A Gift for Christmas

Those who know me, know I love Christmas.  Like the tympani in a concert, the excitement begins around Thanksgiving and slowly builds as the weather gets colder.  By the time the first snow arrives, there is a distinct rumble in the distance, which grows louder and faster until its crescendo on Christmas morning.

Although I am by American standards, a conservative holiday spender, the weekends preceding Christmas are usually spent searching for the perfect gift for my loved ones.  I love nothing more than to surprise someone with a brightly wrapped package that contains an item that will warm his heart. Sometimes the gift is homemade, like the flannel pajamas I sewed for family and friends last year.  Sometimes it is a costly treasure, never dreamed possible by its recipient.  Sometimes it is small and inexpensive, but tugs at the heartstrings and brings tears to the eyes.

This year has been different.  Although I usually hear silver tinkles of “Jingle Bells” in my head as soon as the kids go back to school, this year I heard nothing.  I wandered around a few stores earlier in the fall, but I just couldn’t get excited about gifts.  I was trying to adjust to the idea that for the first time, we wouldn’t be all together. We’ve had other holidays with family missing, but not Christmas.  I knew the time would come eventually, and I thought I was ready, but I was not. 

As parents, our goal is supposed to be to get our kids to a place where they can fly alone.  We strive to teach them independence.  We help them to walk, and to pedal a bike, and then to drive.  All these lessons teach them to move away from us.  It is part of the Master’s plan. But there is nothing in the handbook about the hole that is left when they are gone.  How do we have Christmas without us all together?

Then, Elizabeth had an idea.  “Let’s forgo gifts to each other, pool our resources, and fly Gabe home from England for Christmas!” she suggested.  It was a brilliant plan that after several Skype dates and emails was finally executed. Tonight at 6:20, his plane will land in Boston.

No, there won’t be packages to unwrap. No ribbon on the floor, no trips to the dumpster to get rid of tissue and packaging.  No surprises and shrieks of “Just-what-I-always-wanted!”  There will be no last minute stuffing of the stockings.  No midnight wrapping of gifts.  There will be no whispers behind closed doors, no shaking of boxes, no searching for scissors and tape.

But this Christmas, our home will once again be warm and full and cozy.  We’ll be together, if only for one more year.  And all will be bright.

The Rain that Brings Us Together

This morning it was pouring outside- coming down in buckets.  I looked out my bedroom window and watched the rain wash down the pavement and soak the faded brown leaves, and all I could think of was dodging raindrops during final exams.

I went to college in southern Massachusetts.  It was not unusual for it to rain the whole week of exams  before Christmas break.  I still remember pulling up the hood of my snorkel jacket while I ran from the dorms to the classroom, and dripping onto my blue book while I took the Abnormal Psych exam.  All that week I’d run to take an exam, stopping off at the cafeteria for a quick coffee-milk, and after the exam, run back to the dorms to peel off my wet jeans and hop between the sheets for a nap.

The college was comprised of several futuristic buildings formed from concrete and steel.  In the rain, the concrete darkened from dove white to seagull gray.  The campus was dismal and depressing- outside.  But inside was totally different.  Perhaps because of the gray outside, during the rain the inside became bright, warm and cozy.  We who lived in the dorms would push cafeteria tables together, sitting in large, family style groups.  We often lingered over meals on rainy days, choosing to sit close to one another, laughing and teasing, instead of trekking across the large expanse of soggy grass and puddled pavement.  It was as if there were an unspoken rule that if it rained outside, we had to be doubly cheerful inside.

It is not only in college that rain brings people together.  We huddle together under umbrellas and run in synchronized steps to escape a deluge from above.  We snuggle our children under fuzzy blankets and read to them as the rain patters against the windowpane.  We crowd around the dining room table in front of steaming bowls of soup and home baked bread.  We discuss the weather with strangers in the elevator, instead of standing in silent solitude.  We smile to each other in commiseration, while we wait in line for a cup of coffee at the corner cafe.

A friend once noted that when God first created Eden, there was no rain.  The plants and trees were nourished by the morning dew, and rain didn’t occur until they were cast out of the Garden.  I don’t know if that is true, but I wonder.  When Adam and Eve first sinned, they each blamed the other.  That must have caused a rift between them.   But we all know that people need each other. We need to warm each other, to soothe each others’ broken hearts, to blend notes together in harmony rather than lonely unrelated lines of melody.  Maybe a fresh motivation to draw close and face the harshness of the world together was started with a drop of rain.

