Tonight, in an attempt to rescue a day largely consumed with the dread of a computer failure, and the loss of valuable work, we called it a day and went downtown. All day we were trying different solutions, when finally we found out that the backup indeed had worked. Relieved to have dodged a bullet, and with the rain coming down, we jumped into the van to see what was happening on this Holiday Stroll afternoon. First we found the Ginger Grill and enjoyed a delicious dinner. A table for seven was just right. There was Bibimbop, and grilled chicken, dumplings and noodles.

New Bedford was so beautiful in the rain tonight. The cobblestoned reflected the light and the interiors of the little places looked so inviting. There is a jollity to the downtown landscape at Christmas. All the streets are decorated with wreaths and lights. After dinner we went to the Celtic Coffee House for dessert. Our kids treated us, and the hot chocolate was delicious. A warm and cheerful fire filled the room with that special light, and the room in which we settled had a cushy sofa and a book on W.B. Yeats, with his poetry and beautiful pictures of the Irish countryside.

There was a moment, when I turned with my hot chocolate, the smell and the sight of the door with it’s festoons of holly, that I thought for a moment that I was back in Philadelphia, about to welcome friends into my old funny student house – fondly called The Madhouse.

Something about the light of the room and the sound of the voices transported me back to when I was 26 and was standing on the brink of this wonderful life I have now. In that moment, back in time, I had so little save youth and kindness. I had a cracked and pasted heart held together waiting to meet Bud. I was rich in friends who held out their hands across the chasm and helped me over the scary parts that were unavoidable. God Bless and prosper them all.

They know who they are, all these precious friends. Sitting here back at home, listening to carols on this eve of St. Nicholas, I marvel at the unending kindness of God in my life. He placed exactly the right people around me at the right time. Now blown to the four winds, deeply busy in their lives, families and careers, with their own adventures, I pray for them. I ask God to give them everything they need, to flourish their hearts and work. Long healthy lives and happy children, good work and contentment. That’s what I wish for them all this evening.

And so I returned to the cozy room at the coffee house – my hands warm with hot chocolate and my heart soft with nostalgia. There was my sweet husband and family. JM was reading poetry, Ana-Maria was relishing pie, Rosie was eating a cookie, Kiko had a bottle of Izze’s soda, Seraphina had moved to the sofa and we were entreating her not to fall asleep, for these days she is so sleep deprived. We talked about Mercy not too far away in New York.

Here I am, brimming with thanks. The Christmas tree is right next to me. My heart is full of Christmas.

Another sweet evening passes, with a promise of snow. The cap on this happy evening would be to draw the midnight curtains and see a white blanket over Maple Street, where we mark our twelfth winter this December. And just when I thought the evening couldn’t be better, a jubilant roar goes through the house and children tumble down the stairs shouting, “It’s snowing!”

I could have grown up into a depressed cynic, who lost the happiness lotto because of life experience and baggage. But, deep down in me always lived the soul of a happy child and an almost boring stability. I was not particularly brave or articulate as a child, but a child nonetheless, like all the multitudinous hordes of children in the world today. As a former child, I remember what it felt like, and lucky for me, my personal stars aligned in such a way as to break the bonds of generations of sadness, and here I am, about to be 53. As Oprah says, “This I know for sure…” This I know for sure, the best things we are told are true, and only love lasts.

If you are randomly stumbling upon this blog you might want to know some of the back story. I grew up in the Philippines. Far from being half this and half that, I am 200%, Filipino to my cells, and American to my cells too. Some things I love like a Filipino, my family for instance. Don’t tell me that political dynasties or benevolent dictatorship is the only solution for my troubled heart-home. Something in me that endured an Atlantic voyage to a wild, untamed land balks at that. We can change our future. It’s un-American to think otherwise.

Which brings me, dear blog readers, to touch on a shadow in my childhood. My dear Daddy, God rest his soul, was afflicted with bipolar disorder before there was a term for it, before there was medicine. Certain things could trigger an episode, like Christmas.

Naturally, my siblings are split between memories of beautiful Christmases, and memories of sad Christmases. Christmas is a loaded time. I have found that the road of acceptance and open-heartedness is my path to a beautiful Christmas.

One time a medical intuitive who has a radio show told me that I have tried to recreate my own childhood positively. That is true. I wanted the big family, all the kids around the table. I married the most stable of men, but not before marrying one who killed himself.

Awareness is all. We don’t want to repeat what we don’t have to.

That’s enough about sad things. I always want to remember how happy my parents were when Daddy was stable. Nowadays, there is medicine, therapy, and many interventions that can give a bipolar person a long and happy life. The latest brain research shows that rumination, the reliving of sad events, messes up the brains’ frontal lobes. As my positive psychology class taught me, gratitude, faith, goals, and positive experiences are the upward spiral that counteracts the down-the-drain of negativity.

When I was little, just ten, we had a magical Christmas at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. Mama decorated the house with gilded red ribbon, a parol, poinsettias, a great Christmas tree, the Belen (Nativity Scene), stockings. We all had new red flannel nightgowns sewed by our live in seamstress. We went to midnight mass at the base chapel, and home to Noche Buena (the Philippine reveillion), and opened our presents.

I remember the music, the feeling of contentment and security, how we all were together. I remember how the next morning, the hot Pampanga sun baked the flowers outside and how the arch of the acacia trees shaded our house.

That year, on Christmas Day, we piled into the car with all the kids and a yaya (nanny) and went to Manila to visit Lola at Lourdes Hospital. I won’t forget that either. Lola, with her hair down, smiling sweetly from her bed. Lolo, sitting on the bed by the window. I remember Uncle Sonny coming in with Auntie Lou. Uncle Buddy and Auntie Lynne and my sweet little cousins.

Auntie Lynne’s parents lived near the hospital on Kanlaon Street. Their house was all wood paneled and dark with rooms and corners that were a place of endless fascination for me.

A few days later, my Lola Mercy died. She had been sick for about a year, and her death was unexpected. The whole world shifted when she died. It was my first encounter with death.

Two more Christmases followed that, one raucous in Albuquerque where my cousin D. came with her parents from California. She was an only child and all her presents came with her. She shared, though, as she always did- as she shares to this day.

The second Christmas was in Hawaii, and Daddy was hospitalized at Tripler Army Hospital. That Christmas Day was bright like the Pampanga Christmas, but oh so lonely. I couldn’t wait to return to the Philippines.

In that time of waiting for my uncles to raise our airfare back, one thought gave me courage. We were going to live in the old house in Baguio, Casa Blanca. In our Hawaiian kitchen there was a box of Lipton tea, with a picture of a tea cup and a hillside. It looked to me like Baguio. I would imagine sitting in the old dining room, looking out over Mt. Santo Tomas, and conjure the safety and security of that faraway place.

I recently looked on the net and saw that our old house in Kailua is a luxury home now. I hope the successive owners were happy in that house, with it’s indoor fish pond and beautiful garden. It was not meant to be for us. I remember a sunny kitchen and how even in Hawaii, the streets outside were quiet like the rest of America that I experienced. I missed the street noise and lively parade of people who colored our life in the Philippines.

The next Christmas, 1969, was spent back at Cresta Ola, my grandparents’ beach resort in La Union. It was a happy place and through these years via the Internet, I have heard from many former children who spent holidays there with their families. That Christmas was our first there since Lola died. I could tell the difference, but still it was jolly.

Lolo handed out presents to the staff, and I remember their glee at the gifts. When they went forward to claim them, it looked like a scene from a story about a good king, beloved by his people. Lolo sat in his arm chair, and the staff- waiters, maids, grounds people stepped forward with a kind of a bowing posture and gave heartfelt thanks. While watching it, I was thinking of how hard my own heart was, at 12, there were many things I wanted, but could not have. I noted how these humble people were so grateful and determined to grasp that elusive quality they had in abundance.

A few days later, Lolo died of a heart attack and the lights went out in our big family again.

The next year we found ourselves in Baguio. If you don’t know where Baguio is, let me tell you. It was a beautiful city built during the American era in the Philippines. It’s in a pine forest called a cloud forest by botanists. On some of the twisting roads you might think you were in New England, because so many of the places were painted white with green shutters. In that place, the air is pine scented. You could sleep under many blankets with open windows and breathe the beautiful air all night long. At sunset, the geographic location and the closeness to the ocean blended the air and sky for a spectacular show.

In my Baguio, there was a green-gold light as it turned from dusk to evening. The twilights were lavender, violet, purple. The sky was as colorful as the Aurora Borealis, with the tropical clouds colored orange and red. I have read that other cities in cloud forests, at similar latitude and longitude and proximity to water have the same phenomenon.

Christmas in Baguio was Filipino with a touch of Frank Capra. The old timers in Baguio, the older folks who set the city up, were largely still there. Their grandchildren were my friends. We owned the city with an affectionate hold, feeling far luckier than the Manila folks who only knew it for Holy Week, the summer break and the dash between Christmas and New Year.

In Baguio, the firewood was a local pine, sappy and resinous and aromatic as incense. This was the smell you inhaled with great breaths, if you took a walk on a cold night.

There was caroling. Finally in high school, we filled cars driven by big brothers and made our caroling calls on family and friends. All girls, singing away with hoarse voices, we wouldn’t stop and we were fed at each stop. Who could say no when we were greeted with tables laden with special treats? I am sure that today, the sound of “Give Love on Christmas Day” brings mist to the eyes of my classmates who are mostly away from Baguio now. Such is life in the diaspora.

No matter how difficult it was for me when my Daddy had an episode, there was the surrounding bounty of the city, my friends, relatives, and general nurturing culture of the Philippines. To make things better, my relatives had an attitude of making things happy for children at Christmas. Auntie Mary Anne comes to mind. There was no family time spent in talking about the upheavals. There was lots of family time spent in support of my mother, and attention to the festivities of Christmas.

So, during those difficult times, I simply turned a switch, and if things were too noisy at home, I simply escaped into my richly colored outside world. Unlike in America where people can retreat into madness and silence, the show goes on unabashed in the Philippines. The phone kept ringing with friends planning outings, the doorbell kept ringing with friends passing by, the relatives kept their Christmas visitation schedule. Life went on, in spite of the cross we carried.

Looking at this practically, given that there was no awareness of this illness, there was nothing we children or my mother could do, except surf with it and not judge it in the long run.

We all grew up and moved back to the United States, for a spell there were trips to California at Christmastime. We moved to California. Then, one year, Daddy died leaving a hole in our extended family.

Today, my older sister and cousin are the junior matriarchs in their region. They have a tribe, and the season is kept with light, color and food. There is a lot of togetherness, and distant folks are welcome to fly in. They keep the feast and have given their children an unbroken stretch of years colored by stability, bounty and family.

Our Christmases here in Massachusetts are happy ones. Always, there are the six children and their pets and their friends. There is music and food. No matter what twinges of memory there may be, I remember that I loved my Daddy dearly, and all that is best in my family culture, I owe to him.

Because of his illness, he was larger than life. He loved my children intensely, and that deep attachment shows in how they have taken pieces of him for their permanent selves. At my bravest I am my father’s daughter. At my most optimistic, I am his student of positive thinking. At my most stubborn, I am the one who will not compromise on that-which-cannot-be-bent. When he was dying, I spent so much time with him and made peace with all the past.

Two nights ago I dreamed of my sister, Lizzie who died in 2000. I miss her so much, not only because she was delightful, but because she was stalwart, faithful and true.

Last night, I was going through boxes in the basement and found stash of letters she wrote to me from Oxford. She wrote me every week, and I daresay I was the only one of our siblings she wrote that often, because at the time I was widowed and she was watching over me from afar. Her letters are funny, and full of her ganas. After she died, I sought to fill her void with my other sisters. They are so different from Lizzie that it is impossible. I love them but Lizzie and I spent years together with a shared vision.

I continue this road without her, grateful for the time we had together, and secure in the faith that she watches over us all.

In my dream, she was carrying her youngest child and looked so happy. She looked as she was in real life when she carried that baby. One of the treasures of this internet era is that I am in touch with her friends who share memories of her that are in perfect synchrony with mine. She made friends wherever she went, and was beloved by people. I daresay that if someone had a problem with Lizzie, there was something wrong with that person.

So this is how it is, at this age dear blog readers. All my Christmases are rolled into a giant ball of life. It is more jewels than coal. But for as long as I can remember, Christmas is the stretch from my birthday to December 25th. It’s an ongoing feast of memory and nostalgia, and missing and relishing. It is full of my babies, who tower over me, and their memories of Bud and me, and all our pets and this old house.

I still miss Baguio come Christmastime, but pine firewood is for sale in New Bedford, and we are really lucky we’ll have some snow during the season. God’s birthday is celebrated all over the world, and from where I type, grateful for my family and friends, that is a good thing.

Speechless and humbled and filled with joy, I am. Stumbling upon this on this great and bountiful holiday, time stopped.

Thanks-filled

by my daughter, Ana-Maria

I.

I am thankful for this sturdy table,
worked by hand, and cloaked in handworked linen
to mask the stains and gouges left
by the feasts and frolics of many generations.
Lost legacies, stowed away in cupboards,
in antique pots on piano-tops,
deathless witnesses of time, recalling
memories of those who made us.

I am thankful for the feast that fills us,
the enduring gifts of Eden — God’s plentitude
thinly veiled by the toil of mankind;
for my father’s tirelessness,
my mother’s generosity,
for these two, who have taught me, by the fierceness of their love,
Love’s gentleness.

For my brothers and sisters, my best friends,
who have kept me, all my life,
or all of theirs,
from ever being lonely,
I am thankful.

For this home that we have built together,
this cradle of idealism, nest of dreams;
For the things it has taught us, and taught us to be:
Defenders of Truth, Men of Integrity,
Ladies Chivalrous and Bountiful,
All who know the value of kindness,
and the validity of faith;

For the Church that has held me,
sustained me from birth,
saved me from my stumbling feet and blindness;
For the hope of heaven that has given me
a wellspring of joy, a lamp and unerring compass,
I am thankful.

I am thankful for this string of peaceful days and restful nights.
I am thankful for solitude unbroken
but by the contented companionate rumble of my kitty’s purr.
I am thankful for friends who, with patient hands and steady,
have held for me a mirror to my life,
shown me my heart as I couldn’t see it alone.
My friends who have tamed me, understood my thorns.

I am thankful for undying dreams
distant worlds and lifetimes,
intimately loved,
cherished and known, though yet unseen.
For the breath that fills my lungs
the melody that fills my ears,
I am grateful to God,
who has given me voice and a song to sing.

II.

For the honest work that fills my table,
for the hearty food that fills my hunger,
for the holy love that fills my heart,
and the kindred souls who fill my hearth
I am thankful every day.

But every day is filled of little things
that fill my life with wonder –
moments, fleeting, subtle,
that register in my soul with the reverence of glory
but often I neglect to register with conscious thanks.

Today, therefore, on this feast of Thanksgiving
with these greater gifts encompassing me,
enshrined in gratefulness, but set aside:
Today, in a pool of firelight,
A pool of warm remembrances:

For whispered whiskered caresses,
For watercolor vistas on an evening wall;
For swaths of melted gold that caulk the crevices of a maple trunk;
For the intoxicating antique tendrils
that waft up from between marbled bookcovers;

For the glistening dewdrop that rests
within the delicate funnel of a lily-leaf,
enshrouded by an emerald thicket,
sparkling through the darkness, though no wandering eyes may ever behold it
in the immortal flower’s lifetime;

For the delicate choreography of the butterfly,
for the touch of a ladybug on a fingertip,
for the patchwork in a glinting spiderweb;
For the modest stars that shine behind the constellations,
silver specks behind the brilliant lanterns;

For the gentle gilt that floats around the aeries
of cloverpatches,
catching the farewell light of summer dusk;
For the prismatic feathers that gleam against the silver sky–
rainbow pockets, brilliant, subtle, cool;

For the diamond shards that melt against my windowpane with every rainfall;
For the dappled screens that dance over my eyelids
when I rest beneath the sun;
For the whisper of the rosegold shadows
that welcome me to wakefulness at dawn;

For the sound of a hummingbird’s flight,
for the harmony it creates with the woodpecker,
for the cicadas’ August lullaby;
For the plumed plumpness of little sparrows,
who trust enough in their tiny hearts to take from me my crumbs;

For the salty air that tumbles over ocean waves,
which, entangled in my hair, follows me for hours;
For the sweetness that coats my tongue,
redolent, fragrant, fruitlike,
extracted by the sun over strawberry fields;

For snowflakes that hold their shape in a bank that overwhelms a city,
tinkling out their joy when recognized amongst the multitude;
For the beautiful tenacity of the withered leaf
which, exposed and thrashed about by the bold, ungoverned wind,
clings to its branch,

And for its graceful descent, after its graceful, trusting surrender
to the immutable currents of life;
For the little things that reveal to me how little I control,
and how much I have been given, in the depth of this richness;
For the moments that reveal the depth of your care,

I thank you.

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.

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.

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.

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 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:

Today when I was cleaning up the dining room, I saw a pile of paper napkins under a book. Moving the book, this is what I found. Thank you, Kiko, for a great surprise and a lot of laughter.

The kids said, “Look, look! Bunny and Phantom are the eyebrows!”

I couldn’t see it. So Sera quickly drew eyes. There you have it. Oh the things I’ve seen and the places I’ve been right here in my own house.