Thanksgiving

There isn’t anything more that I want,

than what I have tonight.

All chairs filled around the table,

all voices going at once.

All my babies yet,  grown people with

their own visions of their own lives.

They are only lent to me,

to coddle and carry during their baby years,

they taught me about the biggest love of all,

that washes away moonlight and rapture (though that is lovely too)

they taught me about endurance and patience

and cleaning out the cobwebs of my own past,

so that I could see them as the angels they are

bringing tidings of great joy

“Here I am, Mama”

“I am your baby”

And how they looked at me with sweet milky cheeks

and the collapse of damp curls as their heads fell back in sleep

in my arms.

Around this table tonight, I am thankful

that I am alive

that I have my dear husband

and six children.

Thankful.

Thank you Lord, for this life you have given me,

for the scare and the encounter that woke me up,

for the countries you have sprung me from,

for the path of coincidences and chances that brought me about,

for the families I came from,

for the friends for the journey,

for the losses that led me to

my beloved  husband and my children.

Thank you, Jesus.

Moms Go Where Angels Fear to Tread by Joan Wester Anderson

I first read Joan Wester Anderson’s work back in the early 1990’s when I found her first angel book, “Where Angels Walk”. Her writing is clear, engaging, and her stories are riveting.

Fourteen more angel books have followed through the years, and my family’s bookshelf holds them all. The books are beloved by all of us, and the stories have been the subject of late night conversations amongst the children for years.

She wrote about a miracle that happened to my family in her book,”Where Wonders Prevail”, which was just re-released as “Angels and Wonders”. Although my grandfather wrote a book about this miracle that happened in the Philippines during World War II, Anderson was the first person to tell our story to the world.

I knew that Anderson was the mother of a large family, a devoted Catholic, a seasoned writer, a sought after speaker- but I didn’t know that she was very funny. Humor in a religious context is always a happy surprise. I always expect religious people to be rather straightlaced, although every single faith-filled person I know has an active imagination and sense of humor.

What a delight then, to receive and read through Anderson’s latest book, “Moms Go Where Angels Fear to Tread”. As the mother of many children, I belong to a sisterhood of women whose anecdotes span every possible twist and turn of possible experience. We know how to make do with less, make something out of nothing, make many people feel special, listen to several people talk at once, and be delighted. Or crazed. Mostly delighted though. At least, that is how I feel.

When I became a mother in 1985, I had no support group. Most people I knew had one or two children. In the years to come, I became the mother of six children and became friends with other mothers of large families. The best times we had were sitting around  large tables  in our homes recounting our own adventures in motherhood.

Any seasoned mother would enjoy this book, because it is candid yet lighthearted. It is authentic, because Mrs. Anderson is one of us. She knows what it takes to raise a bunch of kids. She tells us about her whole glorious era as a mom, her times of looking out the window at the great world that marches while mothers tend their chicks. She tells us about the great family vacation, and gets us misty eyed as the once tiny children now venture forth on their own.

Motherhood is the hardest and most important job in the world. It is wonderful that this New York Times best selling author, has written this book, at once a guide and a souvenir of the time of our lives. The book is published by Guideposts, the great inspirational publishing house.

You can reach Anderson at her website http://joanwanderson.com or on her Facebook fan page. Look for: Joan Wester Anderson.

Grimm’s

When I was a very little girl, I took control of my fate, and cried my way into first grade. You see, I was very attached to my older sister, Maria, and she turned six and was packed off to first grade at Wurtsmith Elementary School, the Department of Defense School at Clark Air Force Base in Pampanga, in the Philippines.

At the time we were living in a  bungalow off base. There is a Halloween video from that era, that shows uniformed skirts chasing a motley crew of little children around a big yard. It looks like parts of Texas or Southern California. It was hot and dry with nary a coconut tree in sight. That is because it was in the rice country of Pampanga far from the China Sea. Little did I know but that we were in the shadow of a sleeping volcano, Mt. Pinatubo, which would obliterate the landscape in thirty years. At that time, day followed night in steady progression. We had a cook who produced tasty meals, yayas who chased the children and kept us neat, and in order.  We ate from partitioned plates and watched AFRTS (Armed Forces Radio and Television Service).  Uncle Bob’s Lucky Seven club broadcast from Manila. We watched Gumby, Supercar, Flash Gordon, and Felix the Cat. The yayas loved Dance Time with Chito (Chito Feliciano was one of my mother’s many cousins), and Oras ng Ligaya (Hour of Happiness). I watched our  yayas dance the Mashed Potato, the Twist, and swoon over whoever the current crooner was. I was very impressed with their dancing and singing talents! Once Mama and Daddy came home, they snapped into sedate uniformed teenagers.

