I’m an Adult. I can’t believe I made it.

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I started a new volunteer job this week for the International Institute.  I got a position in the Education Department tutoring immigrants in the Citizenship Literacy classes.   The International Institute is funded by the U.S. Department of State and offers integration services for immigrants of refugee and non-refugee status.  So, they can receive counseling and guidance regarding any aspect of adjusting to life in the U.S.A, including job training and ESOL classes.  Immigrants who have lived in the U.S. for 5 years qualify to take the citizenship exam.  The class that I work with helps them learn terms specifically regarding U.S. history, government, and economic structure.  Terms important for an exam (that probably most natural-born U.S. citizens, including myself!, would have a difficult time with!), but that we do not typically use in every day conversation.

In the classroom, there were about 5 tables with students and tutors at each one.  Students practice various exercises learning terms by repetition, reading, and writing.  I sat at a table to observe 2 women going through an exercise with a tutor, a young 20-something, newly graduated and obviously freshly groomed for a life in government, law or non-profit work.  The students were both women in their 30s or 40s.

While I could easily estimate the age of an American woman, it occurs to me here that these women have a rawness about them that I can not tell has aged them or kept them youthful.  I think they are both mothers.

Both women are medium-dark complected with warm smiles, which I have come to conclude/assume indicates that they are from maternally loving cultures.  This assumption comes from my experience that not all cultures are so, not all people smile when you first meet them.  I suppose I will learn many things about cultural stereotyping in the future, but my first impressions of these women, one from Somalia dressed in traditional Muslim attire,  and one from Liberia adorning second-hand layers appropriate for the winter temperatures, are that they are women with a life richly invested in family and relationships, just like me.  Do I want it to be that way, or can a smile tell me that much?

As they work through a simple (to me) dictation of basic Q&A, reading out-loud then answering the question, and then writing the answer word for word, I watch how their hands cramp from all the writing, and how they think so solidly upon each and every word.  BeautifulSmileFromSomalia reads, “What. colors. are. the. strip-es. on. the. flag?”  After much contemplation among the choices of red, blue, white and yellow, she decides correctly on red and white, but now, she must write it all down.  ”The colors on the flag are red and white.”  She lingers over the word “red”, saying “white”.  I can not tell if she is confused about the spelling, or deciding if it matters which color she writes first.

I am taken back to the time when I forced myself to learn Survival German, as I like to call it when one learns a language as best as they can just to live in a place… to be able to buy bread at a bakery, or find one’s way when lost, or make friendly conversation.  The difference is that I could have taken it or left it.  I was not choosing a life away from my home country, I was just living there “for fun”, for culture, for experience.  God help me if I’d had to learn German governmental terms!  They say English is the hardest language, but have you ever read a German legal document?  At any rate, I remember sitting through lessons with my teacher and friend, Regina, a survivor of WWII.  I remember the mental struggle for the grammar placement and conjugation of simple words.  I remember the contemplation and that my mind was in different places than Regina’s, who only could read my facial expressions and imagine which gears were turning in my head to offer hints.  If I’d only had the words to explain my contemplation, a dialogue to make dialogue, as I mulled over choices and fished through the muddy pond of my brain for recently-learned vocabulary.  These women were fighting, and I could feel it, because I’ve been there, and I started to cry.

No one noticed.  I mean it would have been a real something for me, the new volunteer to start crying in a room of people who were just doing what they do twice a week.  So, quickly blotting my eyes and willing them to dry up, I went on observing

and admiring their struggle.

On break, I approached the young woman volunteer who I’d been observing to introduce myself.  She was speaking with another young man, who she had known since elementary school.  Apparently, kids from where they were from were destined for a life of service.  He was speaking to her about his new AMAZING boyfriend and all his AMAZING accomplishments in AMAZING non-profit work, all before the age of 26. And that’s when it hit me.

I’m an adult.  There is something about the journey that I’ve been on that separates them from me.  I was not judging that difference, that they are young, or that I am older, is not the point.  The point is that I could observe and relate and feel and not judge because I know that who a person is at any given point in life is based on a million things that you don’t about them.  The only person we can change and work on is ourselves.

I wasn’t there, volunteering, because corporations are taking over the world and I needed to have life defined in black and white and pick a side.  I’m not there to be amazing.  I will put the experience on my resumé, but my life does not revolve around the accomplishments piling up on my Curriculum Vitae.  I was there to learn from the students, to learn from the immigrants.  I was there “for fun”, for the culture, for the experience.  I was there to reaffirm the belief that I am NOT better than anyone else and that women with unidentifiably young or old faces are just women. Like me.

