Long ago and far away, my older sister and I "hung out." We did things and went places together.
A sister between us, Cindy, had married and left home, the moment she turned 18. So Cris "made do" with me. Four years older than I, it somehow worked out, and went well.
One thing we occasionally did was drive south-of-the border, to eat in the restaurants, and see a cousin, Sylvia. We went shopping in the main district of Tijuana, picking her up before heading there. Sylvia often spent weeks at our home in California during the summers and had told us: "If you go shopping without me, you're going to pay a lot more for your things."
So (and because we were cousins and loved her) we picked her up at her home just across the way, and she bartered for us knowingly, with skills that amazed us. We chose our hippie leather purses and belts, embroidered peasant tops, knickknacks and even tiny bottles of liquor. (How did THAT happen, I think now!!) But shop we did, and fun it was, especially because we didn't know then we should have guilt over not giving people their due; we were young and only wanted all we could get, for our money.
The first time we had shopped without Sylvia produced a life-long memory and message that had nothing to do with the marketplace. We must have known that Sylvia was either working or at school, and so we planned on eating and shopping alone but to stop at her house anyway before heading back home, to say hello to her mother.
"Chuy" (Spanish nickname often and somehow derived from "Maria de Jesus") was this lovely, sweet-tempered woman, a favorite person in my mom's life, as was Sylvia, too. There were many children in the family, as I remember I think they eventually added up to 10. Filling the small house with fine furnishings and lots of toys never happened! Instead the children played with each other outdoors a lot, inventively and creatively. I remember when younger, that exploring the countryside in groups was not forbidden but encouraged, that no one ever squabbled as much as stayed cheerful, mostly contented with each other. They were always happy to see the cousins from "el norte."
They were welcoming. When Cris and I showed up unexpectedly that late afternoon, Chuy's face lit up to greet us. She urged us into her humble kitchen, and fussed that we should sit and visit at the table with her.
But Chuy didn't sit. She called to one of her young sons, and pulled from a cupboard a jar with dollars and change. We didn't know what was being said. Although Cris and I were more than happy to visit her, we had a lack of good verbal communication because we sadly weren't fluent in Spanish, and she not in English. We assumed she was sending her young man to the store as a common thing, and settled in to "chat" while she began fixing the supper for her family.
Into a skillet she sautéed rice; I remember she used water from a big jug of water the family used for cooking and drinking. She puttered and cooked, adding the newly-purchased ingredients when "Hector" returned from the store. It promised to be a delicious meal, traditional enchiladas but made with a white cheese our mother didn't use in her own version.
Cooking for her big family was something we supposed she did every day about this time. We didn't give it a thought, really. But when after awhile she served food generously onto plates and set them in front of US, we knew--she had sent her son to the store for an unplanned meal--special food for special guests. What might be left over, she would add to and fill out later for the rest of the household.
But THIS food, these filled platters, were for US. For me and Cris.
And me and Cris, JUST before arrival to Chuy's kitchen, had JUST finished eating huge platters of food, in a restaurant in town.
We were STUFFED. Not one bit hungry, crammed to the gills, no room at the inn. Not one bit able to communicate our mixture of gratitude and dismay, at not realizing her efforts were for US.
My sister and I locked eyes, and picked up our forks. Nothing to do, but try to eat.
So try to eat we did. We moved the food around, and nibbled, as if the time we took would give us time to get hungrier, and we could make more headway. It took all our unwilling regrets, to attempt to convey to her how appreciative we were, but we just could not eat a thing.
Oh, to have not wasted that food!! That was special fare, for that day of the week we knew. How lacking in us, not to have taken better notice, of what might be happening. We gave our apologies the best we could, but to this day I have to wonder: Did we miss her offer of a meal? Were we that careless, because surely I know how to say these many words now: "Muchos gracias, y lo siento, pero nosotros no tiene hambre ahorita." ("Thank you, and we're sorry but we're not hungry right now." Ahead of time, so as not to see that work and that graciousness, and that food, go to waste.
I've always wanted to say more. I know what it is to want to nurture! I know that nurture and generosity adds up to kindness and love, the greatest gestures to both give and receive.
I may have seen "Chuy" a handful of times since then, if that. I never relayed being at a loss that day. It wasn't a small thing! It did make me very happy in later years to hear that Chuy's life became much changed; she has been nurtured beyond that which she might ever have imagined, and it may be she has long forgotten my and Cris's experience in her kitchen.
I hope so!! But I never have.
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
How much do YOU accomplish with a butter knife, that has nothing to do with buttering bread?
For all the years I ran my small-town café, a butter knife was my go-to tool for almost anything I needed to try to fix on my own. Pretty much if a butter knife couldn't fix it, it required a hiring.
There was a handyman husband involved, it is true--but he was so often at his own work, at least an hour away, or occupied with other equally important matters in things I wanted done at home.
So a butter knife it was, for prying and loosening, lifting away, scraping, and getting into needed things for needed outcomes.
When I used my particular butter knife, of substantial size and weight, I sometimes thought of my mom and grandmas, who often said to me growing up, "Get me a butter knife". When their men were not around, a butter knife was their helper, too.
The other morning, my husband was "in the building", busy with a periodic cleaning of the gunk beneath the drain-cap in the bathroom. It was a frosty morning with gray skies, and the grumbling began when the cap somehow slipped from his grasp and settled with an irretrievable "thunk" into the drain.