Last evening I had a phone conversation with my daughter that didn’t go well.  Perhaps it is the generational gap that I pretend doesn’t exist.  Perhaps it was because I had a headache.  Perhaps it was because we just disagree.  Whatever the reason, it wasn’t good enough to justify hurt feelings and a damaged relationship.  I sulked for the rest of the evening and woke this morning still feeling grouchy and out of sorts.  But then I saw that it was raining, and remembered how in college, rain brought us together.  She is the same age now as I was then.  She probably dodges raindrops on her way back to the dorms and slips into bed to grab a nap after her exams.  She probably migrates to her friends in the dining hall when it is cold and gray outside. 

She flies home from school tonight and you can bet I’ll wrap my arms around her, pull her close and shield her from the wet drops that pour from the sky and dribble from my eyes.  Then we’ll  go home where it is warm and dry.  Because rain brings us together.

My brother Eric

It’s a cold October evening in western Massachusetts, and it’s late.  I’m sitting across the room from my brother, Rick.  He’s settled his six-foot-four-inch frame into his favorite leather recliner, telling me about working a house fire as if he’s relating the plot line of a situation comedy.

It was several years ago, when he was a captain.  He and another fire fighter, Mike, went to the second floor of a cape style home to try to contain an attic fire.  Although they were less than an arm’s length from each other, the smoke was so thick and black they were unable to see each other.  Mike fumbled for the ceiling hatch, and realizing the heat had quickly reached an unbearable intensity, Rick radioed his chief to send crews to ventilate.

“All of a sudden, the room turned bright red and I could see Mike’s face, clear as day, in front of me.  The line went dead- there was no water coming out of it at all.  Mike yelled for me to run, and we both bolted down the stairs.  I remember hitting the cement steps to the enclosed porch and Mike pushing my back, yelling for me to keep going.  The next thing I knew, I was on my knees on the pavement, and the cops were dragging me across the road.  I remember looking back at the house. There was fire coming out from every direction.  We never were able to find out if it was a methane explosion or a flash over, or what it was. We know it wasn’t a back draft,” he adds.

“I looked at Mike and he was all black, with smoke coming off of his clothes and his helmet.  He was rubbing snow on his ears, and I could see that they were already starting to bubble.  I remember thinking, “Wow, Mike almost bought it!” and then people were asking if I was okay.”

He leans forward in his chair.  His grin hasn’t changed since he was a little kid.

“I looked down and realized that my clothes were black and smoking, too.  We ended up having to trash our bunker gear and helmets.”

“When I took off my mask there was this searing pain on the underside of my chin.  That’s when I realized I was burned.  Still, all the way to the hospital, I kept thinking everyone was making an awful big deal of this.  It wasn’t until I got back to the station and my chief had me in a bear hug that I realized how close a call it was.  He told me he was sure he had lost two fire fighters with that house.”

“Anyway, I had a long drive home that night, and then the reality sank in.  I had a huge bruise on my hip that was really starting to ache. My chin was a mess.  I finally got home, and the first thing I did was kiss Colleen and the kids.”

He pauses, his face growing uncharacteristically serious.

“It changed how quickly I send men into a building.  I’m a little more cautious since then.  A little more reluctant to trade lives for somebody’s house.”

I study my brother.  He is in his forties now, his short blond hair sprinkled with gray.  When I look at him, I don’t see Chief Eric Madison.  I see my baby brother, Ricky.  The seventh of eight children.  As a youngster, he had a low flash point.  My father called him “Eric the Red” because when he lost his temper, he would rush headlong at his victim, fearless of consequences.  Now here he is, telling me about rushing headlong into burning buildings.

When he was a little boy, I would sneak him out of his bunk bed and into my room so he could watch late night TV with me.  I drove him to his hockey practices and came home from college to watch his games.   I gave him haircuts and yelled at him for burning rubber with my car.  Who would have thought that this skinny little kid we called “albino spider” would grow up to be the man in front of me whom I so much admire?

I ask him why he never told me this story before.  He grins and shrugs.  This is typical Rick.  He feeds snippets on a “need to know” basis.  He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t volunteer information about himself.  He dwarfs me, not only in size, but in accomplishments, and yet I have never in my life heard him brag.

He shares stories of going to Ground Zero in the aftermath of 911, and of visiting wounded soldiers at Walter Reed Hospital, and his eyes betray the kindness and sensitivity hidden behind the professionalism necessary for his position.  As I listen to him, I realize that there is a lot about this man I don’t know. Somehow, we both got caught up in the busyness of our lives and forgot to nurture the friendship we had when we were young.  Tonight I can see that the essence of my brother has not changed.  We still share the same absurd sense of humor, often finding ourselves squelching a burst of laughter at an inopportune moment. We both have a keen dedication to community service, determined to give back and make the world a little better.  And although it is I who has the degree in English, he writes with passion and simple eloquence.

In a moment of bravery, I share with him a writing project I have been secretly considering.  As I wait for him to answer, my stomach churns with anticipation. I trust him to be honest with me, but I’m afraid to hear his response.  Hard as it is to admit, his approval means everything to me.  

His reaction is one of enthusiasm and support; more positive than I dared hope. He offers ideas to augment mine and volunteers to advocate for me. I should have known.

I should have known because whenever I call or email him, he makes time for me.  I should have known because he drove four hours in one day so he could help me move to a new apartment.   I should have known because he spends every day making sure that other people are safe and taken care of.   I should have known because his life has been a series of selfless acts about which most people will never know. 

Will Rogers said, “We can’t all be heroes because somebody has to sit on the curb and applaud when they go by.”

I’ll sit on the curb and applaud for my brother any day.

High Five for the Hifi

When I was a kid, my parents had a hifi in the living room.   It was a heavy mahogany lift-top console with a turn table that held stacks of records and automatically released a fresh platter after one had finished.  By inserting a larger cylinder, forty-fives could be played the same way.  I can still hear the plop of a new record hitting the turn table and the scratch of the needle as it caught the dust at the beginning of the first song.

Our hifi was in continuous use.  My father played country western and jazz.  My mother played opera and show tunes.  By the time I was five, I knew all the words to West Side Story, Lil Abner, South Pacific and Flower Drum Song.  I hummed the melodies from La boheme and Madame Butterfly.  I recognized Billy Butterfield’s trumpet, and sang hymns with Mahalia Jackson.  

45s were the most exciting records.  The first I remember had “Volare” on one side and “I’m Sitting on Top of the World” on the other.   My older sister and I bought 45s at the five and dime in stacks of 10 for a dollar.  They were mostly cut outs and outdated songs, but we played them all.  I still can hear my brother Scott, belting out “Last Kiss” and dancing to “White Silver Sands” before he was old enough to tie his own shoes.

One Christmas, my father decorated a wooden box to look like a Christmas gift.  He wired a speaker to the old HiFi, put it inside the box, and placed it in our front yard so people could hear Christmas carols while they walked to church on Sunday morning.  Nothing was so exciting as playing in the snow while the Ray Conniff Singers performed “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.”

The first record album I owned was The Beatles “Yesterday and Today.”  I had the version with Paul sitting inside the trunk and I kept it for at least twenty years .  It broke my heart to trash it but the sound had become gravely and it skipped during “Yesterday.”

I was given my first stereo while I was in high school.  My parents got it by subscribing to a record club.  It came with headphones that looked like giant brown mushrooms, and I would go to sleep at night listening to George Gershwin and Roberta Flack.

Music has been the back drop for the different phases of my life.  Scenes in my memory are punctuated by the songs that ran through my head at the time;   Splashing in the ocean while to strains of “June is Busting Out All Over” as a six year old.    Harmonizing to “Sweet Baby James” while painting with watercolors in a high school art class.   Lugging a back pack and guitar to Idaho to “Dust in the Wind” as a VISTA volunteer.     “Yellow Submarine” as I tucked young children into bed.  Dave Matthews Band echoing “Crash into Me” at the skating rink with my seventh grader.  And long stretches of cello music the week of my father’s last sunset when he faded from this life to the next.