The young woman asked me “What do you do for a living?  Why are you here?”

I answered, “I’m a stay at home mom, mostly.”

She answered with a great nod and affirmating eye-roll, “Being a mom is SUCH hard work.  That is REAAALLLLLLLYYYY admirable.”

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince me, or herself, or if she was truly sincere and hoping to have children of her own soon one day, but it doesn’t matter.  I was so happy at that moment.  I had this great perspective.  I knew things about these women immigrants that I only could have learned from raising kids and from living a foreign life.  I felt like I knew a really AMAZING secret and I hoped that one day, those young volunteers would have the privilege of being let in on it.

Now, I just have to figure out how to word it for my Resumé.

Mosquitos Suck and Bears Do Not Make Good Aphrodisiacs

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We approached Fenton Lake, NM in our little caravan of Telstar, the little second-hand RV that Papa Dan owns,  and  The Blue Whale, our Honda Odyssey MiniVan, which we plan to drive across the Earth until she caan’t drive no more!!.  We were equipped with extra tents (there is always much discussion over who will sleep in the same space as Papa Dan.  He has been known to snore.), enough food for nuclear war, and kids and babies.  Our excitement at seeing an actual lake, filled with…well… water, of course, was the result of feeling as if we had just approached an oasis in the desert.  NM is not exactly humid, and our Midwest chemistries are not exactly adjusted to the water-sucking animal that is the southwest air.  Water is a welcomed sight.

Mosquitos like places with water, too.  More on that later.

My husband and I have not camped for ages, and we love camping.  However, having spent the last decade procreating has put  a crimp in our fire-lighting-s’more-making-ghost-story-telling-type vacations.  Managing (very) dirty rugrats, covered in layers of sunscreen, bug spray, and good-old, God-made dirt, while looking forward to sleeping on the uneven ground, only to wake up 15 times to trek down to the Porto-Potty in the middle of the night, is not exactly a Prego’s idea of a dream vacation.  But, now, I’m ready to re-enter the world of being one-with-nature, and what perfect place to start than a beautiful forest of the preserved southwest?  Humph.

So, after leveling the RV and setting-up the tents, it’s time to camp! What’s the first thing you do to start camp?  Light a fire!!

No can do.  Because of the recent wildfires, a result of the perfect fire-encouraging formula of wind, dry air, and hot temps, absolutely no campfires or charcoal stoves were allowed.  The tiniest spark or flying lit ash can be the beginning of hundreds of miles of burning forest.  This is a consequence that we are not willing to risk after seeing the damage the fires leave behind.  People must evacuate their homes and land, and, although the current fire is across the valley, hundreds of people and hundreds-of-thousands-of dollars are going into fighting it.  Another large fire would be devastating as there would not be enough resources to fight both.

No fire? No problem.  We have a camp stove.  Hell!  We even have an RV with a microwave!  It’s not like we needed the heat.

What we DID need… was a mosquito deterrent.  Fire smoke is really great for that.  Really, REALLY great for reducing the population of  annoying, blood-sucking, head-buzzing, good-for-nothing, disease-carrying mosquitos, who could care less if we were wearing bug-spray because they had apparently evolved to a level of resistance that turned buzzing in my ear into a whisper that said “I’m going to eat you and your babies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  I own the Earth and you have no hope.  This is your hell.”

I hate mosquitos.

So between all the whacking-each-other-in-the-head, babies periodically screaming something equivalent in baby-talk to “WHY OH WHY ARE YOU BATTERING ME!” and us reasonably replying, “Ohhhhh, sooo sorry, Honey.  Itwasabuggonnabiteyou.” kisskisskiss, and the actual merriment of eating off the camp stove and enjoying some beers, we did not notice the rustling of leaves on the border of our site less than 10 feet away, until my hubby slowly stood up and said very calmly…

“That is a bear.”

You know how they say, “Do not run if you see a bear.” ?  That rule was not made for mothers trying to immediately deduce how to save 4 children without leaving any for sacrifice.  While the 2 men stared at the bear and contemplated offering him a beer, I shooed my precious offspring into the camper, throwing the smallest into the arms of the biggest and running back for the toddler.  As I approached the RV, I threw him in to the others and slammed the door.  My Mother Instinct turned back to “stand-by” and my Stupid-Human Curiosity asked,

“Shit!  Where’d I put my camera?!?”

By the time I actually got it, the bear was on top of the dumpter that was about 40 feet down the road from the site, and ran-off as I and Papa Dan approached it, while Hubby put away all the food.  Finally, actually seeing it, I realized it was just a little guy (about 200 lbs, the Ranger said) and very timid to run off from the likes of us.  One thing was for certain, however,

He was hungry.

After everything was put away, the kids, unphased by the reality of a hungry bear, begged to walk down to the playground that was about 1/4 mile (in the direction that the bear ran) down the road.  I definitely protested, but I lost the showdown and my choice was to tag-along or stay at the camp site alone.  I take that back.  The mosquitos volunteered to keep me company.  Since, I figured, a beer attack would only result in Papa Dan putting up a good fight with The Bear, giving us plenty of time to run, vs. me probably ending-up throwing food one-item-at-a-time out the RV to satiate The Bear and me as dessert, I selected to walk to the play-ground.

As we approached the playground, we took it upon ourselves to warn the people camping next to it of The Bear, and that they should keep their food put away.  They proceeded to show us a video on their iPhone of The Bear  climbing up the back of the RV about 50 yds beyond the playground, pushing in the back window, and pulling out food.

Thank God I brought my zoom lens.

Sure enough, there he is, with a loaf of white bread dangling out of his mouth.  I am adjusting my lens and scanning the area that I can’t see with my eyes because it’s too far away.  I spot the hungry little guy, snap a few photos, and also see… my father-in-law.

“What is your Dad doing?”  I ask Hubby.  He shrugs his shoulders.

Well, like I said, the little guy is timid.  The Bear, not Papa Dan.  He runs off towards the next site where he is again scared-off by the residents, and runs up the hill.  In the meantime, I have 200 more new mosquito bites, and a couple good shots of Papa Dan and The Bear.

That evening the Ranger, who had been called out by the campers with the video, drove by a couple times and explained that The Bear had been relocated and that it had been a bad season for the bears in general, because of the drought.  The poor little bear was in new territory and he was hungry.  The Ranger himself had not seen a bear in the campground in 4 years.  He explained how important it is for people to put their food in air-tight containers… Not just food, but fragrant toiletries also, even toothpaste!  We assured him that all of our stuff was in a cooler that  was stored in the back of the minivan or in the fridge in the RV, and all our garbage in the dumpster.  For The Bear’s sake, we hoped that other’s did the same because if a bear finds food and is then approached unawares, it may attack out of defense for his nourishment, and will be hunted and executed in those parts, even if it was the fault of a Stupid Human.

While finding sympathy for The Bear, and a great awareness and respect for the fact that we were invading HIS territory, not the other way around, I still was not crazy about the thought of sleeping in a tent.

I could see it in my husband’s eyes.  A tent + the Great Outdoors = a night of primitive romance under the stars.  Bears or no bears, babies or no babies, he couldn’t have volunteered us quicker to be the tent sleepers.  So, after the tent was zipped up for the night, the tiniest baby was fast asleep and we were warm under the 7 blankets, he gently wrapped the baby in a blanket and moved her from the middle to the side and snuggled up next to me with love in his eyes.  We looked up out the top of the tent and remarked in whispers about the amazing clarity of the sky and all the stars.  We caressed and spoke of the beauty of our children and how nice it was to be away.  Then I said,

“Did you hear that?”

We froze.  He answered, barely audibly, “ya”.  We listened, still unmoving, to indistinguishable foot-step-like sounds and random other noises.  He felt around for the flashlight and unzipped the tent.  I waited in silence, hoping that a loud “GO AWAY!” would be enough to scare The Bear away from the RV.  Afterall, my kids were sleeping in there by the back window, and I certainly didn’t want them to be his next loaf of bread.  I watched his face for signs of a bear-sighting as he shone the light outside, towards the RV, in the direction of the noises.  His eyes were wide as he scanned the darkness in jerky, but precise movements of the flashlight.  He stopped moving.  He squinted his eyes and I mentally prepared for fight and flight scenarios.  Ingeniously, I thought poking the baby awake and making her scream would be plenty to scare a whole family of bears away, so I raised my finger over her belly, ready for battle.  My husband got ready to yell, but what came out was… “Oh, geez, Sorry.”

All he caught was his dad taking a leak.

Without words, he zipped-up the tent, scooped-up the baby and laid her back down in the middle, turned off the flashlight, and went to sleep.  So much for tent romance.

I woke up at 2a.m. to him punching the tent.  He heard something sniffing.

I woke up at 5a.m. to footsteps, but a loud zipping of the tent window scared whatever-it-was away.  Then I sat up for 30 minutes negotiating with my bladder, who did not care about 48 degree mornings or bears.  I unzipped the tent, woke up the baby, and figured her dissatisfaction at my leaving the tent would at least get me to the Porto-Potty bear-free.  I got out of the tent, stood up and saw

a glorious morning.

I love camping.

I Should Be Somewhere Else Right Now, but I Own a House

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The weather here is, finally, beautiful.  The swimming pool is open and warming up in the hot, hot sun.  My kids are out of school for the summer.  I am content.  There are a million things that need to be done around here, but I have reconciled with the To-Do List, and moved Enjoy Summer With My Children to the #1 Position.  Part of the original plan of enjoying summer, though, was to be somewhere else.

This weekend I should have been in Germany, celebrating a birthday with a dear friend, and next weekend, off to the Alsace region of France with another friend and our children.  It sounds luxurious, especially if you’re American, to jet-off to Europe and traverse the countries with girlfriends, but, for us, it is an investment in our older kids’ education, a necessary maintenance of important friendships, and an economical choice because we can stay with friends.  Economical, except for the airfare.

Even when the airlines advertise “great” fares, the “taxes and fees” always seem to come out to be equal or greater to the cost of the airfare. Multiply the final price of one ticket x 3, and it equals…

out of my budget.

I am an average American.  Heck, maybe I’m above average.  We are slightly “house poor” (meaning, a large portion of our income goes towards our mortgage and home maintenance), but we keep up with our credit, and have a modest emergency savings and retirement.  We do not have a “portfolio”, which may not have meant anything in these times anyway, we do not have a “platinum Visa”.  We enjoy our home, we eat out a couple times per week.  We are not ashamed to accept hand-me-down clothes, or shop resale.  Our kids live an enjoyable life, they have a TV and video games, and even a swimming pool, but we do not believe in over-indulgence of material things (I’m not sure, at this point, how “American” that is!).  Love, however, is ample and free, along with respect and kindness.  ”Indulgence” may be a relative term, I suppose.

We must compromise, though, this house and comfortable every-day lifestyle, for the ever-rising expenses of travel.  It is not every day that I dwell on it.  When my children are outside, laughing and swimming and eating watermelons, I am happy that their childhood is so blessed.  They will have many memories of love and play in this well lived-in home of ours!  It is this week, though, that I will be thinking on all the “other” luxuries of life that traveling through another culture brings… the experiences, the lessons of accommodation and self-assurance, the education of learning another language, the stimulation of senses from new food, music, and witnessing others’ daily activities.  I will truly miss being somewhere else this week!

It is all more motivation to pursue this web-site project.  Someday, I will travel again, but until then I will write, and share, and read, and watch, and learn.  And I will be patient and enjoy my very charmed life and be thankful for it and the friends who await me in far off places.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua: A Mother’s Review

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Amy Chua’s recent memoir in defense of her parenting style – the Chinese way – has received a lot of hype and press.  I have not made a living as a book reviewer, but I am a mother, and a woman who has come to respect many parenting styles.  Let me first sum up what I thought:

Good points:

  • I don’t know how clear this was, but I milked out some good lessons such as, parents who involve themselves in their children’s work, help kids towards their potential and know their children’s strengths, weaknesses and idiosyncrasies.  It is possible that these kids are less likely to get into trouble at school.
  • Book was easy to read
  • Provoked just enough emotion to hold my interest
  • I appreciated a mother who stands up for her principles.  Chua, in particular, knew her story would be controversial (but was probably smart enough to know that it would make a few bucks!).

Faults

  • Chua’s methods are unrealistic, at times abusive, and financially impossible for most households.
  • Easy to read… Although she seems to be very self-aware, her book lacks depth and reflection on her actions.
  • It is a very contrived memoir with mother-daughter conflict, cute dogs, near death of her sister, few Aha! moments (which I’m not convinced really made her feel “Aha!”) and the triumph of well-balanced children.

 

I found Chua to be an overly confident, proud, and intelligent woman.  She obviously has a strong work ethic, but little room for  everyday fun or leisure.  She writes of instilling these values in her children for the purpose of helping them to reach their full potential.  I’m not quite sure how this should benefit them in the long run.  Besides being really good at a few very special talents, I expect they will spend their own lives as their mother did… all work and no play.  One thing is for certain, she has reason to be proud, and she would like us to believe that it is all her doing.

Even if the “Chinese Way” became an accepted parenting philosophy, it would be like telling someone they should fly to the moon.  Most American (or Chinese households, for that matter) do not make a double, tenured Yale Law Professor’s income, and publish a book every few years.  Therefore, even if we had 20 waking hours each day to devote to our children, which it seems that Chua gives, despite a full-time job and the efforts that she must have put into her published works, we would not be able to afford hours upon hours of private violin and piano lessons in a month (from the best teachers), let alone all the other costs of supporting two prodigy musicians.

Perhaps the point, though, is not what parents can afford, but how much they are willing to go beyond their own mental and physical means for the success of their children.  Also, it is apparent that Chua believes that Western parents consistently underestimate what their children can do, and that they are not involved enough in steering their children towards an early notion of hard work and success.  I think there is truth to that, and I, for one, am heavily reflecting on what more I can do with and for my kids to steer them towards greater potential.

I actually really enjoyed Chua’s book.  I think it is a glorified memoir, full of exaggerated moments, where all of the every day boring tid-bits of life are left out.  I was often entertained, and I finished the book in a day, among my daily tasks of caring for a toddler and a baby. (Were I a Chinese mother, I would have been drilling my 2 year old on multiplication tables, but, alas, I do love a little leisure!)  I found her moments of battle with her daughter LuLu comical.  I read a review that reflected the gasping moment of many readers in which Chua opened her back door and threatened to put her daughter out in the cold if she didn’t perform.  I think that Chua aptly painted a picture of a moment that many of us have when we realize our tactics are just not suitable for a head strong child.  I don’t believe for one moment that she would have actually left her daughter in the cold.  I believe that she thought the threat was enough.  We all do that, threatening our children, for example, with no dinner, and then feeling a tinge of regret when we realize that if we actually follow through, they will suffer and be hungry.  I have learned in my years as a mother NEVER to pose a threat that I couldn’t actually follow-through on.  Chua never learned that lesson, and therefore made many outlandish threats, hoping that fear was enough, because the consequence was too much for even herself to follow-through on.

Additionally, I thought it was ironic that the writing of this book began directly after her climactic public argument with her daughter LuLu in which she lets LuLu finally start choosing the direction of her own life, meaning less violin.  The book seems to be an effort of letting the world know, that if LuLu chooses wrongly, Chua can say a big “I told you so”, and that her way was the right way all along, the memoir is proof of the means and method, and her girls’ successes are proof of the end, thus far.  Also, now she can stop trying to explain to all her friends why LuLu is no longer playing violin publicly.  Anyhow, anything that goes wrong from now on, is clearly on LuLu… or, wait, anything that did go wrong was on her anyway, her mother only took credit for the good stuff.

Certain elements of the story were clearly added as an attempt at showing Chua’s softer side.  She is crazy about her two dopey, beautiful Samoyeds, which I couldn’t help but interpret as a metaphor for the “Western” way of raising children.  We are content to love, cuddle, and simply enjoy the existence of our cute children, the way she learned to enjoy her dogs, and whether we find the time and energy to train them, or help them achieve their potential, is moot.  Also, the near fatal cancer of her sister, although a significant life event occurring simultaneously with the build up her conflict with LuLu, seems to be some attempt at… what? the cliché realization of her own mortality? or perhaps an explanation to contribute why she just didn’t have any more fight left for LuLu?  Whatever the reason, I suppose it contributed to a successful formulaic memoir.  Afterall, something had to take the place of her actually admitting that her parenting style had flaws, because that was never going to happen.

 

Other Resources:

Women On The Map Cheesecake

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I developed this basic recipe after years of using different books and trying different methods.  Despite what some cheesecake fanatics say, cheesecakes are very forgiving and so are those enjoying eating them!  For the purpose of sharing, I have included basic ingredients and ways in which you can substitute to change the cheesecake into your own specialty.  I think I have never made the exact same cake twice!

In my opinion, it is better that a cheesecake is creamy in the middle, rather than dried out.  If the top of your cheesecake is beginning to crack, the cake is most certainly finished baking!  A light browning on the top, and a bit of jiggle in the middle of your cake, is perfect.

I’m a simple girl, so baking my cheesecake at 350 for about 45 – 60 minutes, suits me fine.  If the top looks cracked or brown, just put a sour cream (include in baking time) or a whipped cream or ganache  (after it’s cooled) topping on it!  No one will know, and they won’t care a bit after the first bite!  If you’re a stickler for presentation, keep your recipe simple and put your energies into the toppings and decoration.

Please note that a cheesecake is best served at least 24 hours ahead of time.  The unfortunate thing about cheesecake is that you cannot (should not!) eat it right out of the oven.

For more great recipes and tips, I suggest:

The Ultimate Cheesecake Cookbook by Joey Reynolds

 

Women On The Map Cheesecake
Print
Recipe Type: Dessert
Author: Shannon Lawton-O’Boyle
Prep time: 60 mins
Cook time: 50 mins
Total time: 1 hour 50 mins
Serves: 12
A yummy basic cheesecake recipe that can be modified to suit your own traditions of flavor.
Ingredients
  • Crust
  • 1.5 cups/225g crushed shortbread cookies
  • 1/2 cup/60g crushed almonds
  • 1/2 cup/120g melted butter
  • Cheesecake
  • 32 oz cream cheese
  • 1 cup/200g sugar
  • dash salt
  • 1 Tblsp/15mL vanilla extract
  • 1 Tsp/5mL lemon juice
  • 4 large eggs
  • Additional flavoring
  • Sour Cream Topping
  • 16oz/450g sour cream
  • 1/4 cup/50g sugar
  • 1 Tblsp/15mL vanilla extract
Instructions
  1. Warm oven to 350℉.
  2. Prepare a 10″ spring form pan. (*1)
Crust
  1. Mix crushed cookies and nuts(*2) with sugar.
  2. Pour melted butter in and mix.
  3. Press the mixture to evenly cover the bottom of your pan for a “clean” look, or press mixture over the bottom and up the sides for a “homemade” look.
  4. Set aside.
Cheesecake
  1. Mix together cream cheese and sugar (*3) on high speed, until smooth and creamy, about 3 to 5 minutes.
  2. Add salt, vanilla, and lemon (*4). Mix well. Scrape the bowl. Remix.
  3. Add eggs one at time on low speed, until mixed.
  4. Stir in additional flavorings (*5)
  5. Bake cheesecake in oven about 40 minutes, or until top is slightly browning. The middle of the cake will still shake a little, it will continue to bake while the cake is warm, but if the center is creamy, it will still be delicious!
  6. Remove cheesecake from oven, allowing to sit 10 minutes while you make the sour cream topping.
Sour Cream Topping (*6)
  1. Mix all ingredients.
  2. Smooth over top of cheesecake.
  3. Bake an additional 10 minutes.
Cool
  1. Remove cheesecake from oven and allow to cool for 20 minutes. Put cheesecake directly in the refrigerator, for 12-24 hours.
Cut and Serve
  1. Place cheesecake in freezer for 20 minutes before cutting it with a hot knife. Allow the cake to sit at room temperature for a couple hours before serving.
  2. Enjoy!
Notes

*1. Any pan can be used, but baking time must be reduced for shallower pans.

*2. Change the combination proportions, or type of cookies or nuts, or omit the nuts, for your own recipe.

*3. For a sweeter cake, increase sugar to 1.5 cups, for a less sweet cake, decrease to .75 cup

*4. Substitute another extract or liqueur, up to 2 Tblsp to modify flavor.

*5. Experiment with melted chocolate, chocolate chips, or syrups. A little (1-2 tsp) lemon zest adds a great element, too!

*6. You may also top cheesecake with fruit, whipped cream, ganache, etc.

On Indulgent Food (i.e. Cheesecake!): The Thing That Brings Women Together

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Or should I just say Indulgent Food ?

Here, the first of my posts about Food, I will just say, that if world peace is to be achieved, it will most certainly be around a table of great food (and possibly alcoholic beverages, or Mango Lassi’s, whichever you prefer).

Cheese + Cake = Women + Love

Since ancient times, people of all cultures have been making cheesecake.  There is a recipe for it in almost every culture, from Europe to Asia, and Americans have about 50 ways of making a good one.  In fact, it is a well known fact that if you ask two different New Yorkers what’s in a good cheesecake, they will probably give you different recipes, handed down to them by their grandmothers, sometimes with a very particular proportion of ingredients and way of baking.  The arguments about a good cheesecake recipe abound!  Crust vs. No Crust.  Sour Cream Topping vs. Fruit.  There are Americans who believe that the way to bake one is with a pan of water, oven at 500˚F for 15 minutes, 250˚F for 30 minutes (click your heels 3 times…), and those that believe that putting her in for 50 minutes at 350˚F, does the trick.   Then there’s the matter of letting it cool directly in the oven for 20 minutes, or sending it straight to the refrigerator!  Geez!

Cracks or no cracks, I’ll eat the thing no matter HOW it looks !!

Recipe conflicts aside, this delightful dessert takes many forms around the world.

Baking cheesecakes, for me, is the ultimate fun in the kitchen.  Once you figure out your favorite recipe, an American cheesecake, anyway, is pretty easy to whip up.  When I’m feeling extra-creative, I play around with flavors by switching liqueurs and extracts, changing the proportions and types of nuts and cookies for a delicious crust, or creating a topping to compliment the season and flavor of the cheesecake.  A Cheesecake can wear many hats!!

Eating cheesecakes… well… like I said…

World Peace.

One thing is for sure, all of my girlfriends, no matter their nationality, are happy when I come accompanied with a homemade cheesecake (except the ladies who are counting calories).

I will be posting a recipe shortly, and hopefully, you will send me yours…

In the meantime, have an indulgent Mother’s Day!

On Old Friends, New Traditions, and Crossing Paths… and Fun in Denmark

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Do you ever look at an old friend and think, “20 years ago, I would never have dreamt this moment with you”?  That did, in fact, recently happen to me, and it got me thinking about old friends.

I have known my friend Adrienne since the 7th Grade.  Ironically, although I met her in the 7th grade, my family relocated when I was in the 9th grade to her neighborhood, but on the other side of the county line, so I had to change schools.  It was convenient, however, for us to get together outside of school, mostly to play tennis and watch MTv, back when it featured more music videos and less… ummm… Reality?

We went to different colleges.  What I like best about A, is that we never stress out about not seeing each other, because we are 100% certain that our paths will cross again.  I love that quality in a friend.

When choosing a new and exciting place to go as newlyweds, right out of college, my husband and I decided to go to Boston.  A big city, with a personality all it’s own, and an American history Mecca to boot, it was clear to us that we should take the opportunity, and, anyway, Adrienne was a grad student there, so I already had a friend.  And, so, our paths were brought together again.

Crossing paths is done with intention.  It is viewing an invitation as an opportunity, and opportunity as an invitation.

So, when I was invited back to Boston to attend Adrienne’s wedding, only 2 months after I had moved with my family to Germany, I took it.  There, I witnessed her lovely union with a fine Danish man who I had grown to love, and I got to meet his family and friends, who had likewise traveled over the Grand Atlantic to share in this joyous event.  Her wedding was riddled with as many delightful Danish traditions as could be squeezed into the American reception timeline (American evening receptions are typically 6pm – 12pm, but the Danish traditionally party ’til they drop, while groups take turns honoring the bride and groom with song, dance, and performance).  Honestly, I can’t remember everything, as I may have had too good a time, but I do remember a lot of kissing, some scissors, and making a very bold speech.  Hmmm… check out this link for Danish wedding traditions here.  Maybe you can make some sense of it.

A couple years later, we arranged to spend Christmas (all three days of it!) in Copenhagen with Adrienne and her in-laws.  We were welcomed into their home for festivities and traditions galore.  Oh, how I love the Danish traditions!  There is comfort in consistency and constant activity, which is necessary at this time of year when there is about 4 hours of whatever sunlight can make it through a grey sky! There is baking to be done and Marzipan to be rolled (I thought I hated Marzipan until trying the homemade almond-y goodness!), there is porridge to be made for the Nisse, the prank-playing elves, on the 23rd (1st Christmas), and the leftover made into rice pudding for Christmas Eve (2nd Christmas) dessert.  The dessert coming after a lavish, but homey meal, of duck/goose, cabbage and potatoes, and made into a game in which the person who finds the whole almond buried in their dessert wins a prize (my daughter won a Marzipan).  When all bellies are full, it’s time for lighting the tree with real candles, song and dance around the tree, and present opening.  Christmas Day begins in late morning with a brisk forest walk with family, followed by a meal of cold cuts and Herring.  On the 26th, all the shops may open again.  On this day we went to the second oldest amusement park in the world, and Denmark, Tivoli.  It was the coldest day at an amusement park that I will ever spend!

If this is the most memorable Christmas I ever have, I will not be disappointed.

I highly recommend experiencing a new place through the eyes of a family who lives there.

Back to Adrienne…

I recently saw Adrienne this past year, at the Christening of her son.  She was going to our home town to hold the baptism in her childhood church.  I now live 5 hours away from there, and naturally, could not miss the opportunity to support this life event and to meet her little man!  As an added bonus, I got to introduce her family to my 2 newest children and re-introduce them to my older 2, and her in-laws were there too!  It was great to see everyone again.

It is certain that I will see Adrienne again soon, and, perhaps share some more great adventures, but I do not worry where or when this will happen.  I only know it will be wonderful.

 

A Long Lost Sister

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When I was a child, I can remember Sundays when my grandmother would call her sister, and I would listen with fascination to the strange language she was speaking.  She never spoke to us with those same sounds that she saved for her sister, always starting out slowly, but by the end of each conversation, rattling off her words just as comfortably as if she were speaking English.  I learned to make those sounds too, although I could never put them into words that made sense.  Those harsh ch sounds rolled from the back of the throat, so often falling lightly onto a li ending, were like magic.

It wasn’t until I was much older, that my Gram’s story was told to me, laced with shame that had been passed down to her from her mother, and filled with the mystery and suspense of a young girl bound for a new world.  My great-grandmother, who I thought was named “Mutti”, until I learned that this was just the Swiss way of saying “Mother”, had left her native Switzerland, just south of Lake Lucerne, from the town of Altdorf  (home of the famed Wilhelm Tell), one of the most beautiful places I have ever had the pleasure of imagining myself in the shoes of another woman.  A long journey indeed, particularly for an un-wed, pregnant woman in her early 20′s, escaping the soon-to-be-obvious shameful act of love that she had committed with the man who drove her buggy to the doctor’s office where she worked as a nurse each day.  He was younger than her, and it is likely that they were in love, but for reasons unclear to us today, she decided that leaving was better than staying.  And so her journey began, with another young woman as her companion, by train, then by boat to the U.S.A., landing in Florida, and then by road northbound, to the great Swiss and German communities that still exist today in southwestern Wisconsin.  My grandmother, Johanna, was born there.

The details of her childhood were simple.  She grew-up on a farm, loved by her mother, and also a step-father, who she believed to be her real father.  She had a younger brother, too, but, by the age of 10, had lost her brother in a tragic accident, and her step-father, who, it is implied, died shortly after of heart-break.  Again, her mother and she were alone-together in the world.  My grandmother was smart, humble, and chaste.  She married after completing nursing school, and took care of her mother in her later years, finding out the shame of her mother’s past and the fact that her biological father was still living as well as his location, with the promise to her mother before she died, that she would NEVER pursue a meeting with him, as it would risk ruining the family life he had made for himself.  However, by the age of 52, her own 3 boys were adults and her husband and mother had passed, and my grandmother was left with a lonely, but curious, spirit.

It was at this age, when most of us are looking downhill, that a new story for her was beginning.  She would spend the next 30 years living a life full of sibling-love and wanderlust.  A shameful past, and recent years of losing loved ones, sprouted into a second life; one full of life, travel and experience for my grandmother.

Practically every-other-year, she would go to Switzerland to visit her sister and 2 brothers, and became quite close to her sister.  On the off years, they would try to visit her, or they would travel somewhere new together.  She smiled and laughed all the time when speaking with her sister.  They were short women, taking after their father, with the exact same build and stature.  They had  remarkable similarities in mannerisms, as if they had been raised together, and the same dispositional proportion of business-to-pleasure, each a serious matriarch, who could fill the room with laughter, particularly after a glass of kirschwasser!

In the years after her passing, I have taken my children up to the house on the mountain where her mother lived and worked before coming to the U.S., as she had taken me for the first time when I was 15.  I saw it even before my own father did, but had the pleasure of returning with him a couple years ago… a great pleasure for me.  Beyond this literal journey, I have made many sisters of my own in my travels as a woman.

For me, there is not an ounce of shame in what this past has brought to my life.  There is courage in the journeys that these women have traveled, and the certainty of finding home in the far-away kitchen of a sister that I have and have not yet met.