Yellow Flowers or Dot's Candy Bowl

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yellow flowers brought to me, yesterday

Yesterday was a day of, warm sunshine, sunny skies, and almost cold winds off of the lake. While I sat on my front porch, watching my two and a half year old grandson play at digging in the bark chips, while simultaneously guiding his seven month old brother from eating the spring debris off of the ground, I couldn't help but think of a similar time with my own children.

The difference is now, I feel less restless. Less like I should be doing something else, which years ago seemed more pressing then listen to one small child talk, or enjoying the gurgle song of a baby.

When I was brought back from my reverie by a small hand bringing to me yellow flowers, (or as he says "lellow" flowers, so pretty", he can't say his "y's yet.), placing the small blossoms into my hand with a delicacy that belies his youth.

This, of course, reminded me of all of the yellow flowers I had brought to my Aunt Dorothy, who wasn't really my aunt, but I loved keenly.

Aunt Dorthy was a older woman, a friend of my mother's. She was much older then my mother, and was in very poor health. Because of this, all of the women in our church each took a day a week or month to help her out.  My mother went every Tuesday, while others went less often or more often, depending on their situation.

Aunt Dorthy had a large pink plastic bowl with a lid that had the words "Dot's Candy" on it. Which to me as a child, was amazing. I had never seen a bowl filled with candy anywhere else in my small life.

I'm not sure just exactly when I learned, but I can't remember a time when I didn't know, if you brought Aunt Dorthy flowers, she would roll over on her homemade wheelie chair, reach down to the bottom cabinet in her tiny kitchen, and pull out her candy bowl. Then she would take off the lid, thrust it out to you, as she manipulated her false teeth in her mouth with her tongue, saying, "take a piece, oh, go on take another, those flowers were really pretty".

I love that little hand as he pointed out how pretty that one was

The day my mother would go to her house to help her, by changing the sheets, doing laundry, and what ever else she did there, I would be sent outside to play. Typically, I would bring many books and read outside under the willow trees that framed her yard. Sometimes I would play with the children that lived next door. If fact some of those children have grown up to be my dearest friends, even to this day.

Looking back, I now realized my mother looked forward to these days with Aunt Dorthy. While the work was the same as it was at home, the comradery of doing these tasks while visiting with a kind friend, who was grateful for the help, must have been a boost to her. I know there was very little of the grateful at home for my mother.

At some point during the day, either alone or with one of the neighboring children, I would search the yard for some "flowers" to pick, I am sorry to say, only thinking of the candy. Typically, the only specimens to be had, reliably, were dandelions. So, most of the time, these were the flowers picked.

The delivery to Aunt Dorthy will always be on of my fondest memories. After a timid knock on the kitchen door, she would welcome you in, demand you come over for a hug, where she would pull you in to her ample bosom, saying, "what have we here? Flowers! I love flowers. You deserve a piece of candy, come, let's see what is in my bowl!"

My mother would say, "Naomi, what do you say?" Aunt Dorthy would counter with, "No, no Margie, I'm thanking her for the lovely flowers, not the other way around. Come here, give me a kiss." Aunt Dorthy was kindness personified.

Which is why, when my little guy brought me flowers today, I gave him a hug, while considering silently,

about getting my own version of Dot's Candy bowl for the future.

Lost in Translation

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A quilt I made for a niece's wedding present,
which, as is often the case,
has nothing to do with the words on this page, sigh.

I am finding,
memories of words said
have new meanings,
as I recollect them.
(or I am hoping for new meanings?)

Sentences,
previously,
lost in the translation
of time,
bring greater comprehension. 
(or do I hope for a understanding long denied?)

Years were fraught with
opportunities to
misunderstand,
now there aren't any minutes
or hours
or days left.
(or was our time together the sum of cross purposes?) 

Cooking

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Something in progress...God alone knows what it is going to be. 

I have a friend who use to say to her family each time she made a meal, it is the one millionth meal she has made for them. This started to run a bit thin with her audience, so her husband, who worked in the numbers arena, actually figured out it was more like the  hundred thousandths range.

Dispiriting to be found out so mercilessly, don't you think?

It does feel like the millionth meal. Sometimes even more.

I like to cook. I like to bake. Sometimes I even love to do both of these domestic tasks.



Take today for instance. I am in a high drive cooking mode. I have made so far this morning; potato leek soup. Kabocha Soup, (a squash we grew in our garden, and froze a zillion packets of, which I now feel over compelled to make something with it, I might be exaggerating on the actual count of packets), egg salad, and I am now taking a break before I start the bread to rise.

Hence, I am writing this ode to cooking.

Chocolate Cookies, of course.

I started cooking the meals for family when I was twelve years old. My mother went to work, and announced it would now be my responsibility to plan, shop, and make dinner. I was slightly acquainted with how to cook, I was very acquainted with cleaning up after others who had cooked, but planning was a new venue for me to enter.

One of my many brothers, purchased for me the cook book From Julia Child's Kitchen, and later the Joy of Cooking.  Both proved very useful for my entrance into the culinary world.  I realize in hindsight, these gifts to me were partly for him too, as my first attempts were checkered. My mother was such an old had at cooking, she had very few recipes written down.

Like the time I made meatballs and spaghetti, not knowing that a clove of garlic wasn't the entire bulb. The recipe called for two whole cloves of garlic. I stopped peeling after I have finished the first bulb, and thought, this is enough, surely they will not miss the other clove.

Tomatoes from last summer's garden. 

That evening, while we all seated around the table, my mother inquired of me, "how much garlic did you put in the meatballs?" I looked at her with shame as I relayed I had only put in the one clove as I was tired of peeling the little things.  This lead to further inquiry on her part, only to have revealed to me, a clove was one of these little individual things I had been peeling, for what seemed like forever.

My brother, the one who gave me the cook books, said dryly, "we won't need any heat in the house tonight".

I'm not sure how many meals I have actually made. Some days it truly feels like a million or more. Some days, I have zero, I repeat, zero inspiration, as I view the ingredients in my larder. Others, like today, I am inspired.

It is a gift, cooking for those we love. I have often felt like it is a tangible way to show how much these people mean to me. Watching them eat, and enjoy the food I have prepared gives me great joy.

As does the anticipation of their coming home to me,
at the end of the day.

Sweden Shop

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Baby Clothes at Sweden Shop

A few weeks ago my two daughters, one baby grandson, and I went to the Sweden Shop on Foster in Chicago. It was an outing I had been looking forward to, and I am please to say, I wasn't disappointed. It has been a long standing tradition for us to visit this place. I'm not sure if it's the store or the outing that is the focus, but none the less, off we went.


While the Sweden Shop isn't a earth shattering destination, it is always warm, and pleasant, both in environment, and in experience. E and KR and Henry, and I all set out late morning, hoping to miss the traffic. E finished up some work, played with her baby boy in the back seat, KR was shot gun, while I drove.

Dishes, I love at the shop

The Gods were with us. The traffic was light, a parking place was available right in front of the store, the sun was shining, and all was well.

We entered the store, greeting the staff like it was old home week. We pursued the store's wares, text the owner to see if she was around, (she was), we all chattered back and forth about what we would purchase; fabric, yarn, baby clothes, licorice, clogs? Planning all the while to head next door for a light snack at Tre Kroner after our shopping.

Of course, there are foxes too!

While this may all sound very pedestrian, in reality, it is not.  These daughters of mine are best friends. Something I thought might never happen, after watching them scuffle, and snarl at one another in their childhood.  They had golden moments as well, but I still wondered if they would grow together or apart as siblings sometimes do.

I love the way they refer to each other as "sister", or plan sister-moon* trips, meet up for coffee, take walks, trade leftovers, split cookies, and support one another.

Baby boy with Patti, the owner of the shop,
 two of my favorite people!

I am frequently out of the loop in the relationship they have cultivated. That is okay. It is their relationship. One that delights me to watch.

Which is why this little excursion is so sweet, and lovely to me. I was blessed to be a part of the day they shared with each other as it's joy overflowed onto me.



*Sistermoon is similar to the proverbial honeymoon trip. The two of them love planning trips together, some they take, some they don't.