My sister Lizzie and I would play a game of royalty. We would take turns increasing our titles, and whosoever was the top ranking person would get to drape on the three stairs that led to the  bedrooms. She outranked me by grabbing the title of “Empress” and I couldn’t think of anything higher than that, so was relegated to “High Queen”, which was my feeble attempt at promotion.

Those were happy days, before any storms, or perhaps in between storms. At night we would kneel and say family prayers and at the end, my Daddy would bless us with holy water. If I were to say anything about that time, I would say it was simple and uncomplicated. We had our parents, each other.My mother had a lot of help around the house, and her parents were near by. It’s too bad that my younger siblings have no memory of this time, when normal was blessed and life moved forward like everyone else’s.

My mother got the teachers to let me in the class as a little thing in the corner who wouldn’t make a fuss. The problem was that at five,  I wasn’t really old enough to be in first grade, and I couldn’t read. Remember, this was “old school” school.   I don’t think I even knew my last name! I remember being completely baffled as to my father’s rank, Lieutenant, and his last name, Burkhalter.

I was relegated to the slow group of readers in the classroom. I did have a sense of dignity in those days, and knew that I was smarter than the little boys who did nothing but get in trouble all day. (One of them got in trouble for biting my sister’s leg – he was under a table like a dog and left teeth marks on her calf!) I knew I could learn, but since my main preoccupation was with just being with Maria, I hadn’t thought of all the other complications.

I shouldn’t have worried because before I knew it, I was the first home schooled child in the family. My mother got phonics flash cards and started to teach me. It didn’t take long.

She opened a Pandora’s box in a way, because once I started reading, I never stopped. Just this morning my husband came into the room to see me reading early in the morning and he started laughing. “You are such an interesting person, you are always reading something new, and I never know what to expect.” (I was reading about Borderline Personality Disorder, but that is another story for another day.)

So, I was illiterate, and my mother turned me into a nonstop reader in under two weeks. I remember the moment when I could suddenly read Dr. Seuss. The next day I could read Prince Valiant. Then, my dear blog readers, I could read Grimm’s.

Naturally, Grimm’s was the first thing I wanted my own children to read.  Bud had a soft spot for tales of sylvan woods and gentle furry creatures who talked. I liked the gore and family dysfunction of Grimm’s.

I’m not so sure about the campaign about turning children into readers by reading to them. My children are all bookworms, but mostly they have seen me reading to myself.

As you all know, the kids were home schooled. Just this year our fourth child, Seraphia made the transition from a dedicated hobbyist in drawing, to a full blown Fine Arts student at the University of Massachusetts. Here is some of her work in one of her drawing classes. She was drawing the bow on the bundle of fabric. Look and see!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is her drawing of the ribbon in the middle:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have no drawing talent, and writing is like breathing. So when I see this talent in my child, I am humbly awestruck. I feel so blessed that the university is right here, and I can prolong this period of being together. Not only for me, but for the younger kids who are so close to their big siblings.

Tonight, our big girl has her first gig with her own band in Brooklyn. She’ll be on the guitar, and will be accompanied by a banjo, bass and drums. She rented a rehearsal space and is all set to sing! We wish we were there, but will await the midnight Tweet.

I cannot think of a place I’d rather be than right here, right now.

Tonight’s Dinner Adventure

Life is a river of experiences. As we sail down the river, we encounter adventures. For me, so many things are adventures. Take cooking for instance. Far from a necessary task, cooking is alchemy, cooking is magic.

The kitchen is a place of enchantment. I don’t have a big or beautiful kitchen. But to me, it is perfect. I love it best in the cold weather when it is so cozy and filled with light.

A few days ago, dear blog readers, my college kids went to Garba night, an Indian festival, at their university, and brought home a plate of food. This is the second one they have attended. They’ve always come home with stories of the splendid saris and lively dances and the funny fact that very few American students attended. Oh, wouldn’t it be fun for everyone if they got out of their dorm rooms and went to this festival of dance and food?

I was standing in the front hallway when the big kids arrived from their adventures. JM handed me a paper plate full of treats. I suddenly wished that I had gone, but alas, we still had a sick child at the time. All week long the idea of Indian food was following me around. So today, I cooked up a feast.

