CHRISTMAS CHEER AND WISH YOU A FIGGY PUDDING

I retrieved the metal measuring spoons from the utility drawer and a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me.  These are the spoons my Mother used for baking and the jangle of the utensils transports me to my childhood home.  And while I am reminiscing, I might as well recall when my son was a little boy.  After all, memories are the staples of home cooking and remembering makes all the shopping and chopping worthwhile.

We carry food memories and it’s these sensory reflections that make our holiday meals and family reunions special.  My kitchen musings include Aunt Charlene’s legendary pies which can’t be replicated unless pie is served in Heaven, and the same is true when it comes to grandmother’s chicken and rice or Dad’s fried catfish.

Of course, new foods are added every year to the menu and some become welcomed additions like the triple layer coconut cream cake my sister-in-law made this year for Thanksgiving.  I hope this cake becomes a regular addition to our holiday gatherings!  I didn’t ask her for the recipe because I would rather eat this complicated cake than make it.

Recipes are my favorite reading material and I collect mounds of clippings every year to store in the notebooks in my kitchen.  In a way, this collection has become our family memoirs by chronicling gastronomical accounts on paper.  I use the internet often for inspiration but really, nothing compares to the wistfulness when coming across old recipes that were composed in my Aunt’s legible penmanship on her lovely stationery or the hurriedly scrawled note on the back of an envelope written by my neighbor when she stopped chasing her toddler and nursing the newborn long enough to list the ingredients of a favorite casserole.

Mother anticipated our visit to her house last summer by placing a can of black olives on the table for me and her legendary chocolate oatmeal cookies on the table for my husband.  My Mom remembers the Christmas Eve of my childhood when I ate an entire can of black olives and the gluttony spoiled my appetite on Christmas Day.  Yet, olives and her cookies are still at the top of my favorite’s list and she thoughtfully included both items in her menu when planning for our visit.

This Christmas I am cooking a few favorites: cranberry-jalapeno relish (my husband’s favorite), sweet potato casserole (my BDIL’s favorite) and something chocolate (my son’s favorite).  I’ll also make a layered bean dip because my niece enjoys it and for my father-in-law, well, he is easy because he will eat anything I make and tell me it is good.  Family and food – the best combination to serve up some mighty good memories!

Cranberry-Jalapeno Relish

Make this a day ahead to allow the flavors to meld and the heat from the jalapeno to mellow.

1 Cup water

1 Cup sugar

1 (12-ounce) package cranberries

2 Jalapenos, chopped

1 Tablespoon fresh cilantro

2 to 3 green onions, sliced

½ teaspoon cumin

1 Tablespoon fresh lime juice

Combine water and sugar in a saucepan.  Bring to a boil.  Add cranberries.  Return to a boil; cook 10 minutes without stirring.  Cool.  Add remaining ingredients and mix lightly.  Refrigerate.  Serve chilled or at room temperature.  Serves 8.

TIME MARCHES ON

My little dog was acting agitated with something in her paw so I took her to the veterinarian for a check-up.   Kissy has a very gentle nature and never meets a stranger.   She greets everyone with a wagging tail in eager anticipation of their salutation and then she rolls over on her back for a tummy rub.  A visit to the vet’s office triggers all her senses because she is the guest of honor enjoying the attention of people and animals.   It’s just too much stimulation for the old girl of sixty- four (that’s how old she is according to the chart in the waiting room) so to relieve the pressing excitement – she makes puddles!

I apologize as the receptionist calls for clean –up assistance.  A smiling young man comes to the lobby and begins to mop up the mess.  He looks familiar and when the receptionist says his name I joyfully recall he had been a student in my first grade class.  We talk for a minute and I ask him about high school.  He tells me that he’s a junior in college and working part-time for his dad at the vet’s office.

Wow!  I knew this young man when he was a little boy and I thought it was an exaggeration to ask him about high school because surely it was only a few years ago when we last saw each other.   However, I have noticed that most adults measure time by other people’s children.  For example, we haven’t seen friends for a while and then bump into them again at a social event or at the mall.  We exclaim the obvious by remarking how the children have grown and then we ask for a confirmation of the number of years since our last visit.  The truth is painfully apparent when realizing the same passing decade that has done an awesome job on the children also shows a bit more wear on the adults that are becoming acquainted again.

I called my Mom when I turned fifty to let her know we were both old ladies now.  She told me not to tell anyone my age because she couldn’t believe I was that old and she certainly could not be old enough to have a middle-age daughter.  My father-in-law just sighed when hearing I hit the mid-century mark and wished he could be my age again.  Geez, my Mom thinks I’m old and my father-in-law thinks I’m young.  I guess that's why it is known as middle-age.

