Category: Everyday Life

Sometimes the most appealing meals are not made from the finest ingredients or prepared by the most skilled chefs. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, we find that what we most need is no further than our own front door or in this case, refrigerator door.

Early last month Dave and I purchased tickets for a fundraising gala dinner to benefit a local retirement community.  For weeks our mouths watered as we anticipated the exquisite French cuisine pared with local wines.  Last week, with days to go before the event, the ladies in our group carefully planned our outfits, insuring we would at least be dressed to the same degree of “dressiness”.  With clothing, shoes and accessories all set, we were ready for an evening of good friends and good food and wine.

We knew it was going to be a long day for us; we gals were working our Woman’s Club craft bazaar for most of the morning and early afternoon with just a few hours between that ending and the gala beginning, but we are a hardy crew, we could manage it.  What I hadn’t counted on was Dave’s coming down with a cold that just wouldn’t quit.

When I got home from the bazaar on Saturday, it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t feeling very festive.  Dressing in his comfy clothes and sucking on a mentholated cough drop with a pile of used tissues on the table next to his chair, he didn’t look like he was ready to put on a suit and tie and head to a gala dinner.  Aside from the fact he didn’t feel well, his cold wasn’t something we wanted to share with our friends.

So, I made the call and cancelled our plans for the evening.

Now that we were staying in, I had to figure out what we would have for dinner.  I considered going to the Colonel and picking up a bucket but thought that would have too much fat. Then I thought about picking up a rotisserie chicken at Food Lion.  That sounded like a healthier alternative, but still involved my getting in the car.  I was pooped from spending most of the day on my feet and felt the cold beginning to take hold of my body;  I really didn’t want to go anywhere.

After completing a mental inventory of what was in my refrigerator, and flipping through my internal files of dinners past, I opted for a variation of comfort food from my childhood; stuffed hot-dogs.  It was one of my favorites as a child.  My mother would slice hot-dogs lengthwise, smear them with mustard, place a strip on American cheese on top, pile it high with mashed potatoes and sprinkle the top with paprika before placing them under the broiler for a few moments.  It is a so rarely that I even have left over mashed potatoes in the refrigerator that I felt that stuffed hot-dogs were the ticket to my dinner dilemma.

Compared to a meal of French gourmet food, stuffed hot-dogs may seem like a giant step down.  But as it turned out, it was the best meal we could have had that evening.  I didn’t have to leave the comfort of my home, and the meal hit my comfort button spot on.  Every bite reminded me of Saturday suppers long ago, sitting around a cozy table with my parents and siblings; the loud warmth of the unit that was us in our youths.  Even better, Dave was able to feel the comfort from my sharing.  He didn’t remember my ever preparing stuffed hot-dogs, but thought they were great!

While I’m not saying I preferred this simple peasant fare to an evening of French food and I didn’t miss the company of my friends at an event we had so long anticipated, I am happy that I was able to draw comfort from my childhood and share it with my congested spouse to not only make the best of it, but enjoy making the best of it.

Yesterday my baby brother Mark entered the last year of his “forties”, an unimaginable step since I remember so well not only the night he was born, but the large bump he made in my mother’s middle the summer before he was born.

The summer before he was born we’d moved from our hometown of Springville, NY in western New York State to Ogdensburg, NY along the St. Lawrence River.  As it happened Mark’s arrival coincided with trick or treating because Halloween fell on a Sunday in 1965 and in those days, Sunday was not an appropriate day to celebrate ghosts and ghouls.  Consequently, I always associate Halloween with Mark; remember coming home with a bag full of treats and learning that I’d also received a new little brother.  Since I already had two of them, it didn’t seem all that great, until he came home.

As a baby, Mark was the center of our attention.  Every little thing he did was miraculous and entertaining.  Making him laugh was total joy and making him cry wretched.  I  remember watching him take his first steps away from the furniture; what a moment that was!  It was an achievement we’d all routed him to accomplish; then he became mobile….

Once his force was unleashed on our home, there was no telling what would happen.  Without the “safety in numbers” of having a group of siblings close in age, he was able to go where none of us had gone before and entertain feats of daring do that we had dared not imagine.  This resulted in numerous trips to the emergency room for stitches and casts that none of us had ever required.  Eventually, my Dad began to triage the wounds and make is own butterfly strips when possible to save the ER charge.  My parents made many attempts to keep him safe; putting one of us in charge of watching him to keep him out of trouble.  My cousins fondly remember my mother keeping him tied on a lead when we were camping.  He just moved so quickly and stealth-fully that she was afraid to let him go untethered for fear he’d wander into the woods or drown in the lake.