Like most parents, we encouraged our children to make music important in their own lives. We paid for piano lessons, drum lessons, band camps, vocal lessons.  We went to concerts and performances.  We bought stereos, instruments, and IPods.  We listened to their music. They listened to ours.  Often times, strained relationships between parent and child can be bridged by sharing a favorite song, or going to a concert together.  And when the noise of the budding rock star turns to notes of the accomplished musician, it is truly music to our ears.  When we give our children music, we give them beauty.  We give them expression.  We set them free to sing, to dance, to fly.  I’m sure my parents had no idea how important that old hifi was.  Or perhaps they did.

Farewell to Mary

A few weeks ago, I woke to the morning news announcing the passing of Mary Travers. Like many other people from my generation, I immediately felt the sting of loss.  Mary Travers was like an older sister to me.  She was beautiful- with silky blond hair and a clear, pure alto voice that wove itself between those of Peter Yarrow and Noel Paul Stookey.

If there were to be a soundtrack to the film of my life, it would be songs from Peter Paul and Mary.  The first concert I ever attended was in the late sixties.  I was visiting my cousins who lived outside of Washington D.C. and was granted the rare opportunity to attend this outdoor event with them.  Gordon Lightfoot, virtually unknown at the time, opened.  I scarcely remembered what he sang- I was so excited to hear the headliners. 

They performed with no accompanying orchestra.  There were no fireworks, no stunts, no running around the stage. Just three singers backed by two guitars.  They stood together, singing of peace, forgiveness, unity.  They engaged the audience in a way I have rarely seen before or after, charging us to take up the cause and continue the fight.  I will never forget how these three unassuming people led an audience of hundreds to sing “Day is Done,” as if we had rehearsed for weeks.  I am still brought to tears, remembering how our voices melded into one, drifting toward our nation’s capitol, singing our prayer for an end to war and injustice.

I often tell people that when my children were little, their friends listened to Madonna sing “Material World” while they heard strains of “No Easy Walk to Freedom.”  I still have a mental picture of a two year old Elizabeth sitting alone in the “way back” of our old station wagon, belting out, “Keep on walkin’ and you shall be free.  That’s how we’re gonna make history…” 

Because of this song, my kids knew who Winnie and Nelson Mandella were. They understood the evils of apartheid.  Music with a social consciousness sparks long talks about racism, war and peaceful demonstrations.  It is the catalyst for change, not only in our own hearts but in the hearts of those we teach. 

Life will be a little less beautiful without Mary Travers’ voice to echo through the winds.  But I think…no,  I believe… our world can be just a little more beautiful because of her.

Squash it!

When I was a little girl, I detested squash of all kinds.  My mother would put one small slice of zucchini or one dollop of mashed butternut on my plate, instructing me to “try just one bite.”  I would wait until only that one lonely bit of vegetable remained on my plate, and then try to gulp it down without tasting it.  I tried salt, ketchup, and even washing it down with milk but it always made me gag, threatening an encore performance of the other, more palatable foods I had swallowed. 

When visiting my aunt and uncle in Maryland, I found that dinner one evening consisted solely of squash casserole.  I still remember my uncle smacking his lips, declaring, “That squash is delicious-sweet as a nut!”

“You’re the nut” I grumbled under my breath, trying to ignore my belly’s rumbling.  At fifteen, I dared not tell him I hated squash.  I went hungry that night.

Lots of people don’t like squash.  In fact, lots of people don’t like vegetables.  I know people who don’t eat anything green or yellow. I think it is maybe because they were forced to eat stuff that made them gag when they were kids.

When Abby was a baby, I was determined that she would not be a picky eater.  I made most of her baby food for her in a grinder.  She loved unusual foods and would gobble down things like bits of bleu cheese and slices of apricot.  One day, however, I bought jarred baby food, thinking it would simplify my life.  I warmed the vegetables and beef dinner, trying to ignore the fact that it closely resembled dog food both in smell and appearance.  Abby took one whiff and turned her head. 

“How can someone who eats bleu cheese scoff and good old American Gerber’s?” I asked.  I decided I could be as stubborn as she was and insisted she eat the full amount.  She gagged and protested, but she ate it.  Smugly satisfied, I commended myself on not being outdone by a one-year-old.  Then she calmly and quietly barfed the entire jar onto the tray of her high chair.  So much for force feeding.  So much for Gerber. 