When we were in New York several weeks ago, we had a lovely outing with Taz and her mom. We went to the Fairway market up in Harlem and then had a picnic lunch in the sun at a park overlooking the Hudson river.I asked her mom in detail how to make her best curry. I took notes. I followed the steps in my head. Oh the result was delicious today. Just delicious.

Then, a few weeks ago, we had an almost surprise visit from Bud’s college roommate Jim, and his wife Maggie. They brought us this wonderful chutney with the instructions to let it sit for a few weeks more. We opened it tonight. When Jim and Maggie were here, we had a meal and told stories of all the years that have filled our lives. I was so happy to spend time with these special people. Old friends are midlife’s gold.

The Google Pakora, is inspired by the pakora that was brought home by the kids. I googled several recipes to become familiar with the process. The problem was that our stores did not carry gram flour, ground garbanzo flour. I had the idea that grinding my own would work, since I only needed two cups. So I took two Goya cans of garbanzos, roasted everything on cookie sheets to dry it all out, and then put it all through the food processor to grind it into powder.

Jasmine rice is Rosie’s favorite, so we have it every single night of our life. One of our rice cookers is devoted to jasmine rice. The other is for brown rice.

The cucumber/yoghurt sauce is a tip from my kitchen advisor, Kiko. My mouth was burning last week because I put too much Tabasco in my soup. He quickly brought me a small glass of milk. It did the trick and cooled everything down.

The Lentil Dal was easy and delightful to make. I started the lentils in a separate pot, and fried the onions, garlic and spices in another. Then, I recombined them. It took on a beautiful color.

The last thing on the plate was mint relish, which came from the International Aisle at the supermarket. Just a tiny dab in the mix woke the whole plate up and took it to another place.

I heated the oil up in a wok, and used a thermometer to check the temperature. The Google Pakora batter was dropped in by spoonfuls and rewarded me with an excellent sizzle. They turned a beautiful shade of brown before my eyes and tasted just sumblime especially with a bit of chutney.

My friends who have sailed with me through parts of this river, will know that I just love new cuisines and am eager to try everything. Cooking is an act of love. As a child I stood wide eyed at the kitchen door and watched the ladies give orders to scampering maids.

When I was widowed in 1982 I was twenty-five. I was invited to live by my friends  in a student house in West Philadelphia humorously known as the Madhouse. We had a kitchen that was dominated by a table with two long benches. I cooked and cooked that year. We had dinner parties and we had a tape of “La Boheme” that played on a cassette player next to a little dim black and white television. We all took turns, but I helped all the time. It was something to do rather than talk. It was magical. The feeling of being together, the smells and the the tastes, the laughter and the stories all wove my heart back together and gave me a wonderful, unforgettable year. By the time a year had passed, I was ready to let go of these friends, and move forward with my own story.

Feeding people when your heart if broken is a palliative act. It takes you out of yourself, and you are doing an act of nurturing. Even if you don’t feel it, it makes you better.

After that year, I cooked my way through my fears of falling in love again, and right into Bud’s heart. I have a recipe for Chicken with Cashew Nuts that is from the Irene Kuo book, The Key to Chinese Cooking. That dish still makes him teary eyed when I cook it, and it was a birthday request from the children for years.

When my big girl moved to New York, I told her to feed people so she could feel at home at once, and grow her urban tribe. She did, is and she has a tribe.

In my own quirky kitchen, there is magic every day. And why not? We only have this day once. Children grow up too quickly, and before you know it, you are waving goodbye to them as they get on trains and airplanes with their hearts full of hope and their eyes full of dreams.

I always want to remember my life with my family. The smells, the cats underfoot, the hopeful dog, and Bud’s amazed face as he lifts the lids and looks inside the pots.

I let them draw on the walls…

I let the kids draw on the walls in their territory. This is their house, after all, and life’s to short too run around trying to keep everything perfect. I love creativity and love the surprises I find. Like this one next to the upstairs mysterious closet that is too small to be practical and too deep to be easy. I think it was an old dumbwaiter. Now it is a catch-all. But, before you open it, you have this friendly greeting!

In the little sun room, which has served as a tiny guestroom, bedroom, and now hosts a computer, you can see this jolly image of a Cheerful Girl:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How can you do anything but smile when your little one starts writing and her first public word is this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the proof is in the pudding, and it is very gratifying to see our Sera’s fine arts work in college. First semester is not yet done, and we have this. It is a wire sculpture of whimsical lips: