Pasta for Thanksgiving

I didn't celebrate Thanksgiving as a young child in Austria and didn't know exactly what the holiday meant until my family moved back to the U.S. when I was 9.

In those early years, Thanksgiving was an afterthought. As my mother dished out the whopping 3 pounds of pasta she cooked for her brood of six, she mentioned "Oh, today's Thanksgiving."

What's that? we asked with full mouths. 

"An American holiday."

And we dug again into the mountains of pasta blanketed with deep-red tomato sauce.

I ate helping after helping until the top button of my skirt needed to be undone. Until I had to take a nap before I could comfortably move again. This was also not unusual in a household that served one main meal each day, a light breakfast and dinner and hardly ever snacks.

I couldn't find us eating pasta,
but here's a holiday pic from that time.

Pasta was the food that fueled afternoon play. Pasta was what kept us waiting as lunchtime approached and belly's grumbled. 

"A watched pot never boils."

I knew that my mother was right. But not watching in wait while your stomach screams is an impossible ask. 

By the time the pasta reached al dente (and when I was the tester, I sometimes lied that it was there already) the mob of six circled the kitchen, sometimes fighting with each other. We couldn't help it.

When my mother placed the bowl on the table, there was no more will to wait. We held our forks upright ready to revolt. 

"Marisa, you say the prayer," my mother said to the oldest. Marisa was the one who organized our play. She took care of us. She sometimes ruled on who was right and wrong. We would give her one breath. One sentence.

"Thank you for our family, our food and our friends."

"Amen," we all said and then pillaged the pasta.

I am better acquainted with idea satisfaction than Thanksgiving. The gratitude comes afterward. I am satisfied; the meal was good. 

Comfort food

I want comfort. I boil three potatoes in their skins, mash one with the back of a fork, drizzle it with good olive oil, and sprinkle with sea salt. I crawl back into bed.

I'm home sick for the second time in two weeks, and I'm homesick for a distant memory:

Nono (Italian for grandpa) feeds my Jack-o-lantern-mouthed brother from a steaming bowl.  He blows on each spoonful of potato before offering the bite. Anthony gums it down and opens for more. Sometimes Nono tests. Twice, after I beg, he feeds me too.

It's been eight years since Nono died and many more since he weaned Anthony. But the flakey potato tastes exactly like I remember. A lot has happened to to me in between those bites. There have been many times when I wanted comfort. Many times when I've retreated to bed with something that will fill me up or numb me out.

I've gone to bed with a glass of wine at the end of a long work day. Against the recommendation of most any dentist, I never bother to brush my teeth before falling asleep. I also hid a giant bar of cooking chocolate in my underwear drawer while I was studying in Spain. I would peel back the foil at night and gnaw on it. Once a wayward chip melted into my sheet. I tried cleaning it up with tissues and toothpaste, but my host had a keen eye. When I got home from school, the spotless sheet was drying on the line between apartment buildings.

It feels good to be cared for — to be spoon fed or have someone else do the laundry. Others have taught me the pleasure of clean sheets. But the lesson is now mine.

I go to the kitchen and mash another potato.

Dragon Mama

My mother nursed all six of her children. She spent twelve years breastfeeding, sometimes two babies at once. 

In my early memories, Mama always has one of my siblings latched on for “baa baa” (like the sound of a bleating sheep). This was a name my oldest sister came up with and it stuck.

Mama was efficient and managed many things simultaneously, which was necessary with so many children and no shortcuts. She homeschooled, baked bread, sewed clothes, entertained friends. There was baa baa and spelling lessons. Baa baa and bedtime stories. Baa baa and adult conversations while her friends griped about work trouble and took comfort in beer and cigerettes. Mama listened. She never smoked and hardly ever drank.

Mama’s friends regarded her as an incarnation of the Madonna. And she could certainly be painted as the Holy Mother in broad strokes. But having been her child, I know that depiction to be too simple. While it shows Mama’s nurturing, it disregards her wrath.

Her anger came on swiftly and was over as soon as she made her point. Mama nursed us all through our teething phases and beyond. Inevitably, each of us tried out our newly cut teeth by biting Mama. 

Her reaction was always the same. She pulled away and unleashed the roar of a waking dragon. I witness the startled expressions on my younger siblings faces that gave way to scared cries. In a matter of seconds the dragon disappeared and the babies were comforted with the offer to nurse once again. They went back gently.

We were smart babies; we learned quickly and early how not to use our teeth.

