Quill #118 - Tradition (1980)

I remember those big family reunions at Grandma's house when everyone stayed overnight.
I would wake up to the familiar chatter of women's voices and the smell of bacon frying on the stove.
Still sleepy, I would go out to the kitchen where their love would surround and claim me.
I was one of the eldest children and it made me feel grown-up when they accepted me.

The men were almost always in the garage, tinkering, showing off, laughing and talking in those deep, resonant voices.
Sometimes they played football in the backyard, all the men and all the boys, except Grandpa and my dad.
Grandpa was too old, and Dad said he didn't care much for football, so the two of them would sit and talk and watch the game until the ladies called the men in to supper.

In the evenings they all played cards.
Sometimes I got to play, but usually the children played their own games, occasionally complaining about the unfairness of being children.
On special occasions, we would all go into the back room, and Grandma would play her ancient piano.
The keys weren't all quite tuned, but their odd tinkling sound only made the old songs seem even older.

Eventually we would trickle away, back to our own homes, just as the time trickled away much more quickly than anyone thought it would.
Grandma's house is gone now, but in my heart it is still there, comforting, and sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I can still hear her working.
And I know that when I dreamed I was there once again.

(These pictures are not the ones I wanted and may be replaced when I find the right ones.)

Quill #101 - Grandma's Potato Soup Recipe

This was my father's favorite soup. The recipe was passed down to my mother from her mother and, presumably, from mothers before them. When I make this soup, I don't follow a recipe, so you'll have to forgive me if the instructions are a little strange. I'm putting this one in a blog for family members.

Home-style (Very) Potato Soup

a big pot about half-full of water
up to 1 medium-sized onion (sweet varieties preferred)
2-3 medium-sized potatoes, or whatever you've got
3 eggs
1/2 - 1 cup flour
milk or milk powder or canned milk
chicken broth or chicken bouillon (4 cubes)
celery salt
salt
1/2 - 1 tsp. black pepper

Chop the onion and potato into small bits and toss them into the pot. Add the broth or bouillon and a couple shakes of celery salt, for now. Set the pot to boiling.

While that's getting hot, whisk three eggs in a cereal bowl with a fork until they're smooth and yellow, then add a half cup of flour and keep stirring with the fork till the batter is how you like it for either noodles or dumplings. (Noodles, the batter drips thickly off the fork. Dumplings are thicker.) You may have to add more flour, depending on what you prefer. My dumplings usually take about a cup.

When the pot has boiled, drop in your noodles or dumplings, a little bit at a time, allowing each bit to cook a little before dropping more into the pot. Once all the batter has been put into the pot, reduce the heat and let the noodles/dumplings cook for a few minutes on simmer. Stir the pot occasionally as you're adding batter.

When the pot isn't boiling anymore, and the noodles are fully cooked, add the milk. You want enough milk, if possible, to turn the broth from transparent to opaque. If you haven't got that much milk, don't worry about it. The soup will still be good.

Now add a teaspoon of salt, if you're allowed, and a couple more shakes of celery salt, taste, and then add whatever amount of these is pleasant to you, tasting as you go. Add a half teaspoon of black pepper, again adjusting these three spices for your taste. Once you're satisfied with the flavor, serve. Some people like crackers with their soup.

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Now, I have to admit I've made personal adjustments to this recipe. Sometimes I add a few bay leaves while it's cooking, or use red pepper instead of black. Sometimes I add carrots or other vegetables when I'm low on potatoes. I've experimented with making lower carb versions, though none of my experiments have the flavor of the original.

Once I made the mistake of putting one of my versions out for dinner for my father, saying that I thought the flavor was an interesting variation. I don't think he could have glared at me more if I'd murdered my mother. In his eyes, the two crimes might have been equal.

In any case, nobody else is bound to the original. Feel free to make variations. If you serve one to me, I promise not to glare.

(image from Lolcats)

Quill #91 - Every family has one...

My parents, grandmother, middle brother and I were walking down an Omaha city sidewalk toward the optometrist's office where I was supposed to get new glasses. I was twelve or so, which meant my brother was about ten, old enough to not have his hand held constantly. He fell somewhat behind the rest of us and nobody really noticed or worried, assuming he was following along as he should.

My grandma started noticing, first, and then my parents, that every person walking the opposite way was giving us dirty looks, staring at us with outright hatred in their eyes. Puzzled, Grandma looked behind us and discovered Bro
walking as if crippled, using other behaviors to suggest a mentally challenged person, as well. Everyone who passed us thought we were ignoring our poor handicapped child!

I don't know why he bent his intellect toward causing trouble, but he was always a master at that skill.

(images from Lolcats)

Quill #69 - Comin' Through the Wry (2010)

My voice got a compliment
Last night,
Not for the first time.

Apparently I sound a lot like my
Well-to-do Southern grandmother,
Look like her,
Walk like her.

I don't have her natural
Eloquence in clothing.
She wore Pendleton jackets,
Silk scarves.

I wear jeans
And sneakers.
For dress-up,
Black sneakers.

She sewed,
My other grandma crocheted.
I do some of both.

But when I gaze in the mirror,
Anymore,
I see her looking back,
A patient smile,
Crush-crinkled eyes
That have watched a
Lot of water fall.

Her other granddaughters
Resemble different parentage.
Yet, they were her fulfillment,
Slender and tall,
The perfect children.

She'd had a rough life,
Wasn't proud of her roots,
Her harsh daddy and the
Thieves and traitors behind him.

Did she ignore me,
Because she couldn't bear
To look at herself?

Quill #52 - Trim (2010)

Fifteen years I spent growing that braid. Brushed it often, kept my
Hair soft and strong, all one length and even. In that space of time,
I lost my mother, buried my father, moved four times, raised a
Daughter, said farewell to a son, gained a grandchild, his loving
Mama, lost Grandma, two aunts, cousin to cancer, developed
Diabetes and heart disease. Three pets died, gained two more and,
In all that time, I never thought I would cut it again so
Casually, as if it meant nothing to me, when that was
My only pride but how could you say no to a child without
Tresses at all? I sent fifteen inches, one for each year, to
Locks of Love, through the salon. And they sent me a postcard that
I should frame and hang, saying thank you, thank you, for growing hair,
A most valued skill. I wonder what the child will look like who
Wears the empty space from around my head, and whether fifteen
Inches will bring them, like reverse voodoo, fifteen years more life.