He refused my suggestion of a butter knife, and even of a vintage set of pliers I sometimes add into my mix of problem-solvers.
"That will never do it," he said. "There's a rounded edge and it's in there tight; I'll have to go to the garage and find my good pliers."
Going to the garage involved more fuss and at least a minimum of dressing-warm--socks and shoes and a heavy jacket for a few moments of searching. But search and return he did, with his prized pair of pliers, which did NOT work.
More grumbling, but now willingness, to accept the butter knife I thrust into his hand.
A little tuck-under and a wiggle, and apparently up it came, as I heard it from the kitchen. (But do you think he would confirm this?!)
And this is when I thought: God does bless women when they are alone, with a butter knife.
I said to my man: "SEE? I know the value of a butter knife. If you should be gone and I'm alone taking care of things, it's a butter knife for me. I used one all those years at the shop for so many things; I don't need no stinkin' toolbox."
Now don't get me wrong. I know women are more than capable with a real tool box, and real weaponry for that matter. My own granddaughter is in her second year of studies to become an auto mechanic, and she fires a mean shot often, at the center of a bulls-eye.
But basic and old-school is good, too! Something that doesn't require muscle or weeding out from a multitude of options, something at hand and as ordinary as a butter knife will do.
I almost don't know how to use a butter knife for its intended purpose anymore, do you? They are either out-sized and clunky for my butter dish and even for our dinner plates, or wimpy and pointless for anything else, like cutting meat. You can't slice a thing with a butter knife, and I far prefer handy little spreaders that are more optimum for slathering things perfectly.
But I still have a full supply of butter knives in my kitchen drawers. I keep them for....I don't know why I keep them. Probably for the one person a year who might ask for one. Maybe because they're expected in a drawer, maybe because the minute I give them away I will find I really need them.
Maybe YOU still use butter knives in multiple ways? If so I'd like to know what for! I kind of see them on the brink of obsolete--like orange reamers or crank ice-crushers, things that are still needed but better forms have taken their place. I still need a cutting tool, but anything seems better than a butter knife.
So the most sensible place for a butter knife in my house seems to be my "everything" drawer--the catch-all receptacle for all things hardware. It falls right in line there, with measuring tapes and screwdrivers and rubber bands, and all manner of second rate stuff my husband casts my way.
Funny how he thinks all this "it will never do" stash hardly matters, because I always rely on him coming to my rescue anyway.
And as long as I can, I will. But yeah, I do know and "get" the REAL value of a butter knife!
For all the years I ran my small-town café, a butter knife was my go-to tool for almost anything I needed to try to fix on my own. Pretty much if a butter knife couldn't fix it, it required a hiring.
There was a handyman husband involved, it is true--but he was so often at his own work, at least an hour away, or occupied with other equally important matters in things I wanted done at home.
So a butter knife it was, for prying and loosening, lifting away, scraping, and getting into needed things for needed outcomes.
When I used my particular butter knife, of substantial size and weight, I sometimes thought of my mom and grandmas, who often said to me growing up, "Get me a butter knife". When their men were not around, a butter knife was their helper, too.
The other morning, my husband was "in the building", busy with a periodic cleaning of the gunk beneath the drain-cap in the bathroom. It was a frosty morning with gray skies, and the grumbling began when the cap somehow slipped from his grasp and settled with an irretrievable "thunk" into the drain.
He refused my suggestion of a butter knife, and even of a vintage set of pliers I sometimes add into my mix of problem-solvers.
"That will never do it," he said. "There's a rounded edge and it's in there tight; I'll have to go to the garage and find my good pliers."
Going to the garage involved more fuss and at least a minimum of dressing-warm--socks and shoes and a heavy jacket for a few moments of searching. But search and return he did, with his prized pair of pliers, which did NOT work.
More grumbling, but now willingness, to accept the butter knife I thrust into his hand.
A little tuck-under and a wiggle, and apparently up it came, as I heard it from the kitchen. (But do you think he would confirm this?!)
And this is when I thought: God does bless women when they are alone, with a butter knife.
I said to my man: "SEE? I know the value of a butter knife. If you should be gone and I'm alone taking care of things, it's a butter knife for me. I used one all those years at the shop for so many things; I don't need no stinkin' toolbox."
Now don't get me wrong. I know women are more than capable with a real tool box, and real weaponry for that matter. My own granddaughter is in her second year of studies to become an auto mechanic, and she fires a mean shot often, at the center of a bulls-eye.
But basic and old-school is good, too! Something that doesn't require muscle or weeding out from a multitude of options, something at hand and as ordinary as a butter knife will do.
I almost don't know how to use a butter knife for its intended purpose anymore, do you? They are either out-sized and clunky for my butter dish and even for our dinner plates, or wimpy and pointless for anything else, like cutting meat. You can't slice a thing with a butter knife, and I far prefer handy little spreaders that are more optimum for slathering things perfectly.
But I still have a full supply of butter knives in my kitchen drawers. I keep them for....I don't know why I keep them. Probably for the one person a year who might ask for one. Maybe because they're expected in a drawer, maybe because the minute I give them away I will find I really need them.
Maybe YOU still use butter knives in multiple ways? If so I'd like to know what for! I kind of see them on the brink of obsolete--like orange reamers or crank ice-crushers, things that are still needed but better forms have taken their place. I still need a cutting tool, but anything seems better than a butter knife.
So the most sensible place for a butter knife in my house seems to be my "everything" drawer--the catch-all receptacle for all things hardware. It falls right in line there, with measuring tapes and screwdrivers and rubber bands, and all manner of second rate stuff my husband casts my way.
Funny how he thinks all this "it will never do" stash hardly matters, because I always rely on him coming to my rescue anyway.
And as long as I can, I will. But yeah, I do know and "get" the REAL value of a butter knife!
Sunday, November 27, 2016
The Trouble with the Times
The trouble with the times is that Godless passion is the new religion, and moderation is a mortal sin.
Societal harmony is no longer an option, because even benevolent silence is now disrespected. Don't have a crazy-hard opinion on social or political issues? Then get ready for derision; your complacency makes you a part of the problem. It means you are "not listening", that you are apathetic, that you don't care, that you are ignorant and uninformed.
No one has to tell you these things directly. All one has to do is care about reading up on current events, and be curious enough to read the commentary, and the commentary on the commentary. Used to be becoming informed was a noble thing; now it is a trash thing. People trashing people for thinking differently, for trying to form enlightened opinion, for seeking the contrasting view but holding to one's own.
In the course of holding to your own, do you ever dig your heels in? Of course you do. Even mild-mannered people dig their heels in; it is second nature to survival. Holding to one's own validates everything we are about--what inspires and drives us, what makes us beings of integrity. It pays honor to the conclusions we've come to, and upholds the principles and values we cherish.
Principles and values--in the eye of the beholder stuff. I am the first to agree that a "churched" life has little to do with innate principles and values, so YES, the Godless passion of some can lay shame to the God-claimed passion of others.
"Live and let live", so long almost anyone's sacred mantra (at least in theory) is now an outdated, or if used, dishonest mantra. It doesn't pass the sniff test, when people talk the words but actively stomp the march to pass the legislation to obliterate the true "live and let live" out of society.
Does not marching mean you don't stand for anything? It seems so, more and more. We live in an era where simple, earnest prayer is scorned as an exercise in futility by many, more than ever before. But many DO still pray, and simple and earnest contemplation in itself will never be scorned.
I don't know what is "enough" to bring back more possibilities for harmony. But I experienced harmony yesterday, by mixed minds finding common ground and maximizing on that. A beautiful thing, and time will have to tell for the rest. We can pray, and we can hope! In the meantime, with moderated passion I love the timeless words of this hanging that accompanies our door; I hope the message will carry us through this and all seasons yet to come. A blessed Christmas season to you, and happy holidays, too!!
Societal harmony is no longer an option, because even benevolent silence is now disrespected. Don't have a crazy-hard opinion on social or political issues? Then get ready for derision; your complacency makes you a part of the problem. It means you are "not listening", that you are apathetic, that you don't care, that you are ignorant and uninformed.
No one has to tell you these things directly. All one has to do is care about reading up on current events, and be curious enough to read the commentary, and the commentary on the commentary. Used to be becoming informed was a noble thing; now it is a trash thing. People trashing people for thinking differently, for trying to form enlightened opinion, for seeking the contrasting view but holding to one's own.
In the course of holding to your own, do you ever dig your heels in? Of course you do. Even mild-mannered people dig their heels in; it is second nature to survival. Holding to one's own validates everything we are about--what inspires and drives us, what makes us beings of integrity. It pays honor to the conclusions we've come to, and upholds the principles and values we cherish.
Principles and values--in the eye of the beholder stuff. I am the first to agree that a "churched" life has little to do with innate principles and values, so YES, the Godless passion of some can lay shame to the God-claimed passion of others.
"Live and let live", so long almost anyone's sacred mantra (at least in theory) is now an outdated, or if used, dishonest mantra. It doesn't pass the sniff test, when people talk the words but actively stomp the march to pass the legislation to obliterate the true "live and let live" out of society.
Does not marching mean you don't stand for anything? It seems so, more and more. We live in an era where simple, earnest prayer is scorned as an exercise in futility by many, more than ever before. But many DO still pray, and simple and earnest contemplation in itself will never be scorned.
I don't know what is "enough" to bring back more possibilities for harmony. But I experienced harmony yesterday, by mixed minds finding common ground and maximizing on that. A beautiful thing, and time will have to tell for the rest. We can pray, and we can hope! In the meantime, with moderated passion I love the timeless words of this hanging that accompanies our door; I hope the message will carry us through this and all seasons yet to come. A blessed Christmas season to you, and happy holidays, too!!
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Potato Chips in Heaven
In what ways do you revert to your childhood, and does frequently "going back" mean the end of your world is on the horizon?
For all our maturations and hard-fought wisdom, what does finding ourselves longing for our past mean? Does it mean regression of what we have struggled for in our recent modern history? Is it acquiescence to aging? Is it depressing? Mustn't it be disheartening to experience a breakdown of all we have strived to identify with as "grownups", seemingly beyond our will?
A novel line, (literally, a line in a novel) once told me that the first fifteen years of life are the ones most vividly recalled throughout life. While later years represent the parts of our independent adulthood and all the events of struggle to become "who we are", it is these earlier years that eventually override our thoughts in simple recollections. For good or bad or both, those times of our lives are not just formative, they are reformative.
Because they reform us, back to who we were. Who were you as a child? We were the essence of who we would become, I think. Time and experience can transform sensitivity into callousness, or stubbornness into mellowness...somewhat and for some time. But our traits never really leave us; they are only managed, subdued or highlighted, to accommodate our realities. While we are influenced by our outer worlds, our inner beings are rarely shaped beyond our recognition.
Don't we all both love and hate that we are who we are, come hell or high water? Don't we all both love and hate the experiential times that shaped us?
The thing about childhood is the innocence. The sponginess, the ability to absorb and never forget the very best and the very worst. Amazing the dark times we all had, the detestable dark times that lighten with the ages. The same increasing years that rob us of so many good things also replenish our spirits with selective recall. Most of the time, when we choose to recall, it is of the things that bring about happiness, and away with the grim reminders.
Not so when we are trying to "find ourselves." When our days revolve around who we want to become, it is as if shedding our past skin is the only way forward. We obsess about the shaping of our formative years, dwelling and blaming and shuddering to break free, to be the forgers of our future way.
And then comes the day a tuna sandwich, potato chips and a glass of Lipton iced tea just sounds so good again. Somehow, the "progression of time" made Mom's lunches passe', even unhealthy. Bologna? Spam? A Sunday fried chicken dinner? All poison now (for some good reason) but do we all know that Mom meant well?? Didn't Dad mean to give us an expression of his fondness for us when he piled us into the back of a pickup truck to take us to the country byways?
How will we feel some years down the road if and when our children mock the foods and experiences we gave them, are loath to pass them on to their own? How will we feel if and when science proves the healthy nourishments and the safety accoutrements we insisted they have were pointless, some even harmful?
Oh yes, what goes around comes around. Always has, always will.
Some of the best wisdom in the world, even unbelievers concede, is Bible-based. I speak of golden rule living, and encouragement that love supersedes all. My personal favorite rule is that bottom line, we must come "as children" to meet our final fates. Whether one considers eternal life a possibility or not, the essence of "coming as a child" maintains that humbling ourselves and acceding to our ultimate parent is akin to acceding to the parent(s) we knew as children. Seemingly harsh, they knew best and required much, toward our better interests.
What movie was that where it was said that most soldiers, when dying on the war field, call out for their mothers, likely their most nurturing parent? What do anguishing scenes like this tell us? For me, it says we are all children at heart, who never lose the need for a parent. The natural order of things dictates we most often go to our graves without one, but believers in the Father Almighty never will.
I thrive on that sustenance. I'm not so old I don't have hope for many more years to come, but already I have reverted to coming as a child to the God I believe in. His "nourishment" (word of the bible) I resisted long enough, because it was averse to the "nourishment" of choices I preferred. Now that I am allowing my "Parent" to direct me again, I love that I don't mind this, and wish I would not have minded it sooner. And, I wish, HOPE that I can be better at it.
It is not the end of my world! It is my happily-ever-after, started in good time. And I JUST KNOW...there WILL be tuna sandwiches and potato chips in heaven!!
For all our maturations and hard-fought wisdom, what does finding ourselves longing for our past mean? Does it mean regression of what we have struggled for in our recent modern history? Is it acquiescence to aging? Is it depressing? Mustn't it be disheartening to experience a breakdown of all we have strived to identify with as "grownups", seemingly beyond our will?
A novel line, (literally, a line in a novel) once told me that the first fifteen years of life are the ones most vividly recalled throughout life. While later years represent the parts of our independent adulthood and all the events of struggle to become "who we are", it is these earlier years that eventually override our thoughts in simple recollections. For good or bad or both, those times of our lives are not just formative, they are reformative.
Because they reform us, back to who we were. Who were you as a child? We were the essence of who we would become, I think. Time and experience can transform sensitivity into callousness, or stubbornness into mellowness...somewhat and for some time. But our traits never really leave us; they are only managed, subdued or highlighted, to accommodate our realities. While we are influenced by our outer worlds, our inner beings are rarely shaped beyond our recognition.
Don't we all both love and hate that we are who we are, come hell or high water? Don't we all both love and hate the experiential times that shaped us?
The thing about childhood is the innocence. The sponginess, the ability to absorb and never forget the very best and the very worst. Amazing the dark times we all had, the detestable dark times that lighten with the ages. The same increasing years that rob us of so many good things also replenish our spirits with selective recall. Most of the time, when we choose to recall, it is of the things that bring about happiness, and away with the grim reminders.
Not so when we are trying to "find ourselves." When our days revolve around who we want to become, it is as if shedding our past skin is the only way forward. We obsess about the shaping of our formative years, dwelling and blaming and shuddering to break free, to be the forgers of our future way.
And then comes the day a tuna sandwich, potato chips and a glass of Lipton iced tea just sounds so good again. Somehow, the "progression of time" made Mom's lunches passe', even unhealthy. Bologna? Spam? A Sunday fried chicken dinner? All poison now (for some good reason) but do we all know that Mom meant well?? Didn't Dad mean to give us an expression of his fondness for us when he piled us into the back of a pickup truck to take us to the country byways?
How will we feel some years down the road if and when our children mock the foods and experiences we gave them, are loath to pass them on to their own? How will we feel if and when science proves the healthy nourishments and the safety accoutrements we insisted they have were pointless, some even harmful?
Oh yes, what goes around comes around. Always has, always will.
Some of the best wisdom in the world, even unbelievers concede, is Bible-based. I speak of golden rule living, and encouragement that love supersedes all. My personal favorite rule is that bottom line, we must come "as children" to meet our final fates. Whether one considers eternal life a possibility or not, the essence of "coming as a child" maintains that humbling ourselves and acceding to our ultimate parent is akin to acceding to the parent(s) we knew as children. Seemingly harsh, they knew best and required much, toward our better interests.
I thrive on that sustenance. I'm not so old I don't have hope for many more years to come, but already I have reverted to coming as a child to the God I believe in. His "nourishment" (word of the bible) I resisted long enough, because it was averse to the "nourishment" of choices I preferred. Now that I am allowing my "Parent" to direct me again, I love that I don't mind this, and wish I would not have minded it sooner. And, I wish, HOPE that I can be better at it.
It is not the end of my world! It is my happily-ever-after, started in good time. And I JUST KNOW...there WILL be tuna sandwiches and potato chips in heaven!!
Friday, January 29, 2016
"Clutter me Happy"
You're on the right page, the "Less is Plenty" page....but this is a post in defense of CLUTTER.
Why? Because the room I love most in my house--the kitchen--NEEDS to have clutter. I have found, if I can't have kitchen clutter, I can't have an ordered, "Less is Plenty" life.
Anyone serious about not wasting money on convenience foods or eating out, but who still craves lovely mealtimes, (versus porridge)knows this. You cannot have hidden blenders, toasters or accessories that require a ladder or serious stooping to access. You cannot have vital utensils stored in the nether-reaches, or you will never reach for them to make truly good meals every day.
I'm not a lightweight in the kitchen, but I am not any kind of obese, either. I'm lithe enough to yet climb and bend and access, and to see it all as good exercise while I work. But I also have a serious image of a dream-heroine in my mind, a matronly woman who nurtures and loves, who drops all her reservations about society-at-large and who just wants to be friends with everyone through food.
I can't be too skinny for this, and I can't be too orderly. I have tried both. It defies my reality now to believe I ever (as a young, skinny cook) asked my husband to construct a cabinet to hide my kitchen STOVE when not in use, but I did. And he did--he built it for me.
For some months, I lifted wooden doors up top my electric stove to expose the burners, and opened wooden front doors to get a sheet of cookies into the oven. All the time food cooked, horrendously gangly doors stood floppy and agape, a real precious sight in direct argument with my intent to hide a modern appliance I wasn't crazy about the looks of. I got the silly idea from a silly woman in a country-living themed magazine, and if the agent who sold us our homeowner's policy had seen it, he would have crossed us off his list of valued clients.
He didn't see it, and in a few months time, I didn't want to see it either. I shamefacedly admitted to my spouse it was a bad idea, and away it went. But do you think I appreciated the stove in all its exposed glory THEN? No. It was banished to the basement when I found an ancient "Monarch" combination wood-burning AND electric stove, and we (according to insurance regulations) installed it in the other's place. The "Monarch" had the "matronly" look I wanted all along, with a no-need-to-cover-it-up factor involved.
So, it's not that I'm not an "a place for everything and everything in its place" person. I go to great lengths for order, and if there's a problem, I fix it. Or my husband fixes it. Okay, so mostly my husband fixes it.
But.....even if you enjoy cooking or don't mind all meals quick and easy, when you've been swept away (as most of us sometimes are) by alluring meals from the freezer aisle, the deli, or take-out places or restaurants, do you ever tally up what it costs per month to not cook at home, even just some of the time?
I have, during stretches of our family-raising years, and it added up to a modest mortgage payment--at least one common to our neck-o-the-woods.
I've always liked to cook, but I've always also liked to NOT cook, too. I have waffled and wasted between the two extremes for many years, and I even owned a restaurant of my own for some of those years. Even as I gave surplus food away to my friends and neighbors, I sometimes just wanted to eat someone else's cooking, and we often did.
We did it often enough and long enough to know this: with few exceptions, food away from home is mostly not that good, overpriced, and rarely lingers for favorable in the mind. And it nearly NEVER lingers in the memory like Mom's food does.
I did have the best example for this, growing up. My mom managed healthy meals and general sustenance for a family of ten on a limited income. We never went hungry and we always went "delicious." I love to imitate her meals, to this day. My dad may have earned less overall than many other fathers we knew, but his hard work and Mom's creativity and enthusiasm for a good meal always provided our family a great sense of plenty.
As it has through the ages, "plenty" comes from a "waste not" mindset. If our sky has a ceiling, we figure what we can do with less of so that we can have plenty in more important areas. In recent years we definitely adjusted to eating out far less, and saw an improvement in our dollar "plenty."
Funny, but now, when my spouse and I CAN eat out more, and at least more "conveniently", the thrill of it is gone. We love this sense of plenty, in extra-good food, extra dollars, extra choices in leisure for other areas. Mostly, we like the sense of plenty in being able to do things for our children and grandchildren; it is the greatest worth "plenty" can exemplify.
BUT. I NEED the clutter in my kitchen to be efficient at what I do. The things I use regularly have to be at hand. With the counter-space of a "less is plenty" sized home, this means things show, they are not hidden, they are ready to be used. They do not get in my way, they MAKE the way for me to get things done.
"LESS" in the kitchen I cannot do, and for one other reason. In keeping with my matronly role model, I love to immerse myself in the "feel" of her aura, and era. I want to cook with the things she cooked with!! They are not all practical, but they are beautiful. They are ART. Vintage cutting boards are my backsplash, and vintage tools and kitchen accessories are my inspiration. Most I have used, many I use often. All are ready and set to go in apocalyptic times!!