Mama was a natural mother but not a saint. When I went to college, I studied Spanish in northern Chile. I learned about Incan culture and their mother goddess who reminded me of my own Mama. For the Incas, the aptly named Pachamama often appears in the form of a dragon. She invokes fertility, oversees planting and harvesting — and causes earthquakes when she feels disrespected

Party like the Medieval times

My favorite artwork in my childhood home depicted a Medieval wedding scene. The poster showed an entire village with a handful of weddings underway. A regal lady decked in white sat in a carriage on her way to the castle. Another couple was entering a church. But my favorite scene was toward the bottom of the poster and showed a Gypsy wedding.

A caravan was parked at the edge of town and colorfully dressed participants were roasting a pig on a spit. They looked like they were having the most fun to me. This image of community and a giant hunk of roasting meat has occupied my imagination all these years.

When my sister announced her engagement this Christmas, my first thought was that we needed to order a pig and roast it whole just like the poster. She agreed and my mother ran with the idea and ordered a rare-breed pig from an Iowa farmer. I can't wait for the celebration in June.

In the meantime, I dreamed of more meat-roasting festivities. Easter presented the perfect opportunity to buy a leg of lamb and invite friends over to partake. A week ago I started researching local Vermont farmers who were raising and selling lamb. I found the 3 1/2-pound half-leg of lamb that I was looking for at the Ayer Family Diversified Farm about 20 miles from where I live.

The farmers left the store, attached to the barn, unlocked so that I could pick up my lamb after work.  With only the light shining in from outside the window, I managed to find the freezer. Through the darkness I could hear animals trodding hay and breathing. Their nearness reminded me of biblical stories of thanksgiving and celebration associated with the slaughter of baby beasts. While many Bible stories don't make sense to me, these do. The death of one thing to nourish another. And the importance of amplifying the generosity of a young calf or lamb by generously sharing its meat with others.

I left with my lamb and spent the rest of the week plotting with a friend and soon-to-be dinner guest how best to prepare it. We settled on a simple preparation of garlic, rosemary, salt and pepper.

The carefully seasoned lamb went into the oven at noon on Easter. My guests and I cooked side dishes and drank wine while we waited for the meat to cook. A delicious smell of filled the room. When the lamb's outside was brown and inside still juicy, I sliced slabs from the bone and served. We toasted to friendship and spring — and then dug in.

When we disbanded hours later, all that was left was the bone.

The voice of admonishment and comfort

I imagined a voice that sounded much like my mother's saying, "This is what happens when you overdo it and don't get enough sleep."

She's right of course, but I felt frustrated with that all-knowing voice rather than my lack of ability to scale back plans and let some things pass. There are times when self-loathing comes easily; this was not one.

In order to earn my sore throat, achy muscles and alternating sweats and chills, I woke up at 4 a.m. on Saturday morning to make the hour-and-a-half drive around Lake Champlain so that I would arrive in Essex, N.Y., in time for my friends' sunrise vernal equinox party. The bagel shop was open when I left and I bought a dozen fresh from the oven. Just as I drove into Essex there was a hot pink sunrise and my Uncle Louis was walking down Main Street toward the gathering. I picked him up and we went together to enjoy food, poetry and friendship — all well worth my while.

The rest of the day was spent with my uncle and aunt. We visited the local bakery where you can always find familiar faces with which to sip coffee and snack on cinnamon buns. We lounged back at their home in front of the wood fire. We watched "Kinky Boots," inspired by a drag show that my uncle attended on a recent trip to Florida. There is no time better spent than with this couple that has known me forever and with whom I've shared laughter, tears and many many hours of conversation.

In the late afternoon, I caught the ferry (which hadn't yet started running during my early morning commute) back over to Vermont and made plans with a friend to see a live band play at an area music venue. We danced until the lights went up and the band stopped playing. By the time I climbed back in bed, I had been up for nearly 20 hours.

Sunday passed quickly with my usual routine of yoga class, meeting friends for a late afternoon drink and catching up on household chores. It wasn't until mid-afternoon Monday when I was back at work that I started to feel hoarse and shivery. That's when I heard that voice telling me that I should have done less and gotten more sleep.

But when I got home from work at midnight with a bone-aching weariness, I wanted only one thing — to call my mother and hear her tell me that I would feel better in the morning.

A quartet

I spend a quite bit of time for work and pleasure thinking about how stories are made. I learned most of what I know from reading and writing, and some from just listening.