I decided that the kids should try a little of every food, but not be forced to eat things they hated.  This worked to some extent, but sometimes they decided they didn’t like things before they even tried them.  I remember Gabe staring for the first time at a steaming bowl of pea soup, declaring, I don’t like this stuff.”  Try as I might, I could not get him to taste it.  I even thought of blind-folding him, but decided doing that bordered on child abuse even more than making a three-year-old eat pea soup.

Shortly thereafter, I was grinding homemade beef and vegetable soup in the blender for Elizabeth’s baby food when I realized that once blended, vegetables were no longer recognizable. Ureka! I thought. I could add a plethora of vegetables to the broth, grind them to a silky consistency, and nobody would look into the bowl and declare “Eeeew! It has celery in it!”  Added to this discovery was the advantage that the soup had the consistency of gravy and was far easier and less messy for young children to eat.  Needless to say, I rode that wave for years.

Hard to believe, my kids grew up to love vegetables.  The girls, now grown women, are vegetarians.  Gabe, although still a carnivore, eats all kinds of veggies.  When they are all home, half of my grocery budget goes to fruits and vegetables.

As for me, for some strange reason, the summer before I left for college I tried a bite of garden fresh yellow squash, steamed, swimming in butter, with a sprinkling of salt and pepper.  To my astonishment, I liked it.  I tried other squashes- zucchini, butternut, acorn, spaghetti- and found that I liked them too.  I even have concocted my own recipe for butternut soup.  Now, if I could just find a way to like exercise…

Momma G’s Butternut Soup

1 large butternut squash, peeled and cut up into cubes

1-2 large yellow onions, peeled, sliced and sautéed in olive oil till soft and caramelized

1 clove garlic, peeled, mashed, and sautéed with onions in olive oil

1 can of chicken or vegetable broth

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Cook squash in boiling water until soft.  Run squash, onion and garlic through food processor or blender in small batches until smooth.  Add lemon juice and enough broth to thin to preferred consistency.  Add salt and pepper to taste.

Ryan

I hadn’t thought of Ryan in a long time and yet, out of the blue on a Monday morning, my thoughts turned to him. His memory greets me much the same way of our first encounter; initial apprehension that melts into golden sunlight.

Ryan entered our lives soon after his birth in the spring of 1985. He was adopted by my older sister, Martha-Jean and her husband, Robert while I was in my ninth month of pregnancy. They cheerfully brought him home from the hospital, a tiny bundle with creamy skin and curls the color of tarnished pennies. He was quite adorable, but his prognosis was abysmal. Born with only a brain stem and a few brain masses, he was expected to live only a few months and in a vegetative state.

My response was one of indifference. After suffering two miscarriages, I was determined to not experience infant death again, even at a distance. Although we shared a home, I regarded Ryan from afar, concentrating on my two year old Abby and within a couple of weeks, the birth of my own infant son, Gabriel.

One day, Martha-Jean came home from grocery shopping, a howling Ryan in her arms. He was beside himself with hunger. She had run out of formula that morning. Because we lived in the country and had a well, the water for Ryan’s bottle had to be boiled and then cooled before mixing with the dry formula. It would be another thirty minutes before his meal would be ready.

I looked at my own son, who had just finished nursing. Two weeks old, he was already double Ryan’s size. Laying him in his cradle, I sighed and took Ryan from Martha- Jean. He nursed hungrily, snuggling into the crook of my arm. I stroked his auburn curls and watched his sightless blue eyes wander back and forth. As he fed, the wall between us crumbled and fell. No longer was he a child adopted by my sister. He was my nephew- a part of me. He was sealed within the walls of my heart forever.

Although Ryan outlived the doctors’ predictions by months, he drifted away during the night shortly before his second birthday. Unable to look at the empty crib, Robert tearfully dismantled it and stowed it away. For weeks, Abby asked where Ryan was. For months, I startled, thinking I heard his cry and then was stung again, as I realized he was not there. In time, the sting turned into ache, and then slowly melted and eased.