Does my defense of clutter make sense, to the spirit of "less is plenty"? What in your life, do you sometimes think you have too much of, but then say NO, I'm good, thank you very much!? Please comment, either here or on my less is plenty Facebook page, and thanks for reading!!
Why? Because the room I love most in my house--the kitchen--NEEDS to have clutter. I have found, if I can't have kitchen clutter, I can't have an ordered, "Less is Plenty" life.
Anyone serious about not wasting money on convenience foods or eating out, but who still craves lovely mealtimes, (versus porridge)knows this. You cannot have hidden blenders, toasters or accessories that require a ladder or serious stooping to access. You cannot have vital utensils stored in the nether-reaches, or you will never reach for them to make truly good meals every day.
I can't be too skinny for this, and I can't be too orderly. I have tried both. It defies my reality now to believe I ever (as a young, skinny cook) asked my husband to construct a cabinet to hide my kitchen STOVE when not in use, but I did. And he did--he built it for me.
For some months, I lifted wooden doors up top my electric stove to expose the burners, and opened wooden front doors to get a sheet of cookies into the oven. All the time food cooked, horrendously gangly doors stood floppy and agape, a real precious sight in direct argument with my intent to hide a modern appliance I wasn't crazy about the looks of. I got the silly idea from a silly woman in a country-living themed magazine, and if the agent who sold us our homeowner's policy had seen it, he would have crossed us off his list of valued clients.
He didn't see it, and in a few months time, I didn't want to see it either. I shamefacedly admitted to my spouse it was a bad idea, and away it went. But do you think I appreciated the stove in all its exposed glory THEN? No. It was banished to the basement when I found an ancient "Monarch" combination wood-burning AND electric stove, and we (according to insurance regulations) installed it in the other's place. The "Monarch" had the "matronly" look I wanted all along, with a no-need-to-cover-it-up factor involved.
So, it's not that I'm not an "a place for everything and everything in its place" person. I go to great lengths for order, and if there's a problem, I fix it. Or my husband fixes it. Okay, so mostly my husband fixes it.
But.....even if you enjoy cooking or don't mind all meals quick and easy, when you've been swept away (as most of us sometimes are) by alluring meals from the freezer aisle, the deli, or take-out places or restaurants, do you ever tally up what it costs per month to not cook at home, even just some of the time?
I have, during stretches of our family-raising years, and it added up to a modest mortgage payment--at least one common to our neck-o-the-woods.
I've always liked to cook, but I've always also liked to NOT cook, too. I have waffled and wasted between the two extremes for many years, and I even owned a restaurant of my own for some of those years. Even as I gave surplus food away to my friends and neighbors, I sometimes just wanted to eat someone else's cooking, and we often did.
We did it often enough and long enough to know this: with few exceptions, food away from home is mostly not that good, overpriced, and rarely lingers for favorable in the mind. And it nearly NEVER lingers in the memory like Mom's food does.
I did have the best example for this, growing up. My mom managed healthy meals and general sustenance for a family of ten on a limited income. We never went hungry and we always went "delicious." I love to imitate her meals, to this day. My dad may have earned less overall than many other fathers we knew, but his hard work and Mom's creativity and enthusiasm for a good meal always provided our family a great sense of plenty.
As it has through the ages, "plenty" comes from a "waste not" mindset. If our sky has a ceiling, we figure what we can do with less of so that we can have plenty in more important areas. In recent years we definitely adjusted to eating out far less, and saw an improvement in our dollar "plenty."
Funny, but now, when my spouse and I CAN eat out more, and at least more "conveniently", the thrill of it is gone. We love this sense of plenty, in extra-good food, extra dollars, extra choices in leisure for other areas. Mostly, we like the sense of plenty in being able to do things for our children and grandchildren; it is the greatest worth "plenty" can exemplify.
BUT. I NEED the clutter in my kitchen to be efficient at what I do. The things I use regularly have to be at hand. With the counter-space of a "less is plenty" sized home, this means things show, they are not hidden, they are ready to be used. They do not get in my way, they MAKE the way for me to get things done.
"LESS" in the kitchen I cannot do, and for one other reason. In keeping with my matronly role model, I love to immerse myself in the "feel" of her aura, and era. I want to cook with the things she cooked with!! They are not all practical, but they are beautiful. They are ART. Vintage cutting boards are my backsplash, and vintage tools and kitchen accessories are my inspiration. Most I have used, many I use often. All are ready and set to go in apocalyptic times!!
Does my defense of clutter make sense, to the spirit of "less is plenty"? What in your life, do you sometimes think you have too much of, but then say NO, I'm good, thank you very much!? Please comment, either here or on my less is plenty Facebook page, and thanks for reading!!
Saturday, January 16, 2016
These Plates Were Made for Using
(More, new perspective on my favorite "Sterbuck Farm" Story)
In MY dictionary, if you looked up the meaning of "bittersweet" there would have to be a picture of my favorite pretty plates alongside.
Let me get the "bitter" out of the way first.
Although I'm happily using these vintage plates for everyday now, it is because I have come to a somewhat sad conclusion: I'm not going to outlast these dishes. They will be the last set I buy, the last set I will use. For a person who has "changed out" dish patterns all her married life, this is a little bittersweet.
But I have a bigger number of this pattern than I ever dreamed possible, and that is very sweet. It is a number bigger than can break in a routine course of use, and I just don't expect anything but the routine here. I'm not going to give them away, because I love them. And I'm not looking for, only hoping against, any act of God or "downfall" in the kitchen that would ruin any significant number of them.
In fact, I've always thought it was a special act of God who brought them to me in the first place. And NO, I'm not being dramatic.
The pattern IS one of the first that I truly enjoyed, actually, in my married life. The problem was it was just one single dish I found, at a flea market, for one thin dime. Oh, that I could have found more, I would have paid their price and brought them home decades ago, as a young mom and wife, trying in earnest to make her house a home.
For about a decade, I never saw another one like it. It must be its gorgeousness, I thought, that made this so. Pretty in pink and blue, I was covetous of more, seeking the pattern out evermore.
Alas, not to be, or so it seemed. I had found it in Colorado, where we lived for fourteen years, the last few in a financial and spiritual downturn for our little family. In crisis, we left, to work and save in California, where our families were. The plan was to eventually move into an also dispirited farmhouse in Wisconsin, one that had known thirty years of abandonment and revealed it openly, no matter how lovely its surroundings were, and even in its very yearning heartbeat.
It still wanted a family. We earnestly wanted a home. When we finally arrived in 1988, we joined together tentatively. "Sterbuck Farm" justifiably
wondered about what we were made of. It had been rejected countless times. Its story, we learned, was one of many "leavings" and in truth, from the moment we pulled in with the moving van, we considered doing so ourselves. The dream of it had been so romantic an adventure, its reality disappointed as mostly daunting and fearsome. It would wait us out, and we could do nothing but try to see it through.
And then the plate turned up, in its very soil, that very first spring. We were planting a garden, and up it came with a shovel, whole and perfect.
Can you blame us for the significance we saw in the pattern that emerged from the earth? It seemed to say, "Don't give up, don't feel dispirited. You are meant to be here. You are meant to give it the good, more cheerful try."
We needed to hear that. We needed to pick up the inspired pace. We needed to quit with the dejection and look up, look around. The farmhouse was habitable, and sound. It sat center of a work-of-art landscape that only God could be the signer of. The folks in our "neighborhood" were friendly and had reached out to us, and our little family had each other. We had to see the positive, and this THING, this physical item that I had searched far and wide for, in places much more likely and appropriate, had emerged from the ground in the middle of our "nowhere."
So it spoke to us all. We definitely perked up that day, knowing the "message" was something worth sustaining.
Our new neck-of-the-woods proved to be a region of the country where "my" dish pattern had obviously, in a previous era, been very popular. One shop keeper said he thought pieces were given away in oatmeal boxes, with others available for purchase either on store shelves or by order. In the late eighties, I started finding pieces everywhere, reasonably priced. Still perfect, still beautiful, to my eye and heart, so I picked up every one I came across. Close to our 25th wedding anniversary, I found a whole box of them complete with two platters and a creamer and sugar, vegetable servers, and much more. For a time, I stopped buying them, thinking what I'd accumulated we rarely used, and that we might never, really.
Craziness.
Why not start using them? I had said I should, and finally I did, for special occasions. Then a funny thing happened. Just like I hoped they would, they put me back in time. They put me back to the days of Sunday dinners and matronly mothers or grandmothers serving them up, of warm, steamy kitchens with aromas flowing out-of-doors, like the Johnny Cash lyrics (Sunday Morning Coming Down)"I walked across the street and caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken...and Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost."
Ah, YES. Something many of us have lost...that Sunday dinner feeling, or of any lovingly prepared meal, capable of uniting families and sustaining not just bodies but souls, fit for memorializing a "feeling" unto the ages.
In her long-beloved series Laura Ingalls Wilder did this memorializing like no one else. When I was growing up in the sixties in Southern California, her "meal descriptions" transported me to another place and time, so that somehow, I wanted to capture those times and make them my own. It helped that my own mother had a "Laura" mindset about good meals around a family table, and between all such examples another kitchen nurturer was born. No. Modern Day. Apologies for loving the kitchen!!
I can't recall the plates my mother used, and I don't know that Laura's would have been quite this decorative. But I think both would have appreciated them as gems. I think both would have admired their pretty appeal, and that they were easily enough obtained so that they could serve for everyday, and yet suffice for special, too. I think both would have embraced, as I have, the gentle knife and fork lines that have lovingly scarred my plates. These creases, like the lines on a face, represent love forward, love accepted eagerly and love remembered. And no, I'm not being dramatic!
A plate is just a "thing", it's true. At the shop I owned for many years, I used many sets for serving, for selling, for decorating, for bringing home and using. My customers were as guilty as I was of loving pretty dishes; even the men noted and appreciated them. So it is something of a mystery to me that I am sure now
, I don't need another dish set in my life. I don't want another dish pattern in my life.
This is the one that makes me feel most like Laura, and honors most the homey legacy my mother also left behind. It's the one my kids know is nearest and dearest to my heart. And it is already the only one that my grandchildren have known in this household.
It is the one that reminds me a past I never lived, and it is the one I will take to my grave. Crushed, and mingled with my ashes. And yes, I AM being dramatic.
In MY dictionary, if you looked up the meaning of "bittersweet" there would have to be a picture of my favorite pretty plates alongside.
Let me get the "bitter" out of the way first.
Although I'm happily using these vintage plates for everyday now, it is because I have come to a somewhat sad conclusion: I'm not going to outlast these dishes. They will be the last set I buy, the last set I will use. For a person who has "changed out" dish patterns all her married life, this is a little bittersweet.
But I have a bigger number of this pattern than I ever dreamed possible, and that is very sweet. It is a number bigger than can break in a routine course of use, and I just don't expect anything but the routine here. I'm not going to give them away, because I love them. And I'm not looking for, only hoping against, any act of God or "downfall" in the kitchen that would ruin any significant number of them.
In fact, I've always thought it was a special act of God who brought them to me in the first place. And NO, I'm not being dramatic.
The pattern IS one of the first that I truly enjoyed, actually, in my married life. The problem was it was just one single dish I found, at a flea market, for one thin dime. Oh, that I could have found more, I would have paid their price and brought them home decades ago, as a young mom and wife, trying in earnest to make her house a home.
For about a decade, I never saw another one like it. It must be its gorgeousness, I thought, that made this so. Pretty in pink and blue, I was covetous of more, seeking the pattern out evermore.
Alas, not to be, or so it seemed. I had found it in Colorado, where we lived for fourteen years, the last few in a financial and spiritual downturn for our little family. In crisis, we left, to work and save in California, where our families were. The plan was to eventually move into an also dispirited farmhouse in Wisconsin, one that had known thirty years of abandonment and revealed it openly, no matter how lovely its surroundings were, and even in its very yearning heartbeat.
It still wanted a family. We earnestly wanted a home. When we finally arrived in 1988, we joined together tentatively. "Sterbuck Farm" justifiably
wondered about what we were made of. It had been rejected countless times. Its story, we learned, was one of many "leavings" and in truth, from the moment we pulled in with the moving van, we considered doing so ourselves. The dream of it had been so romantic an adventure, its reality disappointed as mostly daunting and fearsome. It would wait us out, and we could do nothing but try to see it through.
And then the plate turned up, in its very soil, that very first spring. We were planting a garden, and up it came with a shovel, whole and perfect.
Can you blame us for the significance we saw in the pattern that emerged from the earth? It seemed to say, "Don't give up, don't feel dispirited. You are meant to be here. You are meant to give it the good, more cheerful try."
We needed to hear that. We needed to pick up the inspired pace. We needed to quit with the dejection and look up, look around. The farmhouse was habitable, and sound. It sat center of a work-of-art landscape that only God could be the signer of. The folks in our "neighborhood" were friendly and had reached out to us, and our little family had each other. We had to see the positive, and this THING, this physical item that I had searched far and wide for, in places much more likely and appropriate, had emerged from the ground in the middle of our "nowhere."
So it spoke to us all. We definitely perked up that day, knowing the "message" was something worth sustaining.
Our new neck-of-the-woods proved to be a region of the country where "my" dish pattern had obviously, in a previous era, been very popular. One shop keeper said he thought pieces were given away in oatmeal boxes, with others available for purchase either on store shelves or by order. In the late eighties, I started finding pieces everywhere, reasonably priced. Still perfect, still beautiful, to my eye and heart, so I picked up every one I came across. Close to our 25th wedding anniversary, I found a whole box of them complete with two platters and a creamer and sugar, vegetable servers, and much more. For a time, I stopped buying them, thinking what I'd accumulated we rarely used, and that we might never, really.
Craziness.
Why not start using them? I had said I should, and finally I did, for special occasions. Then a funny thing happened. Just like I hoped they would, they put me back in time. They put me back to the days of Sunday dinners and matronly mothers or grandmothers serving them up, of warm, steamy kitchens with aromas flowing out-of-doors, like the Johnny Cash lyrics (Sunday Morning Coming Down)"I walked across the street and caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken...and Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost."
Ah, YES. Something many of us have lost...that Sunday dinner feeling, or of any lovingly prepared meal, capable of uniting families and sustaining not just bodies but souls, fit for memorializing a "feeling" unto the ages.
In her long-beloved series Laura Ingalls Wilder did this memorializing like no one else. When I was growing up in the sixties in Southern California, her "meal descriptions" transported me to another place and time, so that somehow, I wanted to capture those times and make them my own. It helped that my own mother had a "Laura" mindset about good meals around a family table, and between all such examples another kitchen nurturer was born. No. Modern Day. Apologies for loving the kitchen!!
I can't recall the plates my mother used, and I don't know that Laura's would have been quite this decorative. But I think both would have appreciated them as gems. I think both would have admired their pretty appeal, and that they were easily enough obtained so that they could serve for everyday, and yet suffice for special, too. I think both would have embraced, as I have, the gentle knife and fork lines that have lovingly scarred my plates. These creases, like the lines on a face, represent love forward, love accepted eagerly and love remembered. And no, I'm not being dramatic!
A plate is just a "thing", it's true. At the shop I owned for many years, I used many sets for serving, for selling, for decorating, for bringing home and using. My customers were as guilty as I was of loving pretty dishes; even the men noted and appreciated them. So it is something of a mystery to me that I am sure now
This is the one that makes me feel most like Laura, and honors most the homey legacy my mother also left behind. It's the one my kids know is nearest and dearest to my heart. And it is already the only one that my grandchildren have known in this household.
It is the one that reminds me a past I never lived, and it is the one I will take to my grave. Crushed, and mingled with my ashes. And yes, I AM being dramatic.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Small Miracles
I'm not sure I believe in happenstance, or coincidence. I see things more as God-intended, or God-allowed. I do believe in miracles, that big ones are more precious by virtue of their rarity, but that small ones happen often because the Maker likes to inject joy into our days, and his.
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