversations, at least once a day during the week of the grand opening of the first Krispy Kreme doughnut store in our state, which happens to be in our town.

“Forget it,” I say. “No doughnut could possibly be so much better than any other doughnut that it would warrant standing in a line for three hours. Let alone camping out over night in a parking lot… And I have a new theory. After you stood in a line for three hours for a doughnut, would you admit that it wasn’t anything special?”

“What’s warrant?” my kids ask.

A couple of weeks go by, and one day I’m struck by one of those rare moods of generosity mothers like me get struck by about twice a year. I’m on an errand with my eleven-year-old, in the part of town where Krispy Kreme is located.

"Want to go to Krispy Kreme?” I ask. “The lines are probably normal by now,” I say naively.

“YES!” my son lets out. “YES!YES!YES! THANK YOU, MOM! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!”

Why don’t I try to be this nice more often, I wonder. Because if I did, I remind myself, I’d never get this kind of reaction. We turn the corner and my chin drops. Cars are parked on the street for 100 yards in both directions. The parking lot is completely full. The parking lots of neighboring businesses are completely full. The drive-thru line circles the building at least three times. We peer inside as we creep past. The line snakes around several times before heading out the door and down a flight of steps.

“NO WAY!” I holler. “Who are these people? Who would be STUPID enough to stand in line for that long for a DOUGHNUT?” I rant.

So much for my generous mood.

“Kurt,” I tell my son, “those people have got to be idiots.”

I tell him, “Sorry, Bud.”

We go to Einsteins and get a dozen bagels.

Several weeks go by. The kids bring home report cards, along with rumors that Krispy Kreme is giving out free doughnuts for every A.

“That’s crazy,” I tell them.

“No, Mom! The principal even said so on the announcements!” they insist.

The principal?

“Well,” I tell them, “put your report cards on the dashboard of the car. Sometime when I’m in the vicinity maybe I’ll stop in, if there’s no line.”

“What’s vicinity?” they ask.

I’m out doing some shopping one day soon, in the vicinity of Krispy Kreme. It’s about 10:30 a.m. A couple of months have gone by since the grand opening, and there are only a few cars in the parking lot. I park and go in. Only two other customers. I verify the free doughnut rumor, feeling a little silly as I ask. It’s true! One free doughnut for each A up to six per report card. I present four report cards and walk out with two dozen fresh, hot Krispy Kreme Original Glazed Doughnuts. I get in the car.

How can I resist? I’ve got to know what all the hype is about, and besides, if it weren’t for old Mom, making them do their homework and study for tests, there might not be free doughnuts, right? I lift one out of the box and take my first bite.

Have you heard it said that smell triggers memory? Well, taste does, too. Suddenly I’m a kid again, at the Kennedy Memorial Ice Skating Rink in Hyannis, Massachusetts, eating a honey glazed doughnut from the snack bar. We all ice skated when I was a kid. Not only at the Kennedy Rink, but on flooded cranberry bogs and neighborhood ponds. We all skated, whether we wanted to or not. I didn’t even really like ice skating, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of staying home. I didn’t like it because my feet always froze. We traded sizes around the neighborhood every year until everyone had a pair of skates that somewhat fit.  No matter how many pairs of socks I managed to cram on my feet under Sarah Carpenter’s hand-me-down skates, my toes would be numb after only a few times around. We all took lessons, too. I only made it through the beginners’ class. Every week I bawled all the way home in the car as my feet thawed out. My mother didn’t sign me up for the next level. I kept going skating though. I could skate forward and backward. I never got the hang of stopping; I’d just crash into the boards. Even my little brother would plod along on a pair of double runners. He was a wreck at sports. My parents had him convinced that Bobby Orr wore double runners. My sister got pretty good. She kept up the lessons. She could do all kinds of spins and jumps. She even danced the Mexican Hat Dance on skates one year at the annual ice show in a big sombrero and a bright colored poncho trimmed with orange ball fringe. I bawled through the whole performance, sitting in the stands with my parents. My feet were frozen.

We all skated at the Kennedy Memorial Ice Skating Rink, and we all bought the honey glazed doughnuts and the steaming hot chocolate at the snack bar. The hot chocolate was always too hot to drink (today they’d be sued), but we loved the doughnuts.

I pop the last bite in my mouth, lick each finger, and fasten my seatbelt. Wait till I tell the kids. Krispy Kreme doughnuts are nothing new to me. I’m certain they’re made from the same recipe as those doughnuts at the skating rink. I wonder if there’s a Krispy Kreme where my sister lives. I’ll tell her I don’t really know if these doughnuts are that much better than any other doughnuts. I’ll tell her I don’t know if the taste warrants standing in a long line for hours. But it might be worth it just for the memories.

A Christmas Carol

The Christian season of Advent starts tomorrow. Advent, or the four Sundays between Thanksgiving and Christmas, is celebrated in many ways by Christians in different cultures around the world. In some European countries, they use an Advent wreath. An Advent wreath usually consists of greenery and four candles, one for each of the Sundays. Each Sunday night the family gathers together, lights the appropriate number of candles, and sings carols or tells stories about Christmas. This time is often used to teach about the Second Coming of Christ as well as his birth over two thousand years ago.

In our family, we celebrate Advent a little differently. Each Sunday between Thanksgiving and Christmas, we gather together in front of the television and watch a different version of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, while eating popcorn and oranges and drinking hot chocolate. We watch them in a certain order every year. It’s part of the tradition. The first week, we watch a funny little Dutch animated version we have on VHS in which Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, looks just like a cartoon monkey. Then, right after it’s finished, we put on the George C. Scott version. We have to get an early start because we double up the first week. The second week, we watch The Muppet Christmas Carol, and then sing “We’re Marley and Marley” in our heads for days. The third week, we watch the Patrick Stewart version, but the kids insist we call it the Patrick Henry version for some strange reason. On the last Sunday before Christmas, we watch the musical, Scrooge, starring Albert Finney. Then we all sing “Thank You Very Much” and “Father Christmas” in our heads for days.

Some years we get tickets for the Hale Center Theater production and see it on December twenty-third also, the last night they perform it. They do a really good job. We should know; we’re kind of experts. We’ve been doing this since the kids were little. We pretty much have A Christmas Carol memorized. If we each took a couple of parts, I’m sure our family could manage to pull off our own production on the spot without too much difficulty.

So Advent starts tomorrow. I’d better check the popcorn and hot chocolate supply and go out and buy some oranges. Enjoy the season with your family in whatever way you choose, and if you want to borrow a movie, come on over! Merry Christmas to all, and, in the words of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone!”

How to Avoid Holiday Weight Gain in Just a Few Easy Steps (across the parking lot)

I’ve developed a new strategy for avoiding Holiday Weight Gain. (Notice the capitalization. Holiday Weight Gain is a proper noun – the name of an annual event that starts with that first bag of Halloween candy you buy that is supposedly going to be for the trick-or-treaters and ends with the “better finish off all these treats” marathon that takes place on New Year’s Day.) We’re all familiar with the more common strategies, like just taking one bite of something (impossible), loading up your plate with fresh veggies (gotta have the dip), or using a smaller plate (just doesn’t fool me). You can also refrain from putting eggnog in your cart every time you go down the dairy aisle at the grocery store. And when you do buy it, don’t hide a carton all for yourself in the back of the fridge. And during the holidays, when you eat chocolate chips out of the bag, take smaller handfuls. But these strategies all involve resisting temptation. You probably won’t be successful one hundred percent of the time. We all know that there are two parts involved in achieving or maintaining a healthy weight: eating less and exercising. My new strategy involves the exercising part. Here it is: Every time you shop, park as far away in the parking lot as you can. This shouldn’t be a problem. There are always plenty of spots out there. I know because I’ve been doing this since Halloween. And then run all the way to the store entrance. Or the Mall entrance. And then, when you’re done shopping, run all the way back to your car. (Which somehow always seems farther. I think it’s because the store is big and your car is comparatively small. Bigger things look closer…) Mini-workouts! You get an especially beneficial mini-workout when you push a cartful of groceries all the way out to your car. I did this at Walmart the day before Thanksgiving. You just can’t go home and eat everything you bought. You may be thinking “But I’ll look like an idiot!” Who cares? Think about how you’ll look by January if you don’t increase your activity now. Besides, people will just think you’re in a hurry. And you probably will be; you have to get to your car, and it’s way the heck out there!

A Cure for Hiccups - Read All About It!

A few days ago I witnessed a miracle right in my own home. A medical miracle. We had a group of college students over for Sunday dinner. After dinner, we sat around the family room, talking in small groups, reading from The Complete Far Side, looking at photo albums, and waiting for the dessert to finish cooking. ( Naturally, I’d forgotten to put it in the oven when I should have. ) Karyn, one of our guests, had a case of hiccups. She was sitting on the sofa by Nate.

(hiccup)

“Why don’t you go get a drink of water,” suggested a guy named Rob from across the room. (hiccup) “That usually seems to help.”

“It does?” I asked. “Has drinking water ever cured your hiccups?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. (hiccup) He looked annoyed. I think he just wanted to get her out of the room. I think he must be a lot like my mother.

My mother hates hiccups. I don’t think she’s ever had them, herself, but my sister seemed to get her share as well as our mother’s when we were kids. I can remember my mother getting really irritated, smacking my sister, and sending her out of the room until she got over them.

She didn’t smack her hard.

(hiccup)

Pretty soon everyone in the room was talking about hiccup cures. There’s the paper bag method. There’s scaring the person. Drinking a glass of water upside down (which I’ve yet to see anyone attempt). My husband once tickled the hiccups out of me. That was before we were married. If he tried it today, I’d probably slug him as hard as I could.

