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. 

The Gift of Siblings

Andy, Susie & Rolf circa 1957. Almost two years ago NY Times op ed columnist Frank Bruni wrote a terrific piece, "The Gift of Siblings."   I especially l liked this quote: Siblings are the only relatives, and perhaps the only people you’ll ever know, who are with you through the entire arc of your life (Jeffrey Kluger observed to Salon in 2011, the year his book “The Sibling Effect” was published).

Marginalized

Marginalized:

§  Treat (a person, group, or concept) as insignificant or peripheral, as in attempting to marginalize those who disagree.  (Google)

§  To relegate to an unimportant or powerless position within a society or group. (Merriam Webster)

It’s not surprising to learn from Googling around that more people than ever are using the word marginalized.  It certainly describes my feelings these days. Shortly after I retired five years ago, I decided to reconnect with my local political party.  Before completing a Ph.D. program and taking on a demanding job in a nearby community, I had served the party and city for almost 20 years as an elected member of the Common Council, Chair of the Board of Estimate and Taxation, appointed member and officer of the regional planning association, member of a Charter Revision Commission, member and officer of the party’s town committee, and chair of my district committee. I learned quickly that my interest was misguided.  New party activists who openly practiced age discrimination and less seasoned veterans were in a reform-minded place which seemed to brand anyone who had been around as long as I had, “part of the problem.”

Rules.  Many attempts to win friends and influence people failed.  It wasn’t that I didn’t get a sympathetic ear most of the time, just that others knew what they were going to do, how they were going to do it, and there wasn’t a place for me in the plan. Along the way I experienced a problem with party rules which resulted in a complaint to the state level. I offered to help re-write the party rules with a group that had apparently been working on this for some time but my offer was declined.  I renewed my efforts over the years with no success.  Last fall I volunteered again in response to an email invitation but heard nothing more.   I finally attended a meeting in February 2015.   At this meeting my questions about who else was supposed to be on the committee and whether the leaders had copies of prior complaints to State Central were rebuffed, at one point described as “stupid.” When several of us tried to help by creating a “red-line” version of the work that had been done, we were told it was too confusing.  When a member said angrily that “only certain people should be allowed to serve on this committee,” the other member and I took our cue and left.  The experience gave me insights into the ways some people view rules as a way to control and manipulate.

Race.  I think of social justice and civil rights as a journey not a destination.  It’s not something that can be achieved solely through legislation, proclamation or war. I get it – right now, there is increased tension and unrest in our country.  Unfortunately it seems to have taken needless, tragic deaths to refocus people’s attention on the work that still needs to be done.  There has also been a major change in people of color.  New immigrants from many countries, multi-racial citizens, and Latinos have joined African Americans, who typically have deeper, personal understandings of our country’s flawed history and incomplete civil rights efforts.  Instead of redefining the agenda and beginning the difficult but important work, too many people seem to be stuck in blame. They seem to operate as if old school identity politics is the only way to go.  Unfortunately that leaves people like me on the sidelines, marginalized because of skin color.

Religion.  If current racial tensions are sensitive and painful, it becomes even more confusing and frustrating when religion enters the picture.  What happened to the separation between church and state?  Do people believe that convening prominent, predominantly Christian ministers to lead public community prayers is the best way to move forward with tackling issues of racism, incivility and injustice? What about those of us who feel marginalized by this approach?  Is there any evidence that people who engage in public prayer come away better able to build a more just and civil society, or to deal with interpersonal anger and violence?  While time marches on and school children move from one grade to the next, many who see themselves as disenfranchised seem to spend more time praying, venting and blaming than working with those who might bring wisdom, experience, and talent to dealing with social justice. 

Respect.  For some years I’ve been interested in civility, specifically its erosion in public discourse.  That is why one of my first retirement ventures involved organizing and convening several community conversations about civility:  What does it mean?  How do we experience civility (or lack thereof) in Norwalk?  The past president of the Association of Opinion Journalists joined us one evening, another time the author of “Saving Civility” shared her work. Great conversations, helpful ideas, and it was heartening to hear more people talk about how important civility is, especially for governance and to promote adults serving as role models for young people.  However instead of really thinking about what it takes to change culture and behavior, boards of education, legislatures and councils, even governors began adopting civility guidelines or making public events out of signing civility pledges.  But the walk needs catch up with the talk.  Good public policies need to have some kind of built-in accountability or monitoring system to see if they’re having any impact on how we treat and speak with each other.  The good news, an unscientific analysis suggests people are at least thinking and talking about civility more.

My feelings of marginalization are based on recent personal experiences with rules, race, religion and respect.  These experiences have been powerful, sometimes painful, and often demoralizing.  But at the end of the day I am a positive, resilient person who derives strength from my work with young people and reminding myself of what it means to have come of age in the 60’s.  At the end of the day, this is not about me,  but how my experiences and feelings may be similar to those of many others who are on the path to disengaging from participatory democracy - or sadder yet, who have already opted out.