Once in awhile, like today, memories of Ryan flood my mind. I still can close my eyes and see his milky skin, his azure eyes, his copper curls. I have often wondered what my life would have been without him. Would I have kept that tender part of my heart protected, in a hidden place that nobody could touch? If I had, who would I be now? And if I had allowed my soul to grow cold and hard, would my children have grown to be the adults they are? Would Abby still work long, tireless hours to bring refugees to a land of freedom and safety? Would Elizabeth have brought Tootsie Pops to work for a grumpy cancer patient’s birthday surprise? Would Gabe be kind and encouraging to the chubby, awkward little boy in his swim class?

How easy it is to dismiss the imperfect children of our race as being of less value, because they “contribute nothing to society.” How easy to forget that they are the sandpaper that smoothes our rough spots and softens the hardness of our hearts. Ryan never learned to talk, or walk. He never wrote a book or discovered a cure for Diabetes. But his legacy lives on in the people he touched, and the people they touch. Maybe it’s just the morning sun, but I feel him smiling.

Halcyon Rain

In New Hampshire we have had more than our share of rain this spring and summer.  Last night torrential rains made so much noise on the metal overhang over my apartment walkway that we could not hear the television over the din.

My part of the world has seen almost nine inches of rain during the past four weeks.  People complain that their gardens are not growing.  The seeds are rotting in the wet soil.  There is no sun to coax the blossoms.   Swimming pools and streams are overflowing. 

Rain kind of gets a bad rap.  We tell it to go away in songs.  We gripe that it ruins our picnics and beach days.  We equate it with sadness.  We warn it to not ruin our parades.  But last evening’s rain brought out the best for someone I know.

My friend Jodi has an adorable husband and two beautiful little girls.  She arrived home last evening to find her family watching the rain from their living room couch.  Together they sat, watching the deluge, and sang songs that are about rain.  Jodi says that it was one of those rare moments when everything in life is pure and perfect.  Her contentment was evident- her eyes were bright with tears and her face glowed as she recalled those short moments.

I remember some of my own moments of bliss.   Funny, how it is during simple events that we sense how rich and perfect life can be.  For most of us, it is not when we receive a big promotion, or go on a long awaited trip, or find a sought after treasure that we experience the kind of contentment that soothes the heart and brings ecstasy to the soul.  It is in the quiet, unexpected moments that we feel that life could not be any better.  When we watch our children giggle together over a secret joke told from under a blanket tent in the living room.  When we look at the person sleeping beside us and know that our love is deep and wide and unshakeable.  When we nestle in our mothers’ embrace and inhale the same soft security that we knew when we were three.  For one brief moment, time is suspended.  Jobs, bills, and schedules don’t matter.  All that exists is where we are at that second.  All that exists is joy.

Eventually the rain will stop and the sun will again show its face.  However, it may be that we don’t need the sunshine to give us those halcyon moments.  Perhaps a few raindrops, some bedraggled plants, and a pair of soggy shoes will do just fine.

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise!

Friends of mine just gave birth to their first baby.  Like generations before them, this couple has carefully planned and prepared for this child.  The nursery was painted, tiny clothes were lovingly folded and hung, and a meaningful name was selected.  They attended childbirth classes, read all the books, consulted all the experts.  No couple has ever been better prepared. 

Their beautiful boy decided to surprise them by joining the world six weeks earlier than his anticipated arrival.  In celebration of this event, this Momma-G post is kind of an open letter:

Dear B & N,

As you well know, you have been catapulted down the road of parenthood.  Not for the weak of heart, this path is full of bumps, hills, and unexpected adventures.  It is sometimes hard to navigate, will leave you uncertain of your parental capabilities, and will bring excitement at every turn.  One thing is for sure- this life with your child will be full of surprises.

Your child will surprise you by eating more food than any toddler could possibly pack away, and less than a bird could survive on, depending upon the day of the week.

Your child will surprise you when he mimics the “F” word that you thought he didn’t hear when you stubbed your toe on his crib.

Your child will surprise you by eating a huge lunch after complaining of a belly ache and staying home from school.

Your child will surprise you by throwing up on his school desk after you send him to school with a belly ache, convinced that he was faking.

Your child will surprise you when he climbs out of his crib, creeps into your room unnoticed and decides that watching his parents in bed is a spectator sport.

Your child will surprise you when he swears his homework is done every night for a month and then brings home a warning of failure note from his teacher.