Saturday night, my friend Rick invited me to attend an Extempo storytelling event, a Vermont-version of "The Moth." Rick who is a poet and teacher also likes good stories and has studied their construction for more years than I.

The event was held in a coffee shop in Barre, Vt., and featured nine storytellers of various ages and abilities. The culmination involved a panel of judges choosing their favorites. Between Rick and I, we correctly guessed the second-place tie as well as the overall winner. 

Although not a winner, we both agreed that another storyteller had been successful. The heavyset, suspendered man had attempted the unconventional form (at least for this event) of offering a quartet of vignettes from his childhood. The scenes represented important moments of intimacy and personal truth.

Though none of the four stories attempted to illustrate large life lessons, Rick and I agreed their seeming simplicity disguised the storyteller's skill in selection and delivery. Though not a winner, he did a damn good job.

Here's a quartet of my own inspired by events from the weekend.

She carried lipstick and gum in her purse, and I loved her for painting my lips pink in a bathroom in Budapest. She showed the four-year-old me how to rub my lips together and then gave me a stick of gum to chew. I felt sophisticated for the first time as we rejoined my mother and baby sister at the tourist lookout. The lipstick eventually wore off and I'm still chasing the feeling. 

This particular path of devotion was a two-hour trip down a one-lane road to the town of Rutland, Vt. She suggested we meet for lunch at this halfway point between her home and mine. Delayed by a slow-moving truck, she was there when I arrived. Still taller than me, still wearing lipstick.

I went with the waitress' suggestion of cookie a la mode. She brought it in a cast iron skillet with two spoons. She took a scoop, then me. She, then me. I wasn't particularly hungry after the BLT, but still savored the sweetness.

Coffee done, bill paid, we walked up the street to her car. She pulled from it a western-style feather coat that had been her mother's. I tried it on. It felt warm and the silver buttons were engraved with patterns. I pulled up the fur hood and felt small and cozy in the puff of the coat, in the presence of this woman who will always be taller, always carry lipstick. 

Me and Marla

On far-flung family, friends

What about a Google Coffee-up, a Candlelight Supper FaceTime or a plain old mobile phone conversation?

I much prefer spending time face-to-face with my family and friends. I like inviting them over, planning the menu, cooking, playing hostess, hugging goodbye. I like walking together and seeing the same things. For example, the long walks I used to take with my sister Catarina through suburban Iowa neighborhoods. We'd comment on decor, remodel choices, the potential of house to be more than what it was. Yes, walking through the world with others is definitely best.

The nomadic lifestyle I have lived for most of my 28 years has brought me into contact with new friends many times over, and also forced us apart. I'm slow to forget memories, which spurs me into the realm of technology- and U.S.-Postal-Service-assisted communication. For many years I have been an avid letter writer and regular keyboard-pals with a Chilean friend. I also speak to my Mama and siblings on a daily basis.

But the past few weeks have brought a welcome uptick in my contact with far-flung friends. Although I don't put much stock in psychic connection — again I prefer the face-to-face, hand-in-hand, hug-eachother kind — the timing is good. The darkness and cold of winter continues to keep me indoors and near my computer.

Technology has allowed me to have coffee with Harum and Charles, in Missouri and Florida, respectively; candlelight dinner with Caroline in Connecticut; mobile conversations with Amy in New York and Kevin in D.C.; and at least a dozen email exchanges with others.

I am grateful. As my physical world comprises primarily two rooms, my heart enjoys expansion across states and continents.

Come bearing bagels

Vermont's cold and ice has kept me in self-imposed isolation that's proved hard to shake. Outside of yoga and work, little can lure me outdoors. I'm content to spend the day in bed, which I did on Saturday.

Today, however, I had no excuses. The temperature was predicted to register in the upper 40s, and I'd promised my Aunt Jani and Uncle Louis that I would cross the lake for a visit. Louis made it clear he would prefer I arrive with an offering from my neighborhood's Montreal-style bagel maker.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I'd reserved less than a half hour to get dressed, make the bagel pickup and drive to the ferry. The Essex-Charlotte ferry, which is the fastest way to get to Essex from Burlington, has cut back its runs to once an hour for the winter season. Missing the ferry by a few minutes means the hourlong trip suddenly turns to two.

I threw on a dress over the legging and tank top that I wore to bed and managed to brush my teeth before rushing out the door and across the street where I bought a baker's dozen of still-warm bagels. With the bag in arm, I skidded across the icy parking lot to my car and drove (faster than the law allows) to the ferry launch.