Braiding Ideas

Braiding usually involves taking three strands of hair, three ribbons, three pieces of string, weaving them into a single thread.  Some years ago I became intrigued when a workshop presenter talked about composting ideas.  This morning I found myself thinking about health care, public education, and baby boomers and realized I was braiding.

With increasing frequency – twice over the past few days – I’ve heard people bemoan the fact that going to the doctor now feels so impersonal, like being a small cog in someone’s out-of-control machine.   From personal experience in public education I know many teachers feel oppressed by a system which has turned them into data collection portals.  And boomers?  Just yesterday in a large planning group Gen Xers bemoaned what they described as an outdated boomer-driven mindsets about economic development.

Then I read a wonderful NY Times opinionator piece about the value and importance of doctors’ stories to round out what can be gleaned from data, and how the trend has been to squeeze the art out of its science. This was the first thread in my braid.  Next I thought about how much teachers would appreciate an invitation to add their stories to the vast student information databases, and to have these stories valued along with the numbers.  This was the second thread.  And finally, I thought about who seems to have been most responsible for shifting medicine and education away from admittedly incomplete anecdotal stories toward technology-facilitated numbers – not the boomers, but Gen-X.  (Of course those of us who are boomers must take some responsibility for having raised our Gen-X children.)  But I contend, we are not the ones defining public policy, other than by virtue of our sheer numbers.

So my idea braid suggests that there is a real benefit to finding ways to capture and add vignettes to our public policy data sets; and that we would benefit from spending more time thinking about how the different generations’ dispositions inform our past, present and future, rather than dismissing valuable perspectives and experiences.  Sounds so 60’s doesn’t it?  Makes sense since Peter D. Kramer (b. 1948), author of the article, and I (b.1949) are both boomers.

The thing about apple crisp...

Yesterday I posted a picture on Facebook of the apple-pear crisp I made. The ladies who prepared lunch in my elementary school cafeteria set the apple crisp standard for me - a perfect balance of fruit and crunch.  In those days they actually cooked the food from scratch at North Mianus!  Some years later I found this topping in a recipe for fresh rhubarb crisp and I've used it ever since:  1 cup flour, 1/2 cup raw rolled oats, 1 cup light brown sugar, 1/2 cup melted butter or margarine.  Sometimes I use granola for part of the oats and reduce the sugar.

I was also inspired by a special fruit delivery from my friend, Ikuko.  Last week she dropped off a few Asian pears and yesterday she delivered some Mutsu apples along with a dozen Italian prune plums. I think she got them at Blue Jay Orchard.  I decided make a plum torte (Marian Burros' recipe is the best) but wanted a way to easily share tomorrow with my former colleague, Pat. I decided to try making small, individual tortes rather than the larger one described in the recipe.  Here's the result. Not bad but I think next time I will cut the plums in smaller pieces and try to arrange them more artfully.

Aunti Randi's Curry Kit

Last May I went to Sandpoint, Idaho to be part of a loving bedside vigil for Aunti Randi, my mother's younger sister.  She passed from this life as she had requested, looking out on the Pend Oreille River, surrounded by  family and friends.  During our stay, my cousins and I explored Aunti Randi's pantry and freezer - in part to see what was available for mealtime, but also as cultural anthropologists, investigating the ways artifacts reveal people's lives.  We were not surprised to find bags of frozen rhubarb and berries, key ingredients in her famous Rhurazz jam.  We noted a large basket in the pantry marked "curry fixings."  Randi learned how to make curry early on in her marriage to please Uncle Roger who was born and raised in India, the son of medical missionaries. Several days ago I received a box in the mail from my Seattle cousins after they cleared out Aunti Randi's home before it was sold.  Powerful smells and fond memories of curry dinners long ago flooded my senses.  Proust had his madeleines but I have Aunti Randi's curry kit!

Did I used to be like this?

I've been interested in ethics ever since I took a graduate course many years go.  The take away for me then was that there is a difference between ethical and legal.  I also enjoy reading The Ethicist in the Sunday Times Magazine.  As a school  administrator I sometimes got involved with interpreting and enforcing our town's code of ethics.  Over time I became more and more convinced that most people really want to do the right thing, but sometimes they need a little help understanding the finer points of ethical behavior.  Then there's the issue of perception vs. reality.  So when I learned our local Ethics Board did not seem to be doing the work they were appointed to do, I offered my services.  Time went by and nothing happened until two current members of the Board were proposed for reappointment.   OK, I said to myself, it doesn't matter if I'm on the Board but is it a good idea to have people who haven't been doing their jobs continue?  So I wrote a letter to the editor expressing my consternation.  Several weeks passed and I learned that my letter had apparently disqualified me from further consideration.  "No problem," I said to the  terrific elected official in his mid 30's, who conveyed what he described as "bad news."  I told him not to worry, this was not about me!  I felt I had done my civic duty by offering to serve and by highlighting what I viewed as the current board's shortcomings.  He listened thoughtfully and apologized.  I again stated, this was not about me.  He repeated that he felt badly about being the bearer of bad news.  After we ended our conversation I started wondering if I used to think the end game was about me rather than the well-being of our community.  Sometimes getting older feels good.