I have my favorite ways of measuring time such as looking at an analog clock instead of a digital clock. In comparison, the digital clock provides little reference to the past and only hints at the future whereas, the analog clock is a visual representation of twenty four hour possibilities.  I also prefer churches that have a cemetery on the property because seeing rows of headstones when exiting the building is a subtle confirmation there is a life in Heaven after our time on earth.

This year our son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) celebrated their first year anniversary and that was a happy measurement of time although, my sweet Aunt Wanda died and that has been a very sad measurement of time.  And so it is that time marches on, and in the meantime I pray “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom”.

There is a popular saying on the plaques in the department stores “life is not measured by the amount of breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away” or something like that.  It looks like Kissy and I just have to realize that old age is really a matter of perspective and – an occasional puddle of excitement! 

THE HAPPY SNAPPER

My husband and I traveled to the United Kingdom in July to explore the roots of our O’Dell – Campbell union.  We didn’t find out much about the O’Dells while in Ireland but the Campbells are rather well known in Scotland.  I brought home a suitcase of souvenirs, many wonderful memories of the beautiful landscapes and a lingering desire for more of London’s delicious butter!

Vacations are intended to heighten our appreciation for adventure and touring a country across the Atlantic was very exciting.  For one thing, sleep is for wimps when you go international.  Ten hours on the plane to London and then it was time to board the motor coach for our whirlwind exploration of Great Britain’s many popular tourist attractions:  Stonehenge, the Roman Baths, Trinity College and Edinburgh Castle.  We sailed past Big Ben on the river Thames and sipped a beverage at the Guinness brewery.  The Royal Yacht Britannia allowed a peek into the stately living quarters of the two most papped women in England, Queen Elizabeth and Diana, Princess of Wales.   We toured historic cathedrals and visited the stables of Ireland’s prized stud farm.   And the Waterford crystal factory was the perfect place to purchase a gift to commemorate our son’s and BDIL’s (beautiful daughter-in-law) first year anniversary.

People are surprisingly predictable so the bus stopped regularly for potty breaks and to get something to eat.  This part of Europe is known for their fish and chips, which in theory, is similar to our fast food offering of chicken and fries in Texas.  The food was very good and the luscious soups served with bread and butter were my favorite meals.  Hot tea was always available and the brew was quite refreshing after a long day of sightseeing in the brisk climate of the British Isles. 

Forty people banding together for twelve hours a day created a sense of camaraderie and we had a jolly good time getting acquainted with our traveling companions.  Our new friends came from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Germany.  My husband and I were the lone southerners amongst the east coast travelers from the United States.  Everyone on the tour spoke English although; our guide in Scotland said we were the ones with the accent!

The photos reveal that my husband truly captured the joy of the journey with his “portable eye”.  His camera, resting on a small tripod, was always with him from one destination to the next and his pictorial overview didn’t miss a thing along the way.  Now we are home and his pictures offer a scenic rejuvenation when I long for the beauty of a European countryside.

A New Zealander observed my husband’s camera safari and nicknamed him “the happy snapper”.   The moniker describes the intention of our trip very well and provides an incentive for our next vacation – have camera, will travel!  

BLESSINGS ON THE VINE

Summer time in the Bible belt!  Southerners are well acquainted with the expression “hot as hell” and the influence of the rising mercury can certainly provide a motivating factor to heed the preacher’s salvation message.  Of course God is ever merciful, and He provides a silver-lining to this insufferable heat while we are here on earth and it is - tomatoes!

Gloriously, these plumb red beauties are available all summer long.  I think it may have been this little jewel that was Adam and Eve’s undoing in the Garden of Eden because nothing is more tempting to eat from the garden than a warm tomato right off the vine.  That first bite is so succulent that it squirts juice all over the face and the only way the dribble is thwarted from becoming a shirt stain is to wipe it away with the back of the hand.  So messy and so worth it!

Fortunately for me, my father-in-law has a garden in his backyard and he brings me produce on a regular basis.  My father-in-law is an east Texas farmer now cultivating a small plot of land in town.  I married his only son and he has always been nice to me, but in the summer he is absolutely charming when he unpacks a plastic grocery bag of his homegrown vegetables.  He begins by placing the onions, garlic, potatoes, and peppers on the kitchen counter.  Anticipating my zeal, he retrieves the tomatoes from the bag.  I exclaim over the tomatoes like they are newborn babies, and he beams with delight.  He knows that this simple interchange has made his favorite daughter-in-law very happy.