At five past ten, I rounded the last corner relieved to see the ferry was still at the dock, but not for long. The dock was chained off, a sign that they would lift the plank at any moment.

I jolted into the parking lot and jumped out of the car to wave at the crew before plucking the bag of bagels from the seat. The two men took pity on me and pulled back the chain as I scissor stepped my way across the ice (careful to keep both feet on the ground lest I lose balance). They waved me on board and replaced the chain.

No sooner had the motor kicked on than three more cars pulled up to the dock. The men looked back as the ferry chugged forward.

"Guess they'll be drinking puddle water," one said.

Grateful they hadn't left me to drink puddle water, I broke my baker's dozen and offered the two a bagel. They accepted.

Once I upstairs in the heated passenger cabin,  I called my Aunt Jani. "Put on the coffee," I told her. "I've got the bagels."

Incoming view of  Essex

Baker's dozen of Myer's Montreal-style bagels

Holiday recap

In photos:

My parents' Christmas tree
put up just in time for my arrival in Iowa.

Christmas Eve fish dinner:
shrimp, calamari salad, scallops and pasta (of course).

The impressive engagement igloo my soon-to-be
brother-in-law built before asking my sister to marry him.

Back in Vermont at the teahouse
with my friend Harum who is visiting from Missouri.

The week has passed too quickly.

In my posting absence

I've been remiss in posting for almost a month. In my posting absence ...

Kitchen window rocking spot

Range, teapot, jars and loom

Place to rest my head

Place to curl up

Shelves

I've moved and settled with the help and generosity of several friends as well as my Aunt Jani and Uncle Louis. With all their help, I have outfited my tiny two-room nest with everything from silverware to seating.

After several deep-dive cleaning extravaganzas, it's really starting to feel (and smell) like home ...

Two summer's ago, I was enrolled in a Virginia Woolf seminar at Bread Loaf School of English. On the first day, we discussed Woolf's hints of home in her writing and our own definitions. I said that home was a place with big shelves where I could keep my books. Thanks to Louis and Jani, I now have the shelves. And they have space to spare.

Late, but just in time

Last weekend, I drove 1,400 miles round trip (between Friday night and early Monday morning).

I worked until 8 p.m. Friday and immediately got on the road to drive four hours south so that I would have a manageable five hour drive to Gettysburg the next morning, and arrive with an hour to spare for the wedding ceremony of my grad school friends.

Everything went as planned (aside from the scary motel room next door to a group of bikers) until I drove through a small town about 45 miles from Gettysburg. At a stoplight I decided to be good and not take my left turn on the yellow.

The light turned red and a old man in a bright orange safety vest marched out from the sidewalk and placed an orange traffic cone in front of my car. He then walked up to my window and knocked.

"Dear, you're going to have to wait a few minutes. There's a parade coming through," he said when I rolled down my window.

The light changed three times; nothing happened.

And then I saw an ant-like army coming over a distant hill. As the parade moved closer I heard the honks and saw the POW flags. Turns out, the parade of motorcycles took five minutes to pass and I would follow it all the way to Gettysburg.

I arrived at the church a half hour after the ceremony started instead of the planned hour ahead of time. I did get there in time for the vows, which I heard thanks to the somewhat unnerving presence of a speaker installed in the bathroom. (I had been holding my bladder for the final leg of the journey so as not to lose any more time.)

After the dinner, and a quick conversation with the newlyweds, I drove the four hours to Pittsburgh. I spent the night with my sister Claire and the furry Leo. The next day we did some shopping in an old grocery district of the city, ate breakfast at a Jewish deli and visited Claire's sky-lighted office at Carnegie Mellon, where she now teaches.

The visit was too short, but knowing that I had to get back for work, I loaded up the car with all my things Claire had moved from Missouri (including winter coats, and less useful items like a table loom and a box of my childhood dolls).

I drove 12 hours straight and arrived in Burlington at 1 a.m., so exhausted that I actually walked into a wall in my apartment.

Although I worked a full week, I've had little energy for anything extra (aside from yoga classes which helped loosen my stiff neck). I slept 14 hours from Friday to Saturday afternoon. I feel pretty good this morning and happily return to my blog posting.

Reconnecting and remembering

I've been away for yet another weekend — went across Lake Champlain to spend the night at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin, who's close to my age, was visiting from Austin. We had played together as children, but I hadn't seen her in a few years. She and I went for a hike up Coon Mountain which we had done together before, a long time ago.