As number six; the last in our line, it seems that God saved the best for last because he has by far the fastest processor and keenest wit of us all  No doubt this is probably a survival skill he developed growing up in a house with seven older people; all intent on either watching him or ignoring him, depending on who had the “Mark watch”.  He also possesses a great heart and capacity for love and understanding.  At times I feel that I haven’t had the opportunity to really get to know him as an adult because I moved out on my own when he was so young and geography has kept us apart for so many years.

This summer I was blessed to spend a few days with my baby brother when our family celebrated our parent’s 60th wedding anniversary.  It seems so strange that his balding man, towering almost a foot above my head could be the same tiny baby I received after trick or treating but strangely enough, the hug felt the same, those large man arms that could reach around my entire back were the same little arms who grabbed me by the neck when I carried him on my hip as a child.

These days, instead of our entertaining him, he keeps us in stitches with his quick wit and quirky observations of the world.  I wish I could have a daily dose of him to keep me laughing.

Happy Belated Birthday little brother.  Although I don’t get to see you or even talk to you as much as I would like, you are always in my heart.

I’m not usually great at planning outings but last week I spied a little article in a column in the paper listing upcoming events at our local wineries that caught my interest.  It was announcing French Crepe Day at the Delfosse Vineyard in Fagan, VA. on Sunday.  Well, I like wine.  I like crepes.  I especially  like spending Sunday afternoons with my friends, drinking wine and enjoy incredible mountain vistas.  Our calendar was free, all we needed were friends to enjoy the afternoon with.  As it happened, our usual partners in crime, Carol and Chuck Lewis were also free this weekend, so the outing was a go!

This was our first trip down to Delfosse Vineyards.  None of us were really sure where it was, but like most things around here, it was about an hour’s drive.  Mind you, an hour of driving around here actually gets you somewhere.  It’s not like our old days in DC or Virginia Beach where it took us an hour to drive from one end of town to another.  Along the way we were treated to Mother Nature’s fall splendor in full color.  The sky was deep blue and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

Even though this is my fourth fall here, and my,  eh-hem, let’s say, it’s not my first experience with fall color, each time I see a new view of the rich tapestry of colored leaves on rolling landscapes, it’s hard not to feel the “ew and aw” of each new site.  There is just something deeply pleasing about watching nature prepare for a long winter’s rest.

After driving about thirty-five miles down US29, we turned off onto a narrow, windy country road that climbed into the hills.  From there we turned onto yet another road, much narrower than the first, and the climb continued.  Even few miles or so, signs were posted along the road; “Delfosse Vineyards, You’re Almost There!”  which reassured us that we were indeed on the right track and would soon be enjoying our wine and crepes.

Soon we turned into a drive flanked by a beautiful stone gate and the tasting room was in our site.  What a surprise it was, to see such a sleek, almost modern building sitting in this rustic scene.  Inside, the room was set like a bistro with brightly painted tables set for parties of four. We started with a small cheese plate accompanied by a bottle of Viognier. Over the course of the next few hours we each had a savory and then sweet crepe and shared another bottle of wine.  Everything was delicious and the company congenial and comfortable.  After we’d finished the last of the wine, we took a walk around the property to stretch our legs before heading back home.

Sometimes, after I’ve spent an afternoon like this, I ponder what I could have done in my life to have been blessed with living in such a place.  I know the answer; it is nothing; just as if we’d had a string of bad luck, it wouldn’t be punishment.  Nonetheless, I feel the blessing and am incredibly thankful to live in such a beautiful place, to have a husband who is willing to take me on these little outings and especially to have good friends to share these times with.  Oh, and a nice glass of wine isn’t bad either.

Some say the eyes are the window to the soul. I say my pantry is the window to my brain. Every inch of space is filled with stuff to the point where it seems like it can’t hold any more and more times than not, it isn’t as well-organized as I’d wish it to be.

From time to time I attempt to regain a semblance of order so that I can readily grab what I need. But just like my memory, I don’t always seem able to grasp the exact thing I’m in search of without moving a few things around first.

I try to keep like-things together; breakfast cereals, baking items, canned goods, etc., but there are a few things that either don’t fit with the others due to the shape of their packaging or because their uses cover many categories or they are so unique that they are only used occasionally.  These are sometimes the items that take the longest to find.

Generally after turning on the light and moving a few things, I find exactly the things I’m in search of.  Sadly, sometimes the thing is just not there.  Instead, it was  just a faint memory of something that was there but is now no more that sent me looking in the first place.

Seasonal items are the worst; things I only buy once a year or so.  They tend to end up in the back, obscured by other things which often results in my replacing it before it’s gone leaving me with twice as much of something I don’t use very often.  During canned food drives I am conflicted as to whether or not I should donate non regular food items; a jar of capers could be a treat to someone who is on a tight budget or of no use to someone who doesn’t use them.

My brain works pretty much on the same system.  I shove so much data on so many different subjects that it makes memory storage challenging.  I have always been a memory-hoarder; tucking away thoughts and impressions of places and events in my life.  These, along with the stories from the many people I’ve met on my journey take up enormous bits of memories.

I cannot even begin to count how many human beings I have crossed paths with in my 59 years.  There must be tens of thousands, possibly more.   Although I may struggle to remember their names, their faces and a story behind the face is usually easily retrieved, especially if I’ve actually spoken to them.  Names are just not as important as the person themselves; our stories are who we are, names are just a label.

Sometimes I wonder just how many terabytes of data the human brain can retain before the whole system crashes.  Just like my pantry, some of the shelves are getting rather crowded and when a I shuffle things around, sometimes things fall off.  Luckily, they only fall to the floor where I can pick them up and put them away, if I can find room on a shelf.

At the end of sixth grade, the girls in my class were given sealed envelopes to be taken home to our parents.  Inside were permission slips for us watch a ten minute Disney film titled, “The Story of Menstruation”.  The film was for us girls of course, no way in 1967 would we have watched a film with that subject matter with the boys.  I have no idea where the boys went or what they were told.

Some of us wiser girls already had an idea of what the film was about.  Either from our mothers or older sisters, the lore was passed down in hurried whispers, hand over ears to prevent being overheard.  My mother had given me a brief talk when I was nine and wanted to use the lightweight cardboard from her gigantic sanitary napkin boxes to make paper dolls.  All I really carried away from our discussion was that those boxes were not suitable for paper dolls and it was because of a long word I wasn’t familiar with the began with the letter “m”.  For some reason, came to think the word was “manifestation”; which caused me some major discomfort during Mass one Sunday when I heard the priest use that word in a prayer.  But, being a kid, I was fully aware I didn’t understand everything  so just let it go.

Anyway, the day came for the film and there was some speculation on whose parents might not have allowed their girls to watch.  Some of us thought that certainly the Jehovah’s Witnesses wouldn’t be allowed.  After all, they had to go to the office whenever we had a party, surely this would be way out of the question.  But, they were allowed.  Interesting.

All I remember now about the film is that it was animated and the whole event seemed anticlimactic when compared to the hype and secrecy.  This morning I Googled the film and found it on YouTube.  I don’t remember it being so clinical.  For some reason I remember butterflies, but those might have been the flower petals that fall in the opening credits.  I think Kotex probably used butterflies on their packaging at one time; after all, preteen girls are the caterpillars of womanhood, and I thought I was one of the ugliest caterpillars in the group.

Having watched the film I and armed with a packet of samples, I went home to wait for womanhood to arrive.  The movie made it look like such an exciting time in my life.  Before I knew it, I’d be grown up and could have a baby.  The film never said how that would happen and believe it or not, at eleven years old, I didn’t know the facts of life.  All I’d heard was that if your parents slept in the nude, they had more kids than those whose parents who wore pajamas.  Now it makes sense, but then it was perplexing.

So, the day came.  I was excited and anxious.  I had everything I needed to care for myself.  I remember my mother knocking on the bathroom door asking if I needed any help.  No, I told her, which was a mistake, because she probably would have advised me to wear underwear over my sanitary protection and saved me from a day of drafty discomfort.  Remember, those were the days when girls wore skirts and dresses to school and skirts were short!  Somehow I made it through that day and others like it for the next 43 years.  By then I was entering into another phase of womanhood.

There were no films, no permission slips or even product samples to herald the beginning of menopause. Instead, there were songs, musicals, jokes; both funny and unkind and more books on the subject than anyone would care to read.  Then there was the arguments both pro and con on the subject of hormones supplements.

Unlike menstruation, there is no one defining event that defines that you have arrived.  Instead, there were years of seemingly unrelated symptoms that made me wonder it I was “in it”.  When asked about tests, my doctors were always vague and insisted there was no test to tell one way or another.  The fact that they still asked me at 50 what form of birth control I was using was extremely disconcerting – a late in life pregnancy would be another major change.

Still, there was no avoiding the fact that I was experiencing unusual bursts of warmth, especially at night, the occasional mood swing (which really wasn’t anything new) and worst of all, insomnia.  Instead of hormone therapy, I opted for mild anti-anxiety meds, which didn’t stop the hot flashes, but made me not care so much and best of all, helped me sleep.  There were also some tiresome “womanly” problems that resulted in surgery and ultimately ending my monthly reminder that I was made for bearing children.  The surgery made life more enjoyable, but also denied me of knowing when I had arrived.

Now, at 59, the doctors just assume I’m there.  Frankly, I don’t think about any of it anymore.  Like my eleven year old self, I am comfortable with who I am and there is little thought of my reproductive self, except the pride I feel when I look at my children.  As I look back over the past forty-three years, I do believe they were my caterpillar years and I am now in my butterfly years.  They way be shorter in duration than the caterpillar years, but I think it’s time to spread my tiny wings and fly.