The Wind is Blowing

I cannot escape the wind howling outside the french doors of the room I am sitting in, trying to focus on these few moments in time to tell you where I am.

I have gone back. I am back in the time of being the wife, the mom and the hostess. I have put writer on hold temporarily, and activist too.  I have polished and cleaned and stopped just for a brief moment to appreciate that my sons are home for a break from college. I made the buckwheat pancakes, the eggs, the English muffins this morning, and cooked the sausage, laid it out as each in their own time left to go to the business to work. I had done the last big bit of holiday organizing last night and have today to think about the trays that still need polishing and the chairs upstairs that still need dusting. 

I tore bedding apart and washed it all, I rehung the winter drapes, missing the lovely lace that lets the light through, but knowing that the icy cold loves them too. So the velvet went up and I went down to answer the door as some new package of goodies arrived for the holiday. I am thankful.

The boy that spends so much of his time with us, and has, as a friend of my boys at college over that last four years, is back at his home in Minnesota. He headed out for break there with his family. He is celebrating too, he already has a job offer lined up for when he graduates in spring. He is thankful.

My husband asked if he should get a pizza last night or was I cooking. I let them know when they called hours later that it would be pizza, could they order and pick up. When my one son had come by earlier before heading to the shop, he asked if his girlfriend could have dinner with, so she arrived later with the pizza too. In my drive to do things, that was a detail overlooked, but quickly remembered and so we had a full table. I was grateful to see her.

When my other son came in he told me how excited all the German students were to come on Thanksgiving and told me he could have got the count up to 30 easily; I asked him why he had not invited the rest of them, instead of half. He said it might be too much to handle and he had made sure the students that came were the ones he truly knew and spent time with in Germany. He assured me the others would have fun doing whatever they had planned without him. I was thankful.

Mystified by the daily stresses of life without a holiday approaching, I was wondering why I had to stress myself out by going to an event downtown that would be covered with protesters and likely to aggrevate my blood pressure and agitate me into having a canniption fit. I was encouraged to attend as I had paid a hefty fundraising style ticket, was on the 'host' committee and it was a chance to be with my friends who I have worked with over the years on the issue. I thought of staying at the hotel, thought of an outfit, charged my camera and then said to myself, um, hey, duh, take it easy, you got a 22 pound turkey to defrost, a ham, bunch of stuff to do, they  should have had this in October, what the hell are you doing to yourself. I was the only one who noticed, that I perhaps needed not to go and do all that. I was grateful.

I woke up this morning, instead of feeling like I had been in a car wreck, rested, ready to see to my husband and sons, and have a few minutes carved out to write how grateful I am.

 I am thankful and when my daughter gets home she will be too, all the cleaning she thinks she has to do will have been done and she can have a nice, albeit quick, relaxing break from her studies.

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55 

Stollen, A German Christmas Tradition

 About a dozen years ago I started to make Stollen at home for Christmas.  I had bought my last imported one and decided that I could try this recipe. I had a couple of years of making bread under my belt, so this did not seem impossible.  This particular version is from an Encyclopedia of Creative Cooking edited by Charlotte Turgeon. 

Back in the 1980's I was working for Merrill Lynch and a young office boy was selling these books floor by floor in our building. Imagine someone doing that now; well, they used to do stuff like that back then. I never cooked much as a child or young woman and most things like that were a complete mystery to me.

Stollen was something I had eaten in Austria so I always associated it with a magical time in my life. 

This is the same recipe from long ago, however ,I do make some adjustments as noted.

Stollen

2 packages active dry yeast

1/4 cup warm water

1 cup scalded milk

1/2 cup butter

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom

4 1/2 cups sifted all purpose flour

1 egg slightly beaten

1 cup seedless raisins

1/4 cup currants

1/4 cup shopped mixed candied fruits ( I use dried fruits in any combination finely chopped, never the candied fruits.)

2 tablespoons grated orange rind ( I sometimes use dried orange peel)

1 tablespoon grated lemon rind (I sometimes use dried lemon peel)

1/4 cup chopped blanched almonds ( I often leave the nuts out as someone in our family has nut allergies and might like to try some.)

2 tablespoons melted butter *(Okay, I use a whole stick, slathering it over the hot from the oven loaf, the stick gets deformed, but it really works well for coverage. The kids thought it was funny when I started doing that.)

Confectioner's sugar **(This is fun, I take a couple of cups of this and dump it on the loaf. Then I attempt to glue that stuff to it with the butter already drenching it, done while still very warm, it actually works!!!)

Dissolve the yeast in the warm water.

Combine milk, 1/2 cup butter, sugar, salt and cardomon in large mixing bowl; cool to luke warm. Sitr in 2 cups flour; mix well. Add yeast and egg; mix until blended. Stir in fruits, grated rinds and almonds. Stir in enough remaining flour to make soft dough.

Turn out onto lightly floured surface. Knead 10 minutes or until smooth and elastic; add more flour as needed. Place in greased bowl; turn to grease surface. Cover; let rise in warm place 1 hour 45 minutes or until double in bulk.

Bake in preheated 375 degrees F oven 20 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees F about 40 minutes, until lightly browned. Brush with melted butter; place on rack to cool.

Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar*, then with additional candied fruits.** Yield about 15 servings. 

Fresh out of the oven! Naked Stollen! 

 

Here is the Stollen with the powdered sugar on it. Some years there is not a stitch of brown showing when I am done! 

 

Here is a piece cut, note the thickness of the powered sugar on the top.

Enjoy your holiday season with the goodness of fresh baked memories. The sights and smells, the fun of doing all this with your kids is what they will remember.

 Most people customarily bake their Stollen well in advance of the holiday and store it, to eat it then. That is the way many Germans do it. We eat ours immediately. It is a festive ceremony, preparing it with the sugar while it is still hot from the oven, then slicing it while it is still warm. There is usually only a bit left the next day. That small remnant  is very good with coffee and if you are so inclined, you can put a bit of butter on it. 

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55 

 Here is an interesting pictorial of the ingredients and stages of Stollen:

Dresdener Stollen Process  image courtesy of Ulrich van Stipriaan on Wiki

 Stollen has very old origins.

 "The early Stollen was a different pastry, the ingredients were very different - flour, oats and water.^[6]

As a Christmas pastry, Stollen was baked for the first time at the Saxon Royal Court in 1427,^[7] and was made with flour, yeast, oil and water.

The Advent season was a time of fasting, and bakers were not allowed to use butter, only oil, and the cake was tasteless and hard.^[4]

In the 15th century, in medieval Saxony (in central Germany, north of Bavaria and south of Brandenburg), the Prince Elector Ernst (1441 - 1486) and his brother Duke Albrecht (1443–1500) decided to remedy this by writing to the Pope in Rome. The Saxon bakers needed to use butter, as oil in Saxony was expensive, hard to come by, and had to be made from turnips, although we now know this was a healthy option^[8].

Pope Nicholas V (1397–1455), in 1450 denied the first appeal. Five popes died until finally, Pope Innocent VIII, (1432–1492)^[7] in 1490 sent a letter to the Prince, known as the "Butter-Letter" which granted the use of butter (without having to pay a fine) - but only for the Prince-Elector and his family and household.

Others were also permitted to use butter, but with the condition of having to pay annually 1/20th of a gold Gulden to support the building of the Freiburg Minster. The ban on butter was removed when Saxony became Protestant.

Over the centuries, the cake changed from being a simple, fairly tasteless "bread" to a sweeter cake with richer ingredients, such as marzipan, although the traditional Stollen is not as sweet, light and airy as the copies made around the world." Wikipedia

The Inevitable Sunrise

Like the boiling pot on the stove, life has a way of sometimes escaping the boundaries we create for it. 

I have been reading a number of pieces written by some very fine authors found on Open Salon and also on Viewshound. What I have found is that many people have remarkable ideas and lives, interesting advice and epiphanies. I could spend hours reading and learning. Somethings I throw out of my head, somethings I treasure and keep, to continue to mull over.

When I was thinking of this month and Thanksgiving, I thought I would write something for every day and have interesting things to share. Turns out I have missed a few days, actually because I was living. I have been cleaning and fixing things long neglected so that I will have a holiday that shines brightly.

During all of this, I have had luncheons and seen movies, grocery shopped, holiday shopped and still read a great deal. That is the hardest thing, the hours that seem to go by when I am reading. My mind is not content to take it all in, it must be analyzed and framed in a context and further measured according to my own thoughts and experiences. There is so much happening in the world these days. My practice is to read several articles on progressive news outlets as well as some mainstream conservative ones. I do not read one source, nor do I watch one source. I am a news junkie to a point.

It seems that my routine has catapulted itself into over drive as the world has whirred the fastest it has in a while and blurred so much that I must painstakingly examine it, or I, the me you know, will be lost.

I also found a very good silver polish so that has been my downfall too. Everything it seems has not been polished in some time, so I must do it now. Why? I don't know, this polish is really great and some of these things might actually get used this year on the holidays.

My husband calls it nesting. He has told the children, tucked away at school, that. He even smilingly and jokingly, asked me if I was pregnant. Ha. At this age and in this condition, no, not a chance. However to him, this is what it feels like.

Even if I had not found that silver polish, I would have found something to do to prepare for the holidays, it is my nature. So, even if I don't get to some of this, tomorrow will be another day, and I can fill up my extra time with reading. I don't have to write so much right now, I need to read, absorb and apparently polish. 

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55 

The Majestic Ornament

 This is our tree this year! Full of old ornaments and special meaning, with this tree we are celebrating being all together again at Christmas.

 

These paintings were done years ago. They tell a story of a time when I was thinking of children's books. I painted several and saved these three for my own children. They were painted in 1993. I actually gifted them to each child when they were old enough to tell me which one they liked. Once in a while I take them out at holiday time and hang them up.

 

 

This is the little tree. This year the little tree is mostly blue and white. We put some fairies and dancers on it and also some sea ornaments, shells and sailboats, also some snowflakes.

This year we are only using about one fourth of all the ornaments we have stored. A few summers ago, a young woman was my summer helper. She needed money, so I thought of a few jobs to give her. One of our projects was organizing some of the boxes of Christmas stuff. Together we put all the important ornaments for each child in a special box with their names on it. It was the first attempt at wrangling some sense out of all these precious pieces.

 The Majestic Ornaments

I think, maybe next year,

I will go through them all again

and put some more aside in special boxes.

Some so old,

and not in the prettiest shape,

represent things to me that no one else can really see.

They are a part of a past life,

a young girl full of hope and starlight.

If I let them go, no one else will see their glow.  

They kept me focused and warm, in the hope that someday a

Christmas

would come, filled with children, a loving husband

a warm feeling, a fire in the hearth.

All their promise rang true,

with each passing year, the Christmas grows more

beautiful,

with real love, real devotion,

and faith.

There is no shortage of these here. 

We are blessed. 

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55 

My Mother Does Not Know Me

 A few years back I had the opportunity to meet up with several relatives in a state far away to celebrate the life of a dear aunt. Spending her last years in the cave of Alzheimer’s, she still managed to let the outside world see a bit of herself. When I had first learned of her illness, I had taken some time to write a poem to her daughter who was very grief struck by this change in her mothers health. She had been slipping away for some time and it was important to have her in a care facility. Here is the poem.

 

 A painting which resembles the young Agnes.

MY Mother Does not know me.

  Dedicated to Carol and her mother, Aunt Agnes for years of caring family love, and now the challenge of Alzheimers. (written for Mothers Day 2007)  

My mother does not know me. It makes me feel so strange.

I often wonder where her mind is.

Did she wonder where my mind was when I was an infant too?

As I lay in my dear crib, could she imagine my adventure?

My mother does not know me. It makes me feel so strange.

I often wonder where her mind is.

How did I sleep so blissfully with all the world around?

Did I cry for reasons or just to hear the sound?

My mother does not know me.

Time has passed and tempered me, I cry for only good reason.

I have had the pleasure of watching many a season.

In my own world I have dwelled but felt not so alone

For always in the background was my mother in her home.

My mother does not know me.

I wandered all the around the world and brought myself to love.

I had a child and family and thanked my God above.

When my father died I felt that I could bear no more.

But there was yet another chapter, another course before.

My mother does not know me.

When I was a child my favorite thing was when my mother cooked.

She put love in every bite and I just took and took.

It was a pleasure of my senses, the smells, the colors, the tastes.

Now I bring her sugar drops and watch her face.

My mother does not know me.

Just as I was alone in my crib, with perhaps angels all around me

So I find my mother now, an infant in new surroundings.

She looks and smiles and is polite, like a traveler in some new place.

But all the while I am thinking of a smiling infant face.

My mother does not know me.

Over time this too shall pass and I will alone understand.

The measure of my worth as human is the kindness from my hand.

It does not matter that the candy is hard and sugary and simple to buy.

It only matters that she smiles and it is to me, alone, that is not a lie.

My mother does not know me. She does not have to.

She is the infant whose pure joy in taste is mine.

She smiles from gas or real delight, locked in her mind the why.

I do not care for she is mine and I am hers each time

I visit her for loves pure sake, this infant mom of mine.

I will always remember that what I have done is true

Each time I have loved her in this way, I have loved her true.

-------

Her son Greg told me that in the last few days when he was visiting and feeding her, she pushed the food from her mouth to let him know she was not interested in it any more.

Aunt Agnes expressed her love through an abundance of food. She was a person who shared this as an act of love. Her table was heavy laden, her efforts all home made. Squeezing into the breezeway of her tiny home was a long table filled with relatives and food to greet my fiancé. He was overwhelmed with the display and it spoke to him, he loved this aunt and uncle best, pronouncing that was an indication to me of the importance of food as an expression of love. Yeah, I am a pretty good cook now, I never was before that.

In the funeral service my cousin Carol got up and read a lovely message. She said that her mother experienced dementia in a way that was unusual. She did not have out bursts of anger or hate. She could be found praying and thanking G-d. She was polite and called everyone, Ma’m, even her son. She refused to wear her dentures and each person was greeted by her toothless grin. She was once a gymnast, an athletic woman, I did not know her this way, but seeing her lay in state, I think she was somehow back to that, a small, thin woman.

She did not recognize anyone, but she still knew herself. She knew she was Agnes. Now what Agnes she knew, must have been a very young, carefree one. She was a gift always. In her final days she pointed out friends in the room with her when her son was visiting. She greeted them and introduced them, calling each by name. There was no one in the room but her son, and he did not recognize any of the names she was telling him, but they sat close to her and she seemed to look them in the eyes. On the last night they came again and she left with them, she said no good byes, there was no last hug. Out into the heavens she went, off on some young lark.

  

When Carol received the poem back in 2007 she wrote me a note:

Oh Sheila, what beautiful poetry! I especially love the second to the last stanza.

"I do not care for she is mine and I am hers each time

I visit her for loves pure sake, this infant mom of mine."

THANK YOU FOR MAKING MY MOTHER'S DAY SO VERY SPECIAL! YOU ARE SUCH A TALENTED GAL!

Love,

Carol and Aunt Agnes

Copyright 2010 SheilaTGTG55

Beans

There is a scene in the 1950 movie, Cheaper by the Dozen, where all the kids go to the beach for the summer and all they can afford to eat is beans.Jeanne Crain gets invited to a barbecue where they are having steaks, it seems the beach neighbors have less kids and are rich. I felt sorry for Jeanne, her family was eating cans of beans, think of the fun they could have had making them from scratch!