People don’t farm much anymore.  We are city people and dependent on the big trucks to bring in the harvest from the fields to our local grocery stores.  The only way we can tell which fruits and vegetables are in season is to be aware of the prices rising and falling at the local markets.

I am filled with nostalgia when remembering the benefits that rural living offered when I was a child.  We did things like shaking the milk carton to mix in the cream or spent the morning gathering pears off the ground in the backyard before the birds could get to them.  And there is nothing finer than the simple pleasure of beginning the day greeted by the bright yellow yolk of a fresh egg and I have always found the earthy smell of a tilled field invigorating.

My husband is quick to remind me that I have a romantic view of farming and I must admit my storybook idea is rather glamorous compared to the harsh reality of country living.  Truly, I am amazed anyone can get crops out of the hard ground in Texas although; I like knowing there is a humble expectation of God's provision when farmers plow their fields and are fed from the land year after year.

Today is a scorcher!  Thankfully, I have plenty of tomatoes sitting on the windowsill ready to be sliced and served with some mozzarella, olive oil and basil.   I look forward to sharing the blessings of the vine with my son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) when they come for dinner – tomatoes and Campbells, now that’s a good thing!

PARTY LINE

“The phone call is for you” said my husband as he opened the bathroom door.   I acknowledged by asking him to tell my mother I would call her back.  Of course she heard our entire conversation because he had the telephone in his hand when entering the room.  I can remember the days before portable phones when a person could be in the powder room and not announce your business, but alas, those moments of privacy in the privy seem no longer possible,

One such embarrassing encounter began in a public restroom when I was greeted by the lady in the stall next to me with a cheerful hello and then asked how I was feeling.  Well, having three sisters, a BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) and I work in a building full of women – all this supports the assumption that I am accustom to having conversations separated by a stall wall.  So I responded to her query by telling her I was fine.  The woman answered with “good” and inquired next with “what are you doing”.

Now that question caused me to pause because I was pretty sure we were both doing the same thing yet, ever the one to avoid the appearance of being rude, I continued the chat by responding with a pleasant “not much” and waited for her to continue the conversation she had initiated. She continued all right, by letting me know she was not talking to me and that she was on the phone!

Modern conveniences now help us be available all the time to everyone. Obviously, there are a few adjustments I can make to accommodate the telephone’s twenty-first century’s take on the “party line”. First, I should always lock the bathroom door even when just the two of us are at home and second, when there is a wall – don’t talk to strangers!

STARTER HOME

The newlyweds are thinking about purchasing a house.  Third floor apartment living is fine for them, but the lure of being a homeowner has taken hold so now they are in the market for a suitable home that accommodates their busy lifestyle and budget.

My husband and I are thinking about moving too.  Yes, we do a lot of thinking without doing anything about it.  We just can’t get motivated enough to tackle packing our twenty-six years of living in the same house into marked containers.  It all is so overwhelming when we look at the accumulation of “life” in the closets, shelves and garage to imagine all this stuff could actually live with us somewhere else.

However, there is another side to the story.  Although we resided in three locations before this house, this is the place in which our son grew up and calls home.  For over two decades we have had the same neighbors on the north, south, east, and west sides and my sister lives down the street.  It’s a bit of a pull to break away from this much history.

Passing the quarter century mark has made me nostalgic about our little piece of property.  I am looking at our home in a different way as I examine our living space by asking myself what makes a house a home and how do we represent who we are as a family to other people.  What will be remembered?  

When I was a little girl my Aunt Wanda had a lovely guest bedroom painted a subtle shade of lilac.  The room was filled with antique white furniture and the bedspread had tiny purple flowers on it.  It was my favorite room in her beautiful house and I loved to sleep in that room! She actually called it “Charlotte’s room” making a twelve year old feel secure in an insecure world.  She continued sheltering me with gentle kindness and understanding well into my adult years.  Wanda understood life was complicated and with southern hospitality her home became a respite to visitors as she shared Scripture, sang a hymn and ate a meal together. 

Aunt Wanda has a new address now and I can’t visit her any more.   She was born April 26^th and died eighty-one years later on April 26^th.  She lives in Heaven in one of the many mansions Jesus has prepared for those who want to live with Him for eternity.  It’s a nice “starter home” and she didn’t have to pack anything – because it is already perfectly equipped for a lifetime of living!

PEARL OF GREAT PRICE

We saw an Elvis impersonator on Tuesday and attended a symphony on Friday.  It seemed like a fitting way to celebrate the week of our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary since he’s a little bit rock and roll and I’m a little bit classical.  The two different musical venues represent our Mars-Venus relationship and being a good sport is part of the deal when it comes to marital bliss.  I sang along with the “King” on Elvis night and my husband did not yawn during the quiet parts at the symphony.  