My usual walk

My usual walk around the neighborhood is a 1.5 mile loop.  The other day I thought about the people I know or have known who live along my route and how this contributes to my sense of being connected to my community. In the small world category is this house, previously owned by Mr. Schuman,  my late 9th grade government teacher at Eastern Junior High in Greenwich. I particularly remember that class for three reasons:  It was the first time we had a black classmate. Kennedy was assassinated that fall, and we moved to Chicago mid-year.  One of my former high school students lives down the street and an elementary principal with whom I took graduate courses lives across the street.

Just last month I performed a wedding in this house.  As an elected Justice of the Peace, people contact me from time to time to ask about my availability and how much I charge (nothing).  The Thai nanny who works in this home emailed me while I was traveling so I didn't respond.  Shortly after our return she drove down our driveway one morning with her mother who was visiting from Thailand and the little girls she looks after.  How could I say no?  

Someone once told me that this driveway on a street that forms a border between Norwalk and Westport  leads to the lovely home where the jazz saxophonist Gerry Mulligan lived with the actress Sandy Dennis sometime between 1965 and 1973.

About two years ago a young couple bought this lovely house across the street. Even though Mrs. Donnelly --- the elderly widow who lived there for many years --- had a long driveway, our children always loved to trick or treat there because she was so clearly delighted to welcome them.

Giving thanks 2012

This morning I volunteered to help my friend Marcia at the Rowayton Turkey Trot, a fundraiser for the Rowayton Arts Center.  It was fun standing in the middle of the road in my orange vest, directing the runners where to turn at the intersection of Pennoyer St. and Rowayton Ave.  I didn't notice until the end of my shift that the race organizers had drawn a turkey on the pavement at each intersection.

Besides cheering on the racers, I suggested that what they were calling a hill around the corner was really just an incline. On my way home I passed a group of day laborers at their usual spot near the train station.  Will they get any work today?  Do they know it's Thanksgiving?

Charlie appreciates good art!

Early this morning 4 year old Charlie called to ask whether we knew James Flora wrote children's books.  Charlie had just borrowed one from his local library and learned that this was the same man whose paintings hang in our home.   Here's a section of the Flora painting in our sun room:

How cool that besides his album covers and paintings Jim Flora also wrote and illustrated children's books including My Friend Charlie and Charlie Yup and his Snip-Snap Boys.

5 Moose in Maine

Every year the Fabs and Wallersteins go to Portland Maine in August. Every other year we bring the Tretolas with us too. It is so much fun I don't even have a favorite part. The big reason we come here is because of family. We have 2 family members here and one moving here tomorrow. The family members moving here tomorrow are Aaron, Lauren and their new baby  Ellery. We are so excited to see them. The family members living here are Aunt Nancy and Grandma Neetie. 

Doing the Puff & Strut

Yesterday many came together to celebrate a wonderful public art project at the South Norwalk train station. Duvian Montoya, a graduate of Norwalk Public Schools, expressed how meaningful it was to him to have such a prominent installation in his hometown. As is so often the case, public officials did the puff and strut, recognizing themselves and taking credit for a job well done. Those in the know perhaps smiled along with me, remembering the work of mostly unrecognized champions who got the project moving in 2010, back when it was mired in government bureaucracy. But at the end of the day it's all about the talented artists and members of the public who get to enjoy their work.

Paying it forward in Greenwich

I've sometimes had a love-hate relationship with Greenwich.  This year's award ceremony at Hamilton Ave. School was definitely a time to feel the love. Graduating seniors who attended Hamilton Ave. return to be recognized and to speak with 5th graders.  Vito Sperduto, a successful businessman and Harvard graduate, returns every year to pay it forward. He told the students how he arrived at Hamilton Ave. from Italy in the 1970's not speaking much English.  This year he gave a scholarship to Nicole LaPointe-Jameson who will attend Columbia University.  I met Nicole and her proud parents, Noel and Lise, when I served as interim principal at Hamilton Ave. in 2005.

Fathers Day 2012

Dad shows me how to drive Ivy's  tractor.
Stanwood, Washington 1959

Today is our nephew Aaron's first Fathers Day.  We began at the Unitarian Church in Westport where family and friends welcomed our great niece Ellery (Queen of Babies) into the spiritual community.  For the second time this year I crossed paths with Ken, an octogenarian former colleague of our late father.  I remembered something my daughter told me about consequential strangers and realized it was more than chance that brought Ken and me together today.  The church is around the corner from a lovely mill pond where our Dad stayed at the company guest house before the rest of us made the move from Seattle to Connecticut in the 1950's.  It has been a remarkable day with new and old memories thanks to Ken and Ellery.