My mother born in the late 20’s, serving in WWII as a Wave, was no stranger to beans. There were seven children in her family and she was the third youngest. She grew up eating hot soup to cool off in the summers in Detroit. She ate so much bean soup that she became a connoisseur of bean soup. In fact she was a decent cook, could not make a decent chicken soup but could not mess up bean soup.

  

   Grandma Florence 

It was a Navy bean or sometimes a green split pea thing she made. She also made a great chili, with beans. In some circles that is unheard of, of course I grew up thinking the meat was the extra thing. Beans and peas really are botanically classified as fruit.

When she retired and moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico, she continued with the bean thing, one of her regular charitable acts was to donate huge bags of dried beans to the food pantry there. Did I mention my mother’s last name wasBien?

When my children were small, I took them out to see her. She took us to the local grocery store and my five year old son was enjoying looking at the beans. He told her that he loved black beans….I thought she was going to cry. She bought him a can and when we did not end up using it for a meal, she mailed it in a box to him, just in case he could not get a can of black beans where we lived.

Anyway, my cupboard is full of dried beans, canned beans and indeed, a virtual variety of beans. I regularly cook up bean things. I recently made some great white lima beans with diced chili’s and tomatoes. I just made a batch of homemade chili this week to die for with pinto beans in it. I then cooked up some black-eyed peas with turkey broth, onions and a big dash of lemon juice for dinner one night.

I don’t know if I am in love with the idea of the process, picking through the dried beans, rinsing them, soaking them for hours and watching them eat up the water, or finally simmering them into submission. In a pinch opening a can is just as fulfilling.

Turns out this food that some used when money was tight, is a pretty yummy gourmet option after all; part of the Mediterranean Diet, they take the place of meat rather easily and are healthy for you to eat.

Thanks, MOM.

Copyright 2010 SheilaTGTG55

 

Two Bowls of Rice

 

Things of beauty

meant to hold

more than

image

 

Things of beauty

meant to be

a thing

of substance

 

How is your beauty

filled or empty

air or rice or

both

 

Given when full

 beautiful when

empty

hunger avoided

grace defined

 

Like us

things of beauty

each meant to be

of substance

 

Giving

Receiving 

Thankfulness 

 

 

 

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55 

To Serve

 

 

 

Picture from a pamphlet booklet called

Great Photographs of WORLD WAR II

Selected by the Editors of The Reader's Digest 1964

 

 TO SERVE

 

Dedicated to every service man and woman who leaves a child at home. In loving memory of my parents who both served in WWII.

 

 

War is a treacherous thing

There is so much at stake

while the enemy marches on

my baby girl first wakes

silent in the slumber

she tosses not at night

early in the morning

she wakes easy at first light

while I am away from her

I am confident in knowing

every single day out here

is one more she'll be growing

in the midst of all this

dark

this gloom

this horror

she will play with her little bear

in her crib

while it is

snowing

I will march with my buddies

over hills and forests

beaches, mountains

jungles, desert sands

to reach the battle at

hand

her little lips will kiss goodnight my

lovely wife's sweet cheek

and in my dreams I dream of them

while the enemy is beneath my feet

I will walk and run and jump

I will hang my weapon

at my side

my silent stalking in the night

to hear her rattle tinkle

light

I will march on and feel this pain

because I know

it is not in vain

for there she sleeps in warmth and comfort

for which I have bought and paid

for each and every day of peace

someone once has paid

 

I know I will be going home, I have known it for awhile

I will be greeted so fast and sweet,

by my growing, loving child

 

 

 

For every father separated from his little girl

I cut the journey right in half, and separate the  hell

I bless you on your journey home

I wish you all that's well.

 

 Copyright 2010 by SheilaTGTG55

 

 

 

 

This is a re-post of my Veteran's Day Blog on 11/11/10