View from the top of Coon Mountain.

Then, the whole family went out to dinner. When we got home, no one was ready for bed. We settled in front of the fireplace for what turned out to be a very late night of remembering shared experiences and filling each other in on the paths we've taken since.

I remember

Je me souviens (I remember) appears on all the license plates in Quebec. My Uncle Louis pointed out the motto and translated the words for me while we were driving to our family's ancestral farmlands in the central Quebec municipality of Bécancour over Labor Day weekend. 

He suggested that we, along with our Montreal-based second cousin who came too, were enacting this motto. I thought his suggestion wasn't quite accurate, for me at least, as I'd never been there. I had nothing to remember. I drove on.

Although the farmhouse where my grandmother grew up burned down a number of years ago and none of us knew where my grandfather's farm even was, we did find plenty of hints from the past. 

We spent the day sightseeing the Catholic churches and cemeteries of the towns where my grandparents grew up, visiting our last remaining relative in my grandmother's town of St. Sylvere and eating Belgian-chocolate dipped ice creams the size of our heads. We even weaseled our way onto the farm where my grandmother grew up by buying eggs from the elderly farmer who now lives there. He took us around to see the chickens, goats and sheep.  

I took the opportunity to photograph the barns that are still standing.

As we drove back to Montreal at the end of the day, I felt like I had a fuller understanding of who my grandparents were and what kind of legacy they have passed down tho their children and grandchildren. A legacy of simple living, hard work and commitment to family. I come from a family of good and honest people. My mind wandered back the "I remember" motto. Now, I do.

Computer kaput

My hard drive crashed and now I'm without a computing device for the next week. In its absence, I'm posting via my iPhone, which makes me feel like I have sausages for fingers.

In the interest of keeping typing to a minimum, I'm going to post two photos from the weekend--one of Maddie, Louis and Jani's very senior poodle mutt ( I to Essex, N.Y. for an overnight), and another of the sunny Burlington waterfront I returned to this morning.

Free wheelin' around

I've been feeling a bit stir crazy since my foot surgery. My mother and father (and brother Vinnie) are doing their best to help. They've been pushing me around Cedar Falls in a rented wheelchair. We've gone downtown for coffee, down the street to see my grandma, and around town on a late-night walk.

My dad pushing me on a Sunday afternoon

In the absence of posting

A lot of changes in the past two weeks ...

picture by my friend Tatiana Fernandez

The big change ... I graduated with my master's in journalism from the University of Missouri and moved from Columbia, Mo.

A familiar view

The small change (which feels quite big at the moment) ... I'm flat on my back recovering from foot surgery. Luckily, I am well cared for in Iowa.

More updates to come ...

Mother's Day, a day late

I've been tying up loose ends in Columbia, Mo.—packing, goodbyes, cleaning and finishing work. But that's no reason not to take time to recognize a mother of six, including me. I think we would all agree that she taught us a great deal and loved us well.

At the moment, I am drawing on a lesson that my mother taught her children by example. It is one that my sister Claire often repeats, "Onward!" (with her index finger raised). As I graduate, I am channeling this attitude. Don't be afraid. Pull yourself together, and embrace the next adventure.

My siblings (minus Marisa) reading with Mama, circa 1994.

City sisters

Two years after exploring the beautiful (and not so beautiful) offerings of Buenos Aires, Marisa and I rendezvoused for the weekend in Chicago. We attended our friend's 30th birthday party and spent many hours walking through the city.

It was the perfect way to reflect on all that has happened in both our lives since our trip.

Photo taken on Marisa's iPhone at our friend's party

Thesis discussion (defense)

This past Friday morning, I stepped across the invisible finish line of my journalism master's degree. I sat before my thesis committee (as well as my sister Claire and friend Kevin who attended for moral support) and discussed the research I've done over the past semester. My research was based upon 10 in-depth interviews with people ages 18 to 25 who are currently or had participated in community or youth media programs. We talked about their motivations, the lessons they learned and where they thought their work and they themselves fit into society.

It's been an intense two years, and I had a low key celebratory Friday afternoon and evening with drinks, dinner and good friends.

The dedication page (click to read)

Turning 28

I had another wonderful and memorable birthday celebration this year. Best of all, my sisters, Marisa and Claire, treated me to a fancy dinner (at a place where you can write on the tablecloth) complete with cake and a candle.

The tablecloth

Marisa took this picture of me