(hiccup)

Someone mentioned a young girl who was in the news. She’d had the hiccups for something like seven weeks. I told about my neighbor’s elderly father who recently had the hiccups for fourteen months. They finally took him to an acupuncturist. After working on him for forty minutes the hiccups stopped. For two weeks. Then they came back.

(hiccup)

“I’ve heard,” Nate said softly to me, rather hesitantly, while Karyn was listening to another conversation across the room, “that if someone offers them twenty dollars if they can hiccup one more time they usually go away.”

“You’re kidding,” I say. And without pause, “Hey Karyn, Nate will give you twenty dollars if you can hiccup one more time!”

Nate squirmed a bit. Didn’t say he would but didn’t say he wouldn’t either. There’s an obvious risk involved, and Nate’s just a poor college student. And I’m a cheapskate.

A gasp from Karyn.

“He will?” She turned to Nate. “You will?” She was pretty excited. She’s just a poor student, too.

“Yes,” I insisted. “One more hiccup, and he’ll give you twenty dollars.”

She got all excited. The room was silent. We all waited.

And waited.

She couldn’t do it.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Karyn was disappointed. (I wonder how long a poor student would be willing to have hiccups for twenty dollars.) Nate was relieved. I was thrilled.

I can’t wait to try this on someone. Maybe one of my kids. I wonder if it would work if you offered a smaller sum. Like maybe five bucks. Twenty is a bit risky. It probably depends on the individual with the hiccups. I bet my husband could be cured with an offer of as little as two-fifty. He’s a bigger cheapskate than I am.

I’d better tell my neighbor about this. They’re probably shelling out a lot more than twenty dollars for the acupuncturist. And someone should try to contact the young girl who was on the news. And while we’re at it, maybe someone should submit this to the New England Journal of Medicine.

And I’d better tell my mother about this. I think my sister is planning to visit her soon.

We Need A Little Christmas - Or Do We?

So when is it okay to start listening to Christmas music? When I was a kid, we had a hard fast rule at our house: No Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. On that Friday, we’d get out the Christmas albums. Our stereo system had a record player that let us stack up five records at a time. One by one, they would drop and play. I can still hear the sound of the needle in the groove of a record as it rotated on the turntable: that rhythmic circular-sounding swoosh in between songs, and even during songs if you were sitting close enough. After I was married and had a family, my father recorded some of our Christmas albums for me on a cassette tape. You could hear that record player sound on the tape. Very nostalgic. Now, of course, we no longer have the means to play a cassette tape or a record.

The Christmas music rule was my mother’s idea, and she was backed up by my sister. I would have listened to Christmas music year round. I sang Christmas carols year round. I drove my sister crazy.

My son, Jeff, is the same way. He loves Christmas music. One year, he found a radio station that started playing “All Christmas music, all the time” the day after Labor Day. He listened to it in the car, while doing his homework, in his bed at night before going to sleep, and he’d set his alarm to wake up to it. He must have been the only one listening though, because it mysteriously went off the air by mid-October.

Jeff took piano lessons for years. He loved it when fall came because that’s when the teacher would start him on Christmas music. He quit piano lessons a few years ago when he got really busy in high school. Now he only touches the piano between September and December. And he only plays Christmas songs. Really. That’s it.

Jeff’s been checking the radio stations every day since Halloween.

Once they begin playing Christmas music on the radio, I admit that I listen, even if it’s still pretty early on, but I don’t always like what I hear. Unfortunately, what they play on the radio is often pretty cheesy stuff. For instance, there’s The Christmas Shoes by a group called (of all confusing things) New Song. Uggghh. There’s another one that refers to Jesus as a homeless person. It’s pretty bad. We always quickly change the station as soon as we can “name that tune.” There’s one called Santa Mouse that they play once in a while that is so ridiculous that we actually listen to it. There’s a version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer that my daughter and I laugh and laugh about. “Rudolph mit your nose so bright, von’t you guide mein sleigh tonight?” Only the guy sings it with an Irish accent. It’s hilarious.

I’m a real traditionalist. Give me the old crooners like Bing Crosby and Perry Como. Karen Carpenter? Yes. And let’s stick to real Christmas songs that have been around for decades. All of the Christmas carols of course, and things like I’ll be Home for Christmas, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Jingle Bells, and Sleigh Ride are all great. I don’t care for most of the pop artist Christmas recordings, like “Last Christmas I gave you my heart. The very next day you gave it away.” Please. That is not a Christmas song. It’s a pop love song that takes place at Christmas time. If pop artists want to record themselves singing real Christmas songs and they don’t mess with them too much, that’s okay. For example, I absolutely love Bruce Springsteen and his E Street Band doing Santa Claus is Coming to Town. That’s a classic.

Yesterday afternoon Jeff was out running an errand in the car. My cell phone rang. I answered it and immediately heard the silky smooth tones of Andy Williams singing Silver Bells. It’s started.

Tis the season! According to some people, anyway.

A Posthumous Letter To Madeleine l'Engle

October 30, 2009

Dear Ms. L’Engle,

I was so sorry to hear about your passing a couple of years ago. I’ve enjoyed your books for decades. I loved Two-Part Invention: The Story of a Marriage, about your forty years with the actor Hugh Franklin. Through reading it, I felt I came to know you as a real person, and not just as the seemingly ethereal author of some books I like. I meant to write you a letter a few years ago, while you were still with us, but I put it off, as we tend to do sometimes with our good intentions. I wanted to share something with you that I thought you might enjoy.

When I had children, I couldn’t wait to introduce them to your books. One of my sons began to consume books at a very early age. He was driven by a hunger for information, excitement, and a good story. Your books provided all of these. Because his interest in some topics was so strong, he sometimes read books that he probably wasn’t really ready for. And because his interest was so strong, he was able to get through these books that were really too difficult for him. For instance, he read the C.S. Lewis Narnia series the summer after first grade. Over the years of his childhood, he reread them several times. I remember his once telling me “I love rereading these. Each time I read them, I pick up on more and more that I missed the first time I read them.” I can’t remember how old he was when he read A Wrinkle in Time for the first time, but I know he was pretty young. Years later, when he was a teenager, he, my daughter and I were discussing your books. “For some reason,” he confessed to us, “I always pictured Calvin as a big bug. A giant cartoon bug.” We laughed and laughed. I knew he had probably been too young when he read it, but a bug? “Kurt,” we told him, “Calvin and Meg get married. You thought she married a bug?” “Well, yeah. I was just a little kid. I didn’t think there was anything weird about that.” Sometime after that, while in a nostalgic mood, I reread A Wrinkle in Time. Riddle solved: chapter two, page 29, about a third of the way down. Meg is telling Charles Wallace who Calvin is. “He’s in Regional, but he’s older than I am. He’s a big bug.” Ha! I couldn’t wait for the kids, especially Kurt, to get home from school so I could show them what I’d discovered. Your book was first published in 1962, a year before I was born. The term “ big bug” must have been like “big man on campus” back in those days. Calvin was a big bug. You’d written it yourself. What else would a little boy in the 1990’s think?

I hope this letter somehow finds its way to you. I’m sorry I didn’t write it when I first thought to. Perhaps you can tesser your way back and read it on the internet. Thank you so much for the wonderful legacy you’ve left the world. We are truly blessed to have your books among us.

Sincerely,

Melinda W. Gassman

Brittany's Belly Buttons

Edible body parts have always been a big part of Halloween. Peeled grapes for eyeballs. String cheese fingers. Bloody toes out of hot dogs with tortilla strip bandages. Pretty gory fare. A young friend of mine named Brittany recently introduced me to a new, much less gruesome body part treat – belly buttons. She brought a bowlful of them to a gathering earlier this fall.

To make belly buttons, place small pretzel twists on a baking sheet. Put an unwrapped Hershey Kiss on top of each pretzel. Bake at 250 degrees for three minutes. As soon as they come out of the oven, top each one with an M & M, m side down, pressing them in well.

Brittany makes these for all occasions. With M & Ms coming in seasonal colors now, she can make them fit any holiday or special event. Imagine cute little red and green elf belly buttons for Christmas. How about pink and red cupid belly buttons for Valentine’s Day? Leprechaun belly buttons for St. Patrick’s Day? With the possible exception of Uncle Sam’s belly button, these sound a lot more appetizing than cold pasta brains or corn kernel teeth.

Halloween book suggestion - The Bell Witch, An American Haunting by Brent Monahan

If you’re looking for a spooky read this week, find a copy of The Bell Witch, An American Haunting by Brent Monahan. It’s a fictionalized account of one of America’s most famous hauntings. A little bit disturbing? Yes. I recommend reading it late at night after everyone else has gone to bed.

Winter Squash

Autumn is here and that means it’s winter squash season. I love winter squash even more than I love summer squash. I even liked it as a small child. My mother used to cook butternut squash and mash it up with a little maple syrup or brown sugar. Mmmm. It was so good. And this sounds like a really odd combination, but I used to mix my mashed potatoes and butternut squash together on my plate, put a pat of butter on top, and let it melt in. Yum. I could never convince any of my family members to try this. They really missed out.

My New England paternal grandfather loved squash pie. My mother, born and raised in the Mid-West, made Thanksgiving dinner every year. She’d never heard of squash pie, and was sure it would be in every way identical to pumpkin.

“Make sure you bake a squash pie,” Gramps would remind her each November.

“Oh, I will,” she’d lie.

A couple of hours after dinner (New Englanders always like to let their food settle a bit before dessert), everyone would come back to the table, and my mother would bring out the pies.

“Make sure mine’s squash,” Gramps would say.

She’d make a big production of distinguishing between the pumpkin and the supposed squash pies.

“Here you go,” she’d say, passing him a dessert plate with a piece of pie on it. “This one is definitely squash,” she’d insist, while we kids gleefully smirked around the table. We were in on it. Then Gramps would rave about the pie and go on and on about how much better it was than pumpkin.

One autumn day a couple of years ago, my neighbor, Beth, showed up at my door with a piece of pie.

“Callie and I thought you needed to try this. It’s the best pumpkin pie we’ve ever had,” she said, “but it’s made from banana squash.”

Squash pie!

It was wonderful. I don’t think I’ve made a pumpkin pie since.

Banana Squash Pie

3 cups cooked, pureed banana squash
4 eggs
1 ¼ cups sugar
2 Tablespoons flour
½ tsp nutmeg
1 tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp allspice
1 tsp ginger
1 tsp salt
2 cups cream or 1 cup cream and 1 cup milk
2 unbaked pie crusts

Cut up a banana squash and scrape out the seeds and string. Cover each piece with plastic wrap and cook them in the microwave. They seem to cook more evenly if you do them one piece at a time. One piece takes about fourteen minutes. Let it cool a little bit. Scoop out the cooked squash and puree it in a blender. Measure out three cups for the recipe. Eat the rest plain on a plate with a little salt and pepper. It’s so good. Or freeze it in Ziplock freezer bags.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs. Add sugar, flour, spices, salt, and squash. Stir in the cream. (Beth said it was okay to use one cup each of milk and cream, but that I should try it sometime using the two cups of cream. I have. It’s really good.)

I always cut thin strips of aluminum foil the cover the edge of my crusts so they won’t get too dark, and it’s a lot easier to do this before filling them.

Fill the unbaked crusts. Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 and bake for 30 – 40 minutes. Pie is done when a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.


Another winter squash recipe? How about butternut squash soup? I make this for my daughter and my niece. The three of us absolutely love it. One day this fall, I received a text message from my niece, Emma, who attends college nearby.

“What’s for dinner on Sunday? Butternut squash soup?”

It was all I could think about for the rest of the week.

Butternut Squash Soup

1 medium sized butternut squash
4 T butter
1 medium onion, chopped
3 T flour
3 tsp chicken bouillon
1 ½ cups hot water
2 ½ cups fat free half and half*
salt, white pepper, and sugar to taste

Peel, seed and cut up squash. Place in a large pan, cover with water and cook until soft. Drain and return to pan. OR cut unpeeled squash in half. Scrape out the inside. Cover each half with plastic wrap and cook in the microwave until soft. Scoop out the cooked squash and discard the skin. After squash is cooked, mash it with a potato masher and set aside. Melt butter in a skillet. Add onion and sauté until golden. Add flour and cook for a few minutes. Slowly add the half and half. Set aside. Combine hot water and bouillon, stirring to dissolve bouillon. Puree squash in batches in blender, dividing the chicken broth among the batches. Return pureed squash to the large pan. Stir in the half and half mixture. Heat thoroughly and season to taste with salt, white pepper and sugar.

*I usually use fat free half and half for soups that call for cream or milk or regular half and half. It’s a good way to cut some calories. You can substitute in whatever you’d like to use.

Acorn Squash

Cut them in half, horizontally. Scrape out the seeds and string. Set them in a baking pan, cut sides up. Squirt some maple syrup in each one and add a pat of butter. Add water to the pan until it comes part way up the sides of the squash. Bake them at 350 until soft. Serve them as they are. To eat, scoop out squash, incorporating some of the maple syrup in each bite.

OR, slice acorn squash horizontally into 1 inch thick slices (some will be larger around than others). Remove seeds and string. Spray a baking sheet with non-stick spray. Lay squash slices on baking sheet. Brush them with olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Bake until soft. To serve, place a slice on each plate and fill center with a spoonful of whole-berry cranberry sauce.

Squash is so good for us. It's dark orange flesh signals that it's loaded with antioxidants, right? I've tried to understand what exactly antioxidants do for us. When metals oxidize, they rust, right? So antioxidants must keep our insides from rusting. Or something.

A Pediatrician's Advice

Our church has a lay clergy, and I’m lucky enough to have a husband who gets to serve as a bishop (like a minister in other churches) for a Brigham Young University congregation. It’s a lot of fun. Recently, a man from the community was called to work alongside Kent in a leadership position. He happens to be the pediatrician we took our kids to for most of their lives. He retired a few years ago.

Dr. Johnson saw us through chronic ear infections, strep throat, seasonal allergies, all kinds of childhood illnesses. And of course, he saw each kid about once a year for a well child exam, also known as a physical. At the end of each of these well child visits, Dr. Johnson would always give me a little advice.

“We like to tell parents three things,” he’d say. “Number one: Always have your children in car seats or booster seats when in the car. Number two: The Pediatric Association recommends that small children watch little or no television. And number three: Don’t feed your children a lot of hot dogs.”

Ha! I loved number three. I always expected him to add a few other undesirable food items, but he never did.

So Dr. Johnson, welcome to the B.Y.U. 122nd Ward. We have a fabulous group of young people. They’re fun and smart and dedicated to the Lord. I’m sure you’ll have opportunities to offer a little advice now and then. These students have outgrown their car seats, and hopefully they’re too busy with school, jobs, and social lives to watch much television. But the hot dog thing? Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to mention it.

Panda Express Orange Chicken

Our kids love Panda Express Orange Chicken. When I saw that Costco carries a bottle of Panda Express Orange Chicken Sauce, I bought some, took it home, and got on the internet to look for a copycat recipe. The one that I found (recipezaar.com) included a sauce recipe. I basically followed their recipe (just a couple of changes) for cooking the chicken, and then used the purchased sauce.

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 large eggs
1 ½ tsp salt
generous 1/8 tsp white pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon cornstarch
¼ cup flour

vegetable oil for frying

Panda Express Orange Chicken Sauce*

2-3 green onions, chopped

Cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces. Beat the eggs in a large bowl. Whisk in salt, white pepper, and 1 tablespoon vegetable oil. Add cornstarch and flour. Whisk until smooth. Pat chicken pieces with paper towels to remove excess moisture. Dump into egg mixture. Stir to coat pieces. Heat an inch or two of oil in a pan. I use a non-stick electric frying pan on the highest heat setting.* Add coated chicken pieces a few at a time, dividing into two or three batches. Cook each batch for three to five minutes, depending on how big your pieces are, turning over part way through. I left mine kind of big – maybe two inch cubes – so it took closer to five minutes. Don’t overcook or your chicken will be dry. Remove smaller pieces first so they don’t get overdone. Better to have them underdone and then put them back in than to overcook them. Drain on paper towels. Place chicken on a serving platter. Drizzle Orange Chicken Sauce lightly over the pieces and garnish with green onions. A little sauce goes a long way. Don’t put too much on. If diners think they’d like more sauce, have them put a little on their plate alongside the chicken for dipping.

* The 44-ounce bottle of sauce only cost $5 at Costco. It’s a really good deal, considering how little you need to use.

** When I don’t want to stink up the house with whatever I’m cooking (fish, bacon, pot stickers, frying anything in oil), I take my electric frying pan outside and plug it in on the patio.

book review - Knitting with Dog Hair by Kendall Crolius and Anne Montgomery

So I’m walking through the Orem Public Library and stop to check out the Staff Picks shelf – I’m always looking for a good recommendation – and there it is: Knitting with Dog Hair, a Woof to Warp Guide to Making Hats, Sweaters, Mittens and Much More by Kendall Crolius and Anne Montgomery.

Knitting with dog hair? This must be a hoax. I pick it up and look it over. The front and back covers show photos of people confidently dressed in their handmade dog hair garments.

“Stop Vacuuming and Start Knitting!”

“Warmer than Wool for a Three Dog Night”

“Easy Step-by-Step Instructions for Collecting and Spinning the Fur”

“Original Patterns for Novice and Pro”

“Top Breeds for Best Results”

There’s no way I can replace this book on the shelf and walk away. I proceed to the front desk and check it out.

A couple of days later, I finally have time to give it a read. It’s legit! Well, I don’t know if it’s legit, but it’s for real! People really collect their dogs’ hair, spin it into yarn, and knit with it. Clothing. And they wear it. Are you scratching yet?

I get about halfway through the book and I’m making myself a little nervous. It’s beginning to sound quite rational. Perhaps if I had a beloved pet, I might be tempted to try this. I think of people I know who are very attached to their dogs, and wonder if any of them just might be induced to take this up.

There could possibly be health benefits. The authors tell about a woman in Estonia who sells dog hair sweaters at her village market. She claims that dog hair relieves symptoms of arthritis and rheumatism.

And this hobby is not exclusive to dog lovers. The book contains a photo of a delicate cat hair lace collar and a pattern for a pill box hat made of soft, glossy cat yarn.

My family had a beautiful Golden Retriever when I was growing up. Her name was Sherry, as she was the color of sherry. The authors say that Golden Retriever yarn knits up into a beautiful scarf that looks especially nice with a camel hair coat (so save your camel hair, too). Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a memento of the dog we grew up with? Maybe some Sherry mittens or a Sherry afghan? Too late now.

How about an Afghan afghan?

Don’t know how to knit? No worry. Pet yarn can also be used for crocheting, needlepoint, embroidery, weaving… And if you’re hesitant to take up spinning, the authors include a state-by-state index of Spinners for Hire. Just mail them your cherished bags of pet hair and they do the rest.

Knitting with Dog Hair was a fascinating read. It’s very well written, and somehow makes one think the whole idea is sane. It doesn’t make me want a dog, and I’m not sure I’d ever have room for an article of handcrafted pet hair anywhere in my life, but I’m definitely buying a copy of this book for my bookshelf. I’ll probably buy a few to give as Christmas gifts, too. I’m determined to convince someone I know to take up the hobby.

Pear Pie

I love pears. I start buying them in the fall, and eat them all winter. I had never heard of pear pie until this year. I started looking for a recipe. After combining parts of a couple, and changing a few things, this is what I came up with.

crumb topping:
3/4 cup flour
1/3 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
6 tablespoons cold butter, cut in small pieces

filling:
6 perfectly ripe, fresh pears*
1/2 cup sugar
1/8 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground ginger (I bet ginger-in-a-jar would be better!)
1 1/2 tablespoons Minute tapioca
3 tablespoons plus one teaspoon orange juice
1 pie crust**

Combine crumb topping ingredients in a medium bowl. Cut the butter in with a pastry cutter or rub it in with your fingertips. Mixture should resemble coarse crumbs that clump together easily.


Peel the pears with a vegetable peeler. Slice them, discarding the cores. Put pear slices in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, combine sugar, salt, nutmeg, ginger, orange juice, and tapioca. Pour over pears and toss to coat slices. Cut strips of aluminum foil about one to two inches wide and use them to cover the edge of your pie crust. Put pear mixture into the pie crust, mounding pears in the center. Pat the crumb topping over the pear filling. Bake at 425 degrees for 20 minutes. At this point, cover the pie with a tent of aluminum foil and bake for 25 more minutes. Place on a cooling rack and gently remove the foil strips.Serve with really good vanilla ice cream.

*You can tell that a pear is ripe by pressing around the stem with your thumb. If there is a little give, the pear is ripe. To speed up the ripening process, place the pears in a paper bag, roll the top down, and forget about them for a couple of days.

**I used to make my own pie crust, but then I discovered Marie Callender's frozen pie crusts. I think they're really good. They are much better than the frozen pie crusts I grew up with (Sorry, Mom). And so much easier than mixing and rolling out pie crust. I know there are purists who will never agree (my brother-in-law the award-winning pie maker). To them, I say go ahead and make your own. It probably is better.

Fish Tacos

I love fish tacos. I've had some really good ones at restaurants, both fast food and full service places. (Sally Pierce got me hooked on Del Taco's fish tacos.) I thought I'd try to make some at home. This version is fast, easy, and really good.

Panko Breaded Cod, frozen, from Costco
shredded cabbage (a bag of coleslaw mix in the grocery produce department)
white corn tortillas

Cilantro Lime Sauce*:
3/4 cup plain yogurt
1/2 cup mayonaise
1 Tablespoon sugar
2 Tablespoons(scant)fresh lime juice
3 Tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped

Select the smallest, narrowest pieces of fish from the box. Bake according to package directions. In the meantime, mix sauce ingredients in a small bowl. Heat corn tortillas in microwave for no longer than thirty seconds.

Diners assemble their own tacos on their plates: Double the tortillas, place a piece of fish in the middle, add cabbage and plenty of sauce, and fold.

*Naturally, I didn't measure anything when I made the sauce. The above amounts are my estimates. You might have to mess around with it a little.

All Tied Up

Yesterday I was attending a class with a group of women at church. The teacher asked for a volunteer. A friend of mine agreed and went up to the front of the room. The teacher, as an object lesson, produced a rope and began to wrap it around my friend’s wrists.

“Oh great,” said my friend, “after all that time spent teaching my kids never to let anyone tie them up…”

There was a brief pause in the room as women thought about this, and then laughter.

Whoops, many of us were thinking. Guess I forgot to warn my kids about the danger of letting someone tie them up! Don’t talk to strangers was a big one. And don’t get in anybody’s car, even if they offer you candy or need help finding their lost puppy was a given.

Who’d have thought to warn about strangers with ropes?

Or people you know who have access to rope.

Like siblings.

Our youngest child tells about a time when he was the victim of rope in the hands of his brothers.

They stripped his shirt off him, tied him to one of the benches at the kitchen table, and drew a face on his stomach. Then they carried the bench outside and left him there.

I wasn’t home to protect him. If only I’d thought to warn him about the dangers of getting tied up, he might have been able to escape by running as soon as he saw the rope.

Oh well. I may have blown it with my own kids, but I’ll definitely be teaching my grandchildren someday never to let anyone tie them up. Who knows what could happen to them? Especially if they have big brothers.

September 11, 2001

Where were you when you first heard about John Lennon being shot? Or Richard Nixon resigning? Or Elvis dying? The Challenger exploding? Princess Diana’s fatal car crash? If you’re old enough, you probably remember exactly where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news.

When I think of September 11, 2001, I always remember a houseful of flies.

Kent had left for work and I had seen the last child out the door to school. Just a few minutes later, the phone rang. It was my son, Jeff, calling from the Barretts’ house, just down the street, where he’d stopped to pick up his buddy.

