New York and the New Yorker

Dear Marla,
Your Christmas gift of The New Yorker subscription has been an inspiration to us. We are sitting next to piles of those magazines, eight months of them, those beautiful covers----man on girder overlooking NY, a doctor helping a sick elephant (If only he could), dueling sight-seeing buses---staring up at us. Half the magazines are turned inside out, marking unfinished stories. We love the magazine, and there is so much good stuff that we can't read it all. But we NEVER miss a cartoon. We have our own captions that (moan and groan) would have won--if only we had sent them in.

However, it hits us that we have traveled to some of the other great cities of the world (London, Barcelona, Mexico City, etc.) but have ignored NYC. So we are going. (Please note our map of the transit system of New York.) We know our children will worry about our getting lost. And we promise we will not drive in New York City. Unless we get lost. We are in the process of getting tickets to Broadway. We found a tour company for the overview. And we plan a long walk in Central Park. We'll send you a postcard.

And Will, we have thought about your advice about investing in a Really Good Meal. I have to admit that Bobby Flay is really tempting. Of course, they won't let me in the kitchen. And I can't imagine our being able to spit a meal like we usually do. Sadly, the good meal treat would have been great about thirty years ago when we had appetites. So we will be eating street food and packing lunches. If it worked in London, it will work in NYC.

After you kids read this, I can see our subscriptions next year: African Vibes, Alaska, The last Frontier. I can't guess where you will want to send us.

Julie and Julia

My fourth of July dessert
and Chuck with Will's
Eggs Benedict










Today I saw a great movie, Julie and Julia. The film resonates with me on so many levels.

First, the contemporary Julie decides to find herself through exploring Julia Child's Mastering French Cooking. By blogging she would "find" herself-----establish an identity. All of us have had those moments on the porch. Midnight. Sitting there with a half-empty bottle of wine, wondering who we are becoming. And why. Julie had skills and compassion and an incredible sense of humor.

Julie and Julia both loved to cook and found relaxation and creativity in the kitchen. However, time I spend in the kitchen is time I can't spend reading or writing. There are many family jokes about my cooking. My son's favorite is the meal I served of garden red potatoes, pork chops, and salad. My son Will took his fork and tried to stab a potato. The potato clinