Monday, October 20, 2014

The Power of a Chipped Bowl

Joshua and I made lasagna the other day. Not the 80's covered-dish version of ground beef, cottage cheese and Ragu that you used to give to your poor neighbor in need, but the real dish from generations ago. My grandparents lived in Chicago for a few years when they were a young couple and my Grandma was blessed with the recipe from her Italian neighbor. Since then, and as long as my memory goes back, it's been the "special meal" in our family. The one that's served on Christmas Eve and when folks come to visit. My Dad was the visitor last weekend so I started banging and clanging in the kitchen, preparing for the "special meal". As he does every once in awhile, Josh came in and asked if he could help. I always love those moments with him so I was happy to have his company. We got out all the ingredients and opened my recipe book and I began to talk him through each step. He loves our crazy family stories so I shared with him the history of the recipe and how I love when Grammy (my mother) comes to town so we can make it together, functioning side-by-side like an old doctor and nurse who've done the same surgery for years. I laughed as I shared how my culinary career began and ended at 5 years old when I baked cookies with my Mom and burned myself on the oven rack. Seriously, I never helped Mom in the kitchen again - and she never made me. That's something I've often pondered. "Then how did you learn to cook like you do?" Josh wondered. I shook my head and felt sorry for Greg all over again. That poor guy. His young wife practically needed a recipe to boil water. For the generations before me it was a given that 3 home-prepared meals would be on the table every day. Then, it seemed, the tradition might be lost with me. I explained that with a lot of patience from Dad, and a LOT of trial and error on my part, over the years I slowly started to get the hang of it. Then something occurred to me. The recipe we were reading from was written in my grandmother's own handwriting just for me. She had compiled a whole book full of recipes from different members of our family. The chipped bowls we were mixing in that I never had the heart to replace were gifts from my Mom. Pans I had first burned things in were from my Aunts. Bless my soul, they had all conspired at my wedding 18 years ago that I would, indeed, be a good cook. Better put, they believed in me. That realization almost made me add a salty tear to the cheese mix. What an impact we have in our homes in the power of generational traditions! The acts I witnessed all my life, the subtle words of instruction and encouragement, the gifts I took for granted ended up being the tools to equip me for the fellowship at the table in my own home. And here I was, passing it on to my son… I thank God for traditions and the people that believe in you along the way. With our own children, we ought to follow the wisdom of Deuteronomy 6, talking about and exemplifying the ways of The Lord -- telling the truth, being selfless and kind to others, working hard, keeping our thoughts pure -- in little ways all day long. A simple meal cooked together, laughing and telling family stories, can foster a bond of love. Or even be a dish to share with your poor neighbor in need. The creative ways in which we purpose to build and equip our kids could become the little traditions they might cherish and keep as their own. And one day when they are grown with their own children, hopefully they too will drop a tear of thankfulness into their "special meal".

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Gisela True and Prozac Too

January 12, 2013. Unbeknownst to me, a litter of puppies is born on the other side of Arkansas. About a month later I'm minding my own business in Target buying toilet paper, etc. when I get a call from Greg that we need a new puppy and there's a good one available in a few weeks. ??? We hadn't been talking about a puppy AT ALL. But you see, this is what happens when you go to Target alone. Your son and husband decide that our life has been incomplete, buddy-less, and a little bit lacking in home security. To clench the deal, the breeder will give us $200 off her price because we seem like good people. "So she's free?" I ask. Ha ha... As you can see, my heart is not made of stone. One look at Gisela True (we call her Zella) and I caved, of course. I have often wondered since, however, if my brain is made of stone. This adorable puppy has turned into the 14-year-old daughter we'll never have. Highly emotional, mood-swinging, hairy, silly, impulsive, sass-mouthed, borderline eating disordered, apple of her daddy's eye. I threatened to donate her to the police department her first whole year of life. They would have put her in juvie. We bought her with the consideration of breeding her (her parents are prize-winners from Germany) but I'm concerned it would threaten our already precarious status with Germany as an ally. Zella doesn't exactly support the image of the folks who boast of Einstein and history's greatest composers. Nevertheless, even with all her quirks, she's one of the family now. For all her insufferableness she really is crazy about Joshua and provides us with a lot of entertainment. And Joshua is crazy for her right back. Every time I ask, "Why in the world did we get this dog?!?", he says, "Because I love her". Point made.