“Mom,” he said, “Kathy said I should call you and tell you to turn on the TV. A plane just flew into one of the towers of the World Trade Center.”

I turned on the TV. It was right about then that I noticed the first small black fly. Then the next. And the next. The second tower went down, and they were all over my house. All day, as I watched the news, I swatted the flies. We learned about the Pentagon. Standing on the sofa, standing on a kitchen chair (they seemed to be up high); I fought off the assailants with a dish towel. We heard about United Flight 93. I kept up the fight, but couldn’t seem to make any headway. There were always more. I tried to find out where they were coming from, these invaders in my home, but without success. Small black flies. Small black flies. Confusion on the TV., so many casualties. All day long and into the evening, thousands of deaths later, I stood on my furniture, fighting the small, black flies.

I’ve never been able to explain them, there one day, completely gone the next.

Banana Milk Shake

I read somewhere a long time ago that the combination of bananas and milk induces sleep. When the kids were little and couldn't sleep, I'd try to get them to eat a banana and drink a glass of milk. Or if they were driving me crazy and I needed them to fall asleep early, I'd make them eat a banana and drink a glass of milk. I never could decide if it worked or not, but it was always worth a shot.

This is one of my new favorite bedtime treats. It tastes like you're indulging in an ice cream shake, but except for the little bit of sugar, it's good for you. If you split it with someone, it's only 147 calories each.

2 frozen banana halves *

1 cup skim milk

1 Tablespoon sugar

1/4 teaspoon vanilla

Put all ingredients in blender and pulse until well-blended.

* I peel and freeze bananas in a ziplock freezer bag before they start to get overripe. I usually cut them in half first. Don't wait until they get soft to freeze them, or they'll only be good for banana bread.

The Year of the Earwig

I had my first encounter with an earwig at about age two. I was climbing the concrete steps leading up to our front door. An earwig pinched my finger. There were two tiny dots of blood. I continued up the steps and through the front door to where my mother sat in the livingroom, surrounded by ancient women. I think they must have been one or both of my great-grandmothers and their sisters.

I've had an aversion ever since.

To earwigs, not old ladies.

I don't care what the Chinese say - 2009 has been The Year of the Earwig. There are tons of them and they are everywhere. In the laundry room, in the garage, in the family room, on my kitchen table when guests were over, in my flower beds and under every rock in the yard, and there's been one in the back of my mind all summer. It never leaves me. There's a myth about earwigs crawling into the ears of sleeping people, causing fever and insanity. No fever yet, but the insanity thing? Could be happening.

When I was about twelve I had a close encounter of the very disturbing kind. It was summer, and I was getting ready to go to the beach. I got my bathing suit off the clothesline in the backyard, took it up to my room, and put it on. There was an earwig in it. I'm still traumatized. I have not used the bathing suit clothesline since.

Earwigs are hideous creatures. I think that, like the horseshoe crab and the alligator, earwigs have probably changed very little since prehistoric times. I've done some research on Wikipedia. Did you know that most species have wings tucked away somewhere and are capable of flight? How disturbing is that? But they hardly ever use them. Instead, they use this tactic called the "defensive drop." They like to crawl up high on things like walls and ceilings and bathing suits on outdoor clotheslines. Once they know you've seen them, they let go and free fall to the ground. Then, while you're shrieking and flailing your arms, they scurry into the nearest crack or crevice. Makes me want to scream just thinking about it.

Two other upsetting facts I learned: they're nocturnal, and they're year-round.

One of our kids, when he was little, built a birdhouse out of a kit. We hung it in a tree in the backyard. One day I thought I'd look inside it for evidence of a resident bird family. I tipped it a little to get a good look into the hole. Hundreds of earwigs did the defensive drop. The birdhouse still hangs in the tree. I haven't touched it since that day. I'm uncomfortable even standing under that tree.

In the spring, I planted my vegetable garden. As soon as the green beans came up, something started eating them. My broccoli plants, too. Each morning, I'd go out to check for damage and find that huge amounts of plant material had been consumed. Someone at the nursery suggested that it might be quail. We'd had quail in the yard that month for the first time ever. Must be the quail. I spent half the summer replanting beans and bad-mouthing the quail. Now I'm pretty sure it was the earwigs; Wikipedia says they like to feed on seedling beans. It makes me crazy to think I've been feeding them all summer.

I recently put some peas in for a fall crop. Something's eating them.

Sometimes I get cold at night so I keep a polar fleece blanket under my side of the bed. But I haven't been able to use it. That earwig, the one in the back of my mind, whispers to me when I wake up cold in the night. It tells me that some of its brothers are burrowing in the folds of my blanket.

Almost every day for the last while I've seen one scramble across the basement floor and under the washer or dryer.

If I get up and come downstairs in the night and turn on a light, will I find them all over my walls and ceiling? Will they then perform the defensive drop?

So, is the earwig in the ear thing really just a myth or can it cause insanity? You tell me. I'm in no condition to decide.