Recipes + Memories

 

It seems AMAZING that I still make this recipe our neighbor, Betty Neale, gave my mother about 65 years ago.  I also make Eric Carlson's skirt steak though the recipe doesn't carry his name.  The Carlsons and the Neales were our Bel Forest neighbors in Bellevue, Washington, along with the Madisons, and the Nelsons, cousins who lived across the street. Not a surprise that recipes - especially eponymous ones on well-worn cards - are invested with so many memories.  But I enjoy taking time to think about our childhood neighborhood and friends like Susanna Neale with whom I exchange holiday cards.  I wonder about those with whom our family has lost touch and think about one of our across the street cousins who died not long ago.  Our family reconnected with the Carlsons in the 1960's when both families lived in the Chicago suburbs.  The Madisons introduced us to their Washington state college friends the Stotts, who became lifelong friends when we moved from Bellevue to Connecticut where they had also relocated.  Meandering thoughts...all prompted by a recipe card for the rice I'll make this afternoon.

Lessons learned

Thinking about lessons learned from two men whose lives intersected with mine many years ago.  Like others I've taken advantage of this period of self-quarantine and social distancing to peruse a collection of memorabilia that seems to grow exponentially with age.  Today I found this 1984 note from the late Sid Fischman.  A former Board of Estimate & Taxation member, Sid offered his encouragement and support as my mayoral nomination to the same board headed to the City Council for a vote.  I kept this as a reminder of how touched I was by his gesture and my realization of the importance of personal notes.  Not long before leaving Connecticut I told Sid's son Eric about his father's influence on me through this simple kindness.

Earlier this morning I saw this photo of one of my former students in the online media.  I met Ricky in the 1980's when he was in his  20's and he enrolled in a high school equivalency program I facilitated.  At the time he worked as a receptionist at the local hospital. Ricky confidently and quickly completed the competency-based program earning a local high school diploma.  He was a capable and engaging student, demonstrating proficiency in both the basic and life skills required for graduation.  Some months or more later I saw Ricky on the streets of our town.  He was obviously down and out and dealing with stuff.  He greeted me warmly and said he hoped to get his act back together soon.  In subsequent years when I saw Ricky - either in person or through the police blotter - I learned more about his demons, powerfully witnessing the ravages of mental illness and substance abuse on my remarkable student.

Connecting

It began when a woman about my age said she liked my outfit.  We were sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, she with her daughter and me with my husband.  I thanked her for the compliment noting this was the first time I’d worn these two vintage (actually just old) articles of clothing together.  With news of the latest mass shooting on the nearby TV, she commented that it was such a tragedy children couldn’t go to school these days without fear.  I nodded and she continued, saying that perhaps it was understandable.  When I asked what she meant, she said as a Christian, good and evil were ever present in our lives and we could only hope for good to prevail.  I nodded again suggesting gun control was certainly another factor.  She told me that her father owned a gun and never put it in a locked cabinet because as children, she and her siblings would never have thought to touch the weapon or ammunition.  

Thus began one of the most meaningful 20-30 minute conversations I’ve ever had with a complete stranger and her daughter.  Is it perhaps helpful to note they were African American, born and raised in the South?  With laughter, smiles, questions back and forth, and nods of agreement, our conversation covered many subjects:  being raised by a single parent (the daughter), parenting (all three of us), religion, race, public housing, income disparity, education, and politics.  

I only wish I had gotten her name and contact information before she left to see the doctor and my husband returned.  Powerfully inspired by this interaction I’m committed to being open to more opportunities like this, realizing how much I can learn from listening and learning from those who bring different experiences and perspectives than my own to important conversations.  

