That early morning winter blue

Remember that excitement filling your bones as winter drew near?  Slowly, pieces of outer wear started turning up on the coat rack - mittens, scarves, hats, and soon enough the snow was hitting the ground in big white balls of fluff.  It came down so thick, as if not real...being tossed on us by the handfuls from the sky above.

Kids love winter.  I have yet to see a child not get thrilled at the thought of bundling layers over their body, only to be given the go ahead to scream out the door and wildly leap into the first big pile of snow they see.  It's a way of life around here.  Any place that has 4 seasons (yes I know, some of us Wisconsin cynics complain that there are only two seasons - winter and road construction) has a bit of magic.  There is a speed to each metamorphosis that can seem deathly slow.  One 90 degree day after another in the peak of July, or one -25 degree day after another in the bleak of January.  But the magic happens at the first hint of the arrival of that next season.

The first flecks of green appearing in spring, from the dead brown ground.  Like the dead awakening, reaching for the renewing sunlight.  Then the first blossom; always the most special.  Soon all the fields and yards and gardens are full of color.  Lush and beautiful.  Rarely do we notice the first leaf to flash gold in August.  It isn't until full patches of orange and yellow and red start to appear, that we know autumn has begun to greet us.

Then that first snow!  Not the dust that might fall in October or early November.  I mean the first time the sky opens and gives us piles of the soft white stuff to roll around in.  For weeks, the mornings were dark, thick black and dark.  But with white snow on the ground, the mornings become alive!  All the soft pastels that were lost are now reflected on the snow and bathe the neighborhood in serenity.  A house across the street is frosted with blue-white color as the chimney releases plums of lazy smoke.

These mornings I love.  I sit with my coffee in the not-so-dark living room, in front of my picture window and just try to absorb the peacefulness before me.  Sometimes I still get that wistful urge to hastily pull on layers of clothing and just run around in circles in the front yard, throwing the snow up in the air.  But sometimes its just nice to watch nature's magic, thankful that I not only see what passes before me, but that it is a part of me as well.

An Old Woman's Cookies

One thing there was never a shortage of around our house when I was growing up was cookbooks.  Stuffed away in the cupboard above the washer and dryer in the kitchen were dozens of cookbooks.  Some of which I am almost positive were never used, save for one recipe.  Others were in 3 or 4 pieces from their repetitive use.  By the time I was ten, I knew exactly which book to get down if we were baking chocolate chip cookies.  The red Betty Crocker had the best recipe.  Snickerdoodles?  That was page 74 of the St. Louis church ladies cook book.  Crinkly Molasses cookies?  Well that was a bit more challenging because it meant we had to dig through the recipe card box for my grandma Dora's handwritten card.  The best part about those hand written recipes?  After the list of ingredients, there was one line of directions:  Bake 12 min at 350 degrees.  Pretty straight forward right?  How many of you would be able to journey through a recipe with only this one instruction and come out with perfect cookies on the other side?  Well my mom could.  And I have a feeling her mom and her mom's mom could as well.

I was craving gingersnaps one day.  It was cold, rainy, foggy, and just plain gray outside.  I wanted to make a good cup of tea and have a crispy spice cookie to go with it.  This is usually how most of my culinary adventures begin - I get a craving, won't be satisfied until I can have what I'm craving, and if I have an hour or two free I usually dive right in.  Well I tugged an old favorite down off the shelf:  The St. Louis women's cookbook.  If there was a recipe for a basic, old fashioned gingersnap cookie that I couldn't mess up, it was bound to be in this cook book.

Ah ha!  Page 288 - "Best Ever Gingersnaps."  There is a fleeting memory as I look at the name on the recipe - Helen Johnson.  Her face is very real to me.  She had a loose but curled bob of white hair, dark set eyes and charmingly feline features.  I can hear her soft, squeaky voice smacking in the back of my mind.  Her brick red hat with the wide brim that she always wore to church on Sunday.  Still walking to and from even in winter.  Her husband Ernest was home bound but he would spend time teaching me how to play Gin-Rummy on the wood table he laid across his lap while in his chair.  He passed away when I was very young, but she lived on for a decade or more after that.  Her basement was an art gallery filled with the dozens of oil paintings she had created while she taught herself the craft.  One Christmas she sat with me while we worked together on a very basic crocheted ornament.  It wasn't much, but she dressed it up with bows of different colored yarn, and hand wrote "Merry Christmas" in her neatest cursive across a piece of cardboard that we tied to it.  I must have been the proudest child that day, showing my mom what I made for the tree.  That ornament is still in a box that gets pulled out every year my mom decorates her tree.

I had never baked anything with Ms. Johnson, but I knew THIS was the recipe to use.

The only question left, was hinging on the first ingredient on the list:  "3/4c lard or shortening"  Hmmm...lard or shortening?  What to do?  After a phone call to my mother and a short discussion about cause and effect of using lard over shortening, I decided to go with the shortening.  Here's the list of directions under the recipe:  "Mix together all ingredients.  Form into balls, flatten with the palm of your hand.  Bake on cookie sheets at 400 degrees until brown."

Yep, that's it!  Simple as that.  Because who wouldn't know how to properly mix cookie ingredients together right?  Thankfully I had a basic upbringing in the subject and was able to survive.  In the end, it took two attempts to get the desired SNAP from this recipe.  Which I believe is a considerable success.

It's not everyday you page through a recipe book and can associate a memory from your childhood to each one.  But it sure does make choosing the recipe to use a lot easier.  Here's to Ms. Johnson - for teaching me how to crochet, and how to make the "Best Ever Gingersnap" cookies!

(See below for full recipe)

3/4 c shortening (or lard softened)
2 eggs
1.5 c white sugar
1/2c molasses
2 T ginger (don't skimp if you want the real deal)
1 tsp allspice*
4c flour
2tsp soda
2 T white vinegar
1 tsp salt
2 tsp grated orange zest*

*optional ingredients that I added on the 2nd try and was very pleased with the results!

1) Cream shortening, eggs, sugar and vinegar in mixing bowl
2) Stir in molasses, ginger, allspice, and orange zest until well mixed
3) Whisk or sift together 3c flour, soda, and salt in separate bowl
4) Add dry ingredients to batter a cup at a time until dough come together and stiffens.  Add final 1c of flour.  May need more flour if batter is still too soft.
5) Refrigerate dough for an hour.  (This step can be skipped and you can begin rolling balls right away, the cold dough was just easier to handle.  If you use the dough right away, make sure you dust your hand with a little flour in between rolling each ball to keep from sticking.)
6) Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees
7) Take 3/4 T of dough at a time and roll into a ball.  Place on a greased cookie sheet - I fit 8 on my sheets at a time.  You can make bigger balls but I found this led to a chewy cookie rather than a crispy cookie.
8) Using heel of your hand, press dough balls out to flatten.  The flatter they are, the faster they cook so try to keep them all the same size.
9) Oven racks should be middle lower and middle upper - cookies will literally only take about 5-7 mins per pan.  I did mine one sheet at a time.  If you do two at a time, make sure to rotate pans top to bottom halfway through.
10) Cookies need to be dark brown but not smell burnt when you take them out.  1-2 mins too long and the bottoms go from brown to black - I recommend not leaving the kitchen for these cookies :)

Hope you enjoy!!!

Nature's way

My morning walk starts downhill.  Almost as if to say that everyday should begin with a gentle roll out of bed, not an upright jolt to the sound of a blaring alarm clock.

At the bottom of the hill awaits a sanctuary of deep gold maples that frame the city park in a heavenly hue and carpets the ground with piles of orange delight for the children to roll in.

No children are rolling at this early hour, but I can hear the crunch and crackle of the dry leaves under my feet.  For a moment I cringe at the thought of having their jagged and itchy edges against my skin.  My brothers always seemed to find a way to shove handfuls of them down my shirt when we were kids.  It was impossible to get every piece out, so it poked at me the rest of the day.

The cement pool looks mournful with no water left inside it to sparkle in the sunlight, and a fat-cheeked squirrel seems out of place as it darts left and right under the diving board, scavenging deliriously for any scrap of food, as though winter were arriving tomorrow.

I trudge down through the park, through the awning of the tree branches and as the last arbor of branches bids me farewell, the wind is there to greet my face with a chilly "hello."  Instantly I wish I had my coffee with me.

Passing the gardens along the river walk, I see the bristled chocolate heads of the black-eyed-susans.  They appear stiff like Autumn's goose bumps, rigid in the chill of the north breeze.  Do you know the scientific name for a black-eyed-susan?  It's Rudbekia.  What a great word.  Something with a name like that should be hardy, long lasting, and stunning.  I'm sure these flowers were just that no more than a few weeks ago. 

Turning south, an eerie mist over the ragged pond levitates upward in a seamless connection with the drooping gray clouds above.  A lone, drawn-out honk of a goose sounds nearby.  As though a foghorn were guiding the other geese to safe landing.

The saturated black bark of the half-naked trees attach the earth to the sky, as the blotches of colored leaves adorn their framework. 

For forty-five minutes, the rich October morning lets me forget that anything outside of nature's creations exists.  I can marvel at the simple, and stand in awe of the complex.  Both precision and passion exist in a no less than perfect balance.

Are there really people who have never stopped to notice this before?  For what better way to put oneself aright, than to simply be reminded that we have little meaning in this world at all.  What freedom comes from complete submission to understanding we are but one of trillions of miracles that this universe has borne.  

How magnificent is it to be so gently reminded of the reality of mortality, and the passing of time through nature.  And all before seven o'clock in the morning.

The vicious circle leading back to "me"

Have you ever been asked a question and never been able to answer it?  Not because you didn't know the answer, and not because you were somehow incapacitated, but simply because the person who asked you the question apparently loses interest in the answer as soon as the question escapes their lips.

I've often experienced this in casual chit chat.  The person in the grocery store line ahead of you who has 3 carts full of their next month's food intake piled onto the counter to be swiped one at a time by a woman who can't seem to figure out why her scanning laser isn't reading any of the UPC bar codes, which means she has to manually enter each item on at a time.  "Are you going to get outside and enjoy the weather this weekend?" the customer asks me, a bit uncomfortably, having interrupted my attempts at seeming aloof and examining the details of the candy rack.  

I read this as an attempt by her to ease any impatience I might have due to her large purchase impeding my satisfaction of getting home with the three items I needed to complete my dinner recipe for the evening.

"I guess I don't really have anything......" is about the extent of the thought I am able to verbalize before I hear my voice overlapping with hers.  I stop talking and hear her in mid sentence detailing the exciting time she is hoping to have with her friends camping and cooking out and drinking themselves into oblivion.

I try to not let my facial expression match my thoughts, and continue to smile and nod politely.  She ends the whole explanation of her "awesome weekend" by saying something about fishing.  "Do you like to fish?" I catch her tossing the query in my direction just as I was about to let my thoughts drift back to the candy shelf.  This time it only take my eyes meeting hers and the subtle lifting of my brows, gentle intake of breath, before she has already launched into her next sentence about how her ex-husband never took her fishing and she found out that he eventually cheated on her with another girl while he was out on a boat on some lake somewhere.  

Now, I've realized for many years that I am not, by nature, a social person.  I will keep my head down and read my grocery list of 5 items, fifteen times before making eye contact with fellow shoppers for fear of inducing a conversation like the one just mentioned.  But, it is not beyond my capabilities to have a polite remark or smile ready for any familiar face that crosses my path.  These types of people - those that are caught in the never-ending circle of "me" - do not do well with a polite remark or a smile.  They use other human beings as excuses to talk about themselves.

Them:  "Are you going anywhere for Christmas this year?"

Me:  "Well I might decide to see if my family....."

Them:  "My family is flying to Colorado for a ski-trip.  We're staying in a private cottage in Aspen for a week.  The flights were paid for by my great aunt who has been giving her money away by the bagful since she went senile.  I hope she dies soon because no one in the family really wants to be responsible for her.  Not that we don't like her, it's just that she's crazy and none of us has experience with crazy people.  Do you have any crazy relatives?"

I cringe at the second question twice as much as I cringed at the first.  Really what I'd like to do is start walking away mid-sentence and see if they would follow me just to finish talking about themselves.  

I'm not a social convention expert, but I know it's very rude to appear too interested in oneself.  So here's my little bit of advice:  Stop and think if you really care about the answers to the questions that you ask other people in conversation.  And if you're ever caught with another person in the vicious circle leading back to "me"......try a few different techniques to amuse yourself.  Try out talking them.  Try reciting the alphabet in another language.  Try a spontaneous break-dance.  Try rolling your eyes back in your head but carrying on like normal.  Try picking your nose.  And if all else fails, just laugh to yourself and then go home and write a blog about it.

It's Tuesday, September 11, 2012....

On Tuesdays I usually don't go to work until 9:00.  So it's my morning to be a little lazy, enjoy my coffee a little more slowly, and look out my back patio doors to see the progress of the seasons affecting my garden and its surroundings.

This particular Tuesday we were out of cream for my coffee.  My husband, being the devoted man that he is, ran out to the store to get some.  He doesn't drink coffee.  Sometimes I think I really don't deserve him.  He bought me the laptop from which I am typing this blog.  It's a new thing for me - typing my thoughts out into the cyber universe.  I'd much rather sit down and pour out a good conversation face to face.  But apparently I'm going to be the author of a book or a screenplay someday.  That is the dream my husband and I share just before drifting off to sleep at night.  A large sum of money and we'd pay off our debts, secure our families, and dust off our traveling shoes for a few months....years even maybe.  Who knows?

Autumn is a tough time for me emotionally.  I think it must be for many people.  Parents are sending kids back to school, or to school for the first time, or to college for the first time.  Farmers are watching their crops dry up and get cut down.  Early risers don't get to see the sun at 5:00am anymore and those late night summer outdoor parties are just another thing of the past.  Autumn seems full of goodbyes.  Friends parting ways, and taking steps in different directions, never sure whether they might cross paths again.

This is the time of yea when we hearty people of the Midwest start to rake leaves, till under gardens, burn dead branches, pack away the patio furniture and make a path to the snow-blower.  We know what awaits us in a few short months.

Autumn always seems to conjure memories of the fall days at college.  Moving in, meeting my fellow residents, tacking up my photos from last year on the cork board above my desk, reuniting with old friends, and knowing that some friends were off studying overseas, or even back at home no longer pursuing a degree.

This day, this Tuesday 11 years ago, at nearly this exact hour, we had already been in classes for a week.  I had just started my sophomore year.  I was a Resident Assistant in an all-girls dormitory on the third floor.  I was up and preparing to leave for my first class of the morning.  At that point I wouldn't say I had as much appreciation for the morning as I do now.  I would give anything to be heading to class every morning now instead of heading to work.  (A subject for another blog no doubt)  That morning I can't remember whether or not I had coffee, or even breakfast, but I do remember watching the morning news and seeing the World Trade Center Tower billowing smoke from one of the upper floors.

Many people over the years have given their accounts of that morning and how they felt.  In fact, my Facebook newsfeed right now is full of September 11 references.  For we lucky individuals fortunate enough to not know someone who was directly affected by those attacks, we are collectively thankful and humble in our remembrance of what others had to endure that day.

I can remember for certain that I watched live as the second plane slammed into the second tower (not knowing at the time if it was the North or South tower).  I can remember for certain watching, again live, as the towers crumbled into dust and fell to the ground.  I remember watching the plane hit the tower on my TV in my dorm.  I watched the towers hit the ground on the TV that the college had placed in the campus cafeteria building.  I was in a crowd of on-lookers who made a collective gasp as they watched the pieces come to the earth, knowing that people were still inside.  Knowing what it meant was happening to those people.  And knowing that they were here, in Wisconsin, far away from it all.

Eleven years later and you would think those collective emotions from that morning might still have healing power.  Power to unite.  Eleven years later and we are in the middle of one of the most brutal (and in my opinion embarrassing) presidential elections this country has seen.  Eleven years later and the phrase "September 11th" when said aloud brings a very sharp image to most people's minds.  It's no longer just a date, it's an historic event.  Eleven years later and politicians still use the date to ignite a crowd.  I wonder if that happened much with Pearl Harbor still in 1952?  For some reason I don't think so.

How trying it must be on a nation to not be able to let go.  The most common slogan attached to September 11, 2001 is "Never Forget."  Personally I don't see how that would ever be possible.  But I wonder sometimes if that phrase doesn't make it just a little challenging for us to let go.