Your child will surprise you by bringing home a macaroni necklace and expecting you to wear it to church on Easter Sunday and Mother’s Day.

Your child will surprise you by his creativity when he draws on the walls with indelible marker, and scratches his initials into the top of the antique dresser in his room.

Your child will surprise you when he remembers your birthday with flowers he hand picked from the neighbor’s garden.

Your child will surprise you when you realize he is stronger, faster,  smarter and more articulate than you are.

Your child will surprise you when he returns from borrowing your car and he’s left it clean, with a full tank of gas.

Your child will surprise you when you realize he is a man who puts the needs of others before his own, takes responsibility for his own destiny and cooks dinner not only for himself, but for you, too.

Your child will surprise you when he walks down the aisle of a church, or a college graduation, or stands at attention for a promotion, and you wonder when he grew to be so tall and handsome, and where the years went.

Congratulations, B & N.

…Thank you, Gabe

Greek Yogurt: Where MacGyver Meets Momma-G

I really love Greek yogurt.  Mixed with a banana, a handful of almonds and sunflower seeds, it is the power breakfast that keeps me running from six until noon, and helps me bypass the carbs that settle around what used to be my waist.

However, Greek yogurt is expensive.  Now that everyone is home for the summer, every food item has to undergo an evaluation to measure its cost against its relative family value.  In short, I have to trim the budget.

Madison women are known for our prowess in a budget conscious world.  In the seventies, my mother gardened, canned, put up jam, and yes, made her own yogurt for her family of ten.  She started with a yogurt maker, but within hours all five cups were gone.  She soon switched to a gallon size glass Sultana peanut butter jar, and used the pilot light in the gas oven to keep it warm.  It made wonderful albeit thin yogurt.  I still remember how my dad loved to mix it with homemade preserves and eat it as an evening snack.

Nobody sells gallon sized peanut butter jars anymore.  They do sell it in plastic buckets but it would take several years for my family to eat all that peanut butter.  The thought of that amount makes me gag.  Still, I needed something large and made of glass- not easy to find in this age of cellophane and Tupperware.  Undaunted, I dug deep into the cupboards and produced a large glass applesauce jar I had kept for storing home made soup. 

I looked up a basic yogurt recipe on the internet.  Easy- heat 2 cups of milk until boiling, cool, add 2 tablespoons of starter, and incubate for about twelve hours.  To make Greek style yogurt, just strain off the whey (technical talk for milk products) leaving the dense, tart concoction I crave.

I was able to boil the milk without trouble, and added the starter when it reached the proper temperature.  It was then that I hit a snag.  I have an electric oven. There is no pilot light.  It stays as cold as a stone when not in use.  When turned on, its lowest temperature is about one hundred and seventy degrees- about seventy degrees too high.

Hmm… what to do?

When my kids were growing up, one of our favorite television shows was MacGyver.  As any child of the eighties knows, MacGyver was a genius at finding unorthodox solutions to unusual challenges.   He made repairs from chewing gum, pen barrels and duct tape.  He had a clock powered by potatoes.  Not only that- he had a social conscience and was opposed to guns.  I thought I died and went to Heaven.  I think the kids outgrew him before I did.

My kids dubbed me Mrs. MacGyver, because I too, did some unorthodox handiwork.  I have duct-taped sneakers, toothpasted nail holes and stapled hems with the best of them.  Also, I have performed repair jobs to which I will never admit, for fear of prosecution from past landlords. Suffice to say, I am fierce with a power drill.

So I was not about to admit defeat over a small thing like this.  The crock-pot was too hot.  The cooler filled with warm water too cold.  After much pondering, I decided to try an electric heating pad.  I tried measuring the temperature on the lowest setting, by sticking my kids’ oral thermometer inside a folded area.  It kept beeping at me, displaying a message that means either the thermometer is improperly placed or the patient is dead.  I gave up, figuring I couldn’t go wrong with a Medium setting.

I carefully wrapped the jar filled with the precious white substance and secured the pad with a large elastic band.  Twelve hours later, I had produced the same runny yogurt of my mothers’ days.  It took me another twenty minutes to strain the yogurt through cheesecloth, which, by the way, is not easy to find. At long last, I produced my first batch of Greek yogurt.   I’m not sure how much money I saved, but MacGyver would be proud.