Touching

A few days after my friend Amy made me smile when she wrote about my drive-by hug I received this envelope in the mail. Kathryn and I were neighbors in the 1980’s and our sons (now in their 40’s) used to have play dates. After divorcing in the 1990’s she returned to college, earned a degree, and realized her dream of living in Africa.   A chronic illness prompted a move to Bangkok, Thailand where Kathryn continues to enjoy the life of an expat and Air BnB host.  We’ve stayed in touch through email and social media so I wondered about the handwritten communication - perhaps my upcoming milestone birthday?  She wrote to thank me for the small but apparently meaningful ways I supported her efforts to become the person she is today.  Reading and re-reading her note, I thought about the connection between significant objects and small gestures.  Both the artifacts and the touches can have powerful long-term impact.  Sometimes it’s simply a case of seeing the best in people when they don’t see the good in themselves.  I thought about the people whose small touches have stayed with me for many, many years – Georgia, Meg, Joanie, Cheryl, and so many others.  Touches can be comments, explanations, nods, suggestions, or simple hugs. They give pause for thought, prompt smiles, and last forever like an eternal time-release capsule, a precious gift indeed.

Aunts & Uncles

After we moved I decided to give my three nieces, daughter and daughter-in-law several spoons from this collection. Grandpa Ole’s sister, Tante Trine, gave us this traditional Norwegian pattern as a wedding present almost 50 years ago. 

My aunts and uncles were beloved.  Maybe I cherished them so much because I was cherished (along with my two younger brothers) for the first seven years of my life, before they began their own families, before we moved from the Pacific Northwest to suburban NYC. Together we road horses on Cannon Beach, sorted buttons, baked cookies, hiked trails, etc.  But most of all, they were present in my life, talking to me like I understood, and listening attentively to what I had to say. In hindsight I can see that they were able to fill in some gaps while my mother raised three active young children and my dad traveled for work. I always hoped that in different ways and given the challenges of distance I could be that kind of presence in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives. 

Significant Objects

Last weekend when our son and his family visited, he described his recent efforts to “purge” his home of things he no longer wanted or needed.  I listened and nodded without commenting because that is generally what the mother of a 40 year old should do. But my mind meandered to  significant objects, something I've been thinking about since reading a NY Times article five years ago.  The idea is that some things only become valued and even valuable when one tells stories about them.  So while I agree about the benefits of getting rid of unnecessary stuff, I believe in keeping the memories alive with photos and stories.   My son’s visit inspired me to get rid of a few books (three) and remind myself why I’m keeping two others.

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- When I retired the school librarians gave me a basket of books. Amy contributed "The Trouble with Poetry" by Billy Collins.  I still enjoy reading the poems and treasure the sweet note tucked between the pages.  This is a "keeper" ... for now.  

- I'm embarrassed to admit that I borrowed and never returned  "Where did you go?" "Out"  "What did you do?" "Nothing" from a church library in Park Ridge, Illinois.  It reminds me of the best of the 1960's when I was part of a youth group and our weekly volunteer work at Marillac House on Chicago's west side. Time to return this book to its rightful owner. (I don't think they collect fines.)

- I'm ready to donate the two books my Aunti Randi and Uncle Roger gave me after capturing one of inside pages for posterity  (nasus neslo = susan olsen spelled backwards). I think I got a small printing set that Christmas along with the book.

- For several years the adults in my family drew names for a holiday gift exchange. In 2004 my mother's husband, Bob, drew my name.  This cookbook is special not only because of the outstanding recipes (lobster asparagus risotto is a favorite) but also for Bob's lovely note.

Words Matter

Not long ago I reached out to someone I'd never met about helping with program for students in a local arts program.  The woman commented that she appreciated the opportunity to work with young people, especially those who are underserved.  This conversation reminded me of the power of language.  It also reminded me about our community’s current public discussion about having certain neighborhoods officially designated as slums in order to meet federal funding guidelines.  

As an educator, I made a shift from compensating for students’ deficits to identifying and building on their strengths. Not much different from what the wrestling coach taught my son about how to build a base. I began to use people first language and replaced one word with another:  children with disabilities rather than disabled children, accessible rather than handicapped, typical rather than normal.

As a lover and teacher of languages I have always been fascinated with idiomatic expressions.  Why do the French describe someone as an elephant rather than a bull in a china shop?  While English speakers let grass grow under their feet, Russians wait by the sea for the weather.  There’s even research about how language reflects and shapes perceptions of the world

But language is just the beginning.  Choosing our words is little more than an attempt at being politically correct unless we also think about how language reflects new and different ways of thinking and acting.