Cooking with Aunt Sue

This past weekend, we attended the Memorial Service for my Aunt Susanne. Although I didn't see her as much as I would have liked as an adult, I have sweet memories of her as a quiet, permanent fixture in my childhood. I remember snuggling with her in the old hammock at Nana's house at Two Tulip. On one occasion, in which I felt very grown-up indeed, she took me on a trip to New York City. Having lived there for a large portion of her life, the smells and sounds and busyness were probably just like breathing to her. But to a ten-year-old, (very) sheltered little girl, it was a head-buzzing adventure that left me wide-eyed for two weeks afterward.

The details of her Memorial Service were thoughtfully and personally planned, just how I would like my eventual send-off to be. Her niece and nephew sang an old family song, her relatives and friends remembered her quiet gentleness that often belied an amazingly sharp mind. Her grandchildren crafted dozens and dozens of peace cranes, reflecting on how Grammy Sue had an earnest and long-standing hope for peace on earth. A larger crane, on which we all penned a single word in remembrance of Aunt Sue, was set sail on the river beside the church... a river that Sue had explored with her grandchildren, whose rhythmic cadence could be heard as she rested in the backyard hammock in the months that she was sick. Sue's crane slowly and gently circled for a few minutes before disembarking. Her son Max was beside me, and remarked something like, "How just like my mom. Gentle and un-rushed even in the end."

After the service, we descended on Max and Denise's house. It's worth mentioning that the way that Denise served her mother-in-law in her illness was a thing of beauty. She slept for months with a baby monitor beside her bed, and snuck over to Sue's adjoining apartment if there was any sign of trouble in the night. Max and Denise graciously opened Aunt Sue's home, and invited guests to pick a few books from her vast library. Admittedly, most of the literature was beyond my college-dropout intellect, but it was stunning to see the vast array of topics that interested Sue... everything from politics to Buddha to oil drilling to Jesus. It was calming to walk through her little domain, and the great loves of her life were obvious as I did so: books...and her family. Paintings by her grandchildren and candid photos of them laughing in the woods papered the walls and were wedged in among her stacks of books.

I was delighted to find Moosewood Cookbook among the stacks, a recipe collection that I had long coveted but could never justify buying. I am not sure if it was one of her favorites, or if it was a gift given just before she got ill... maybe she had hopeful culinary aspirations as she leafed through it, only to become so sick that she depended on charity casseroles and cans of Campbell's soup. There were no tell-tale grease spatterings or finger smudges that are so prevalent in my own cookbooks. But as I cooked my first recipe from the book last night, an (amazing!) Swiss and Mushroom Quiche, I liked to imagine Aunt Sue in her little kitchen.

I could see her chopping the onions, pausing and removing her glasses for a moment as she wiped her tearing eyes. She would lean back to the fridge, so close she probably didn't have to leave her spot at the stove, and grab the butter, and plop a bit into the pan. It would sizzle and foam. She would stand at the counter and grate the cheese, possibly with a small grandchild at her side, begging for a sample. She would cut the butter into the flour with two forks crisscrossing each other, and add a little more water so it would stick together. As she rolled it out on the floured counter, maybe she would upset her glass of water and it would run down the side of the sink and onto her skirt. Possibly she cursed under her breath softly, before catching herself and quickly glancing over to see if her small grandson, who was busy creating animals out of colored duct tape at the table, had noticed. He hadn't (or didn't care), so she would mop up the spill with the corner of her sleeve and refill her glass. After sliding the glass pie plate into the oven, perhaps she would sit with Stephen and read a book. Or, as she was by all accounts a "play-slave", maybe they would mold something out of clay or create a fort on the living room floor.

Of course I don't know all these things. As I mentioned, I didn't often see Aunt Sue after I became an adult. Was she a cook? I don't know. Possibly her busy metropolitan life had left her more apt to phone in a take-out order or stop by the local delicatessen on her way home from work. But I had fun imagining. And as my hands rolled out the dough on the counter, I felt a kinship with her... really, with all the women in my family who have gone before me. An age old-ritual... flour, butter, a little water... we women have been doing it for centuries-- the rote, mechanical, mundane chores-- all with the end purpose of nourishing our families and creating a home. We are a calvary of mothers, of aunts, of Nanas, of sisters, of daughters (and daughters-in-law)... with flour smudged on our cheeks and a sink full of dishes. And though Aunt Sue has set sail down the river... across the Jordan, really... we carry on the rhythm of her days. Cooking, reading, learning, loving, playing.

My Moosewood Cookbook sits wedged among a stack of others on the counter in my kitchen. And I have a feeling that every time I reach for it (which will be often), I will pause and think of Aunt Sue, with her quiet and gentle presence, and invite her memory to come and cook with me.

giving God good advice

"Giving God good advice and abusing the devil isn't praying."- L.M. Montgomery.

My prayers of yesteryear were a lot more eloquent and verbose than they are now. Years ago, my prayers might have sounded something like this:

"Jesus, You know this election is coming up soon. May you slay those liberal, self-seeking Democrats [tongue firmly in cheek] and uphold the Holy Agenda of the Chosen, Righteous Republican Party and may they ever lead our country back to You. This is our only hope."

or perhaps this:

"Righteous and omnipotent Heavenly Father, make my home function with Holy Spirit Power and the blessed Shekinah glory of the Almighty Lord. Give us what we want need [insert exhaustive list of material goods] so that we can serve You better and make a difference in this world. We name it and claim it in the name of Jesus Christ! World without end, amen and amen."

My prayers are simpler now, borne out of tiredness and busyness and (hopefully) a bit more humility-- the kind of humility that can only come from being a wife and mom and realizing that I fail 3483984 times every.single.day and that I have no business instructing the Maker of the universe on what He should or shouldn't do for me. Out of the knowledge that I have no knowledge, and I am most often winging it from moment to moment.

Most often, it is just this:

"Father-- in all this mess we have created, Your will be done."

or

"Oh, Jesus. Help me. Help me to love these children when I'd so much rather scream at them. Help me to love my husband when I'd so much rather be throw a boot at him." (This is, for the record, an indication of my own failures and my sinful heart, not a reflection on my husband-- whom I typically adore, and just occasionally want to throw a boot at.)

How smug I must sound to God, when I pray to Him about what He must do. Or even what He should do. How self-important I must sound when I tell Him what is best for our country, or even what is best for my family. I see dimly, in part. He sees the whole.

May my prayers be sincere, humble, and come from a heart that desires the glory of God, not merely ease of circumstances.

My pantry is having an identity crisis

See all these "righteous" foods??

Joy in the morning

Last night, Chris and I totally broke the law.
Or, at least one of the rules typed on the sheet of paper hanging on the hospital bathroom door:

"Only one parent/guardian may spend the night."

We're usually pretty decent, upstanding citizens. But Chris and I went all rogue up in here and both spent the night. We're rebels like that. He let me have the cot, the blankets and the pillows, and insisted that he could sleep just fine on the non-reclining vinyl chair. He's dreamy like that.

Speaking of the law, we called them last night. Or, Chris did, around 11 pm... when I was home for a few hours with the kids. I texted him because I was fairly certain that someone was trying to break into the front door. I kept hearing these weird noises and bangs... I was freaking out.

He texted me back:
Chris: Do you want me to call the police and have them come check it out?
Me: No.
(a second later.)
Me: I don't know.
(another second later.)
Me: Yeah, maybe.

The valiant Lititz Borough police officers arrived in record time, parked at the street and crept stealthily through the shadows... and wrestled to the ground and finally apprehended...

My WREATH!

My homemade, Pinterest inspired, ruffly burlap bandit of a wreath!

Banging on the door in the wind.

(He's serving 2-4 for criminal mischief.)

Seriously. Can you imagine my mortification??

Although now that I consider it, I would rather be mortified than DEAD at the hands of some creepy door-banging serial killer.

After that drama, Evie took a turn for the worse and I headed back to join Chris at the hospital, with a serious RULES-BE-DAMNED! attitude; I was ready to lay into the first person who questioned my right to be with my girl overnight. (Incidentally, no one did. All the better for them.)

A couple of minutes after I got here, Evie woke up in intense pain. She was screaming and crying and sweating and her whole body was convulsing. I have been through natural childbirth, and I can confidently say that what she was feeling was akin to those sensations, at least insomuch as those pains translate to a five year old. I had a moment where I considered telling her to "moooooo" like a cow, a la Ina May Gaskin, but in the end, decided she would probably give me the stink-eye and clock me over the head with her board-and-IV clad arm.

After those pains passed, she went back to sleep and the nurse came in to give her some kind of anti-cramping medicine. I am not sure if it was the meds, or prayers, or the sickness running its course, or what. But Evie has been sleeping peacefully for the last SEVEN+ hours (unheard of since she's been sick!) and only woke up once to pee. I am hoping and praying that this trend continues and my girl is back to her crazy, fun self soon. We are meeting with the specialist at 11, I guess to see how we move forward from here.

I am confident that Jesus has been very close to us in all of this. I am confident that there is a purpose in this. I am confident that He chose this specific set of circumstances because it is the very best for our souls, and because He loves us. I am confident that He will be glorified in this.

I am confident that my friends are waaaay better cooks than I am. I could write a book about how kind and generous and thoughtful people have been with us over the course of Evie's illness.

Maybe I will.

Or you know, at least a blog post.

More Ramblings...

--Tom's of Maine deodorant is not made for the hospital. I mean, it's natural and doesn't have aluminum, and probably won't give me cancer, so that's a perk. But truly. I am gross.

--Speaking of gross (and cancer), I have had a little cold sore/blister thingy in the same spot underneath my tongue for the last couple of weeks. Is this just from stress, or do I have herpes? Or mouth cancer?

--No, seriously. Do I?

--When we get out of the hospital, can someone come watch my kids for three days an hour so I can weed my garden? I have totally neglected it all summer, and it's a nasty weed pit of despair, not unlike my Tom's-of-Maine-clad armpits. It's gotten a couple of weeds here and there while Evie has been in the hospital this past week.

--I appreciate everyone's comments suggesting transferring to another hospital. No, really, I do. This is something that we are considering, and should it become necessary, we will not hesitate to do it. At this point, we feel that-- while Evie is feeling nasty, and her condition is somewhat perplexing-- she is not in grave danger. We need to get her better, but this is not... like, you know, a fatal condition. Ack. I don't even like typing that word. We are, however, considering transferring to Hershey just because there's a Starbucks there. For reals.

--Hey Doctor/Nurse/Housekeeping/Person-coming-to-take-an-order-for-some-disgusting-hospital-food-that-Evie-won't-touch: my kid is SLEEPING. Could you possibly turn it down a few notches??

--I am 100% overwhelmed by the massive support and prayers that have been coming our way. Many have asked me if there is something that you can do to help. Would you consider sending a little note to Cana, my middle daughter?

She just turned three, and she doesn't really understand what is going on, just that she misses Evie. She has been a trooper, but I am sure it is hard to see Evie getting spoiled like crazy with attention and surprises and special treats. I am not asking that you send her a toy or a treat (in fact, I would prefer that you didn't). Don't even go buy a card! She would love a picture that your kid drew, or even a note scrawled on the back of a receipt, like this d-bag:

--But really, if you'd consider sending her a little note or a drawing, contact me and I will give you our address. Unless you're some crazy psychopath stalker. In which case, I will most definitely NOT give you our address. I know Cana would love to get mail.

--I miss my little kids. Ruby is still nursing, and I would like her to continue for quite a while yet. I had a moment of panic yesterday, thinking that being away from me during the day will make her want to wean. Luckily, she seems just as obsessed interested in the boob breastfeeding as ever.

--Also, I am a sinner... but who did this to Evie's new little stuffies? Seriously. Friggin' perv nurses.

--Cana's big news-- she (finally!) conquered potty-training!!-- was somewhat eclipsed by this whole kid-in-the-hospital-scenario, but I am super proud of her. We celebrated with new Dora panties and a grown-up "coffee". I am also super glad to not be scooping toddler poop out of panties.

--For the first time since I was six, I am sporting a disgusting, oozing stye in my left eye. Just kidding, it's not really oozing. But it IS kind of disgusting. Between this and my Tom's of Maine fail and my gangrenous mouth sores, and the fact that I am pretty sure I have worn these pants for a couple of days in a row, I.am.hawt.

--Don't you want to come visit and give me a great big hug????

Ramblings

-My biggest baby is in the hospital. She's gonna be ok, but she's not ok. And that makes me sad.

-My husband is a very tender daddy. Seeing him with my girls makes me love him more.

-It's totally humbling to have someone do your laundry for you. It goes without saying that it's totally a blessing, too.

-People truly want to help my family. It's truly hard for me to accept help.

-My three year old is finally potty-trained. I am too tired to fully elaborate on how wonderful this is.

-I am really, really, really tired.

-Stacey Gagne is one of the most faithful, consistent, thoughtful friends I have ever had. As I was driving back to the hospital today, I was thinking over various life events in the last eight years... births, deaths, and all the barbecues in between, and I am hard pressed to think of too many that Stacey was not a part of. A true friend. I want to be like her when I grow up. And I want to kick her butt in the OBX 1/2 marathon.

-I may have stress-eaten my way through two three pumpkin cream cheese cupcakes for lunch yesterday.

-This will not help me kick Stacey's butt in the OBX 1/2 marathon.

- Sometimes you just want your mom.

-Evie likes to collect cicada shells. I keep startling myself when I come upon a pile of dead, crunchy bug shells in a corner. Not an infestation, just a collection.

-Ruby Rae has mad talking skills. My favorites are "bummer!" and "shit!" Ahem, "sit". I think.

-Tim and Alyssa are some of the most faithful, consistent, thoughtful family members that I have ever had. I can't wait to meet their baby, and hopefully love him or her half as well as they have loved my girls.

-Evie is moaning in her sleep beside me. As much as I would like to stay the night, only one parent is permitted overnight, and given the choice, Evie would always, always choose Chris.

-This doesn't hurt my feelings.

-I am really, really, really tired.

Maybe a Makeover Monday

It's a semi-annual post around these parts, folks. The ignoring my kids so I can mod podge a map crafting hasn't stopped. The blogging about it has. But Chris just got me a new MacBook (love him!) so now I can be in the same room with my kids and ignore them while I blog dash off a quick post or two.

Just kidding.

I don't really ignore my kids.

Much.

My table used to look like this (can you see it past the gigantic headless prego?)

Nothing wrong with it. If you're into ugly two tone wood and stuff. Which I clearly was in 2004 when I bought it.

Then it looked like this:

Chalkboard table and cool vintage school chairs. I told you I have a thing for school paraphernalia.

I love these little chairs, despite the fact that they were made for skinny 16 year olds and not, um, post-3-babies-mamas. Regardless, we definitely did not split three of the seats down the middle. Ahem.

But then I saw these little guys on the side of the road.

More accurately, I saw them at a yard sale. I wasn't willing to spend $3 each, so I waited an hour and circled around after the yard sale was over. Sure enough, they were sitting on the curb with a free sign. I am like a Stealthy Ninja Trash-Picking Superhero like that.

Possibly they may live in a homeschool room someday, but for now, they are living around my dining room table.

Leftover paint and a few stenciled numbers = free.

You know, just in case I ever need to count my chairs in a hurry.

I totally get that bright red + stencils might not be your cup of tea. That's absolutely fine if you don't want to be awesome.

They're going to look even better when Chris makes me this farmhouse table for my 30th birthday:

Oh, hey, Chris? Will you make me this farmhouse table for my 30th birthday?

These chairs are heavy, solid wood.

So if my ass cracks one of these bad boys, we are in biiiig trouble.