Now gifts are also important in our annual celebrations.  I keep up with the traditional wedding anniversary gift ideas (promoted by greeting card companies but still fun) because I like the way each anniversary is commemorated with something special that symbolizes how many years a couple has been married.  When we celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary five years ago I told my husband it was a rather sad anniversary because now I knew how to measure thirty years, and the years are passing so quickly!  To cheer me, my wonderful husband gave me a beautiful strand of pearls to remember our special occasion. 

You probably know that a pearl comes from an oyster dealing with aggravation.  The oyster's natural reaction is to cover up the irritant with layers of the same nacre substance that is used to create the shell. This process eventually forms a masterpiece.  I think the story of the pearl’s development is a keen comparison to marriage since just as the oyster’s creative toil deals with an irritant and produces something beautiful and precious, so it seems that a couple must also suffer the angst of making a “pearl of great price” out of their marital irritations.  I shared this analogy with my husband and he just slowly shook his head without identifying which of us is the oyster and which one of us is the irritant.

My friend told me she read in a marriage counseling book that successful marriages are made by two people that like each other slightly better than they dislike each other.  Okay, that makes sense.  And speaking about likes and dislikes, my husband found out Elvis is returning for another encore performance!  He thinks it would be fun to go to the concert with the newlyweds.  Yes, let’s introduce our BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) to another Campbell ritual that includes romantic phrases like “she ain’t nothing but a hound dog” sung by a middle-age man with long sideburns and a hairy chest – it’s a family memory that is sure to become a classic!  

ROSE COLORED GLASSES

The rose bush bloomed in spring.  Rejuvenated, despite my hatchet job cutting the foliage to the root and disturbing its winter hibernation, the roses came back – gloriously!  I was discouraged in December after my amateurish pruning of the branches resulted in a plant that looked like sticks poking out of the soil, but God revived the plant and restored my soul with this lovely visual reminder that spring is a wonderful, revitalized time of the year when all nature is replenished to rightfully glorify the earth’s Designer.

 With renewed inspiration that grace supersedes inexperience and even stupidity, I visit the local garden center in pursuit of a transplanting adventure.  I love the sensory experience of a nursery – the colorful blooms swirling together in baskets, the texture of the foliage, the chirping of the visiting birds, and the heavenly aroma of the intoxicating fragrances of the plants.  I’m lured into thinking that I am a gardener and join the conversations of other shoppers comparing the growing seasons of different species, discussions about shade/sun tolerance, and I ask them which plants would tolerate drought because outside vegetation doesn’t get much attention from me in the dog days of summer.

 I hurry home from the garden center in anticipation of beautifying our yard with my carefully selected purchases.  Arriving home I survey our property and of course, the weeds have returned from their slumber as well.  They are everywhere!  Weeds are blooming in the yard and in the flower beds.  So tenacious is a weed that it will even break through concrete to prove its vitality.

 I begin weeding, and weeding, and weeding the flower beds.  My back aches, I’m hot, and it’s really slow going pulling handful after handful of greenery out of the ground by the roots.  Weeds are deceptive – some are big with shallow roots and others are small with very deep roots.  And a small thorny one must be hanging on in China because I never could dig down far enough to get it out.  All this work made me a bit contemplative and I remembered a verse I learned in my childhood from a book written by Dale Evans:

Dear Lord, my life is a garden

Each deed is a tiny seed

Help me to grow lovely flowers

Not naughty, ugly weeds

 It is funny how being outside brings things inside my head.   In the solitude of the garden I find myself thinking about my life and taking time to feel the gentle pull of the Lord “weeding” my heart.  There it is – gardening is not for wimps!  It is labor and as we all know, you get what you work for in life.  I am joining the ranks of those that appreciate the sweat of the brow and farsighted enough to prepare for the sacrifices involved in clearing, planting, watering and waiting. 

 Maybe my son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) will notice the blooming roses and pretty flower beds when they come to our house.  One day I plan to give my BDIL cuttings from the iris plants from our yard to plant in their home garden.  In Greek the word iris means “rainbow” because of all the showy color.  I have had the beautiful flowers in my yard for over thirty years and I want to share the joy with my BDIL by passing to her a living legacy as part of the family inheritance.  I added some new flowers to my garden and I am especially proud of the calla lilies I planted this year.  Now if only the calla lilies can survive my lack of attention in August – she can have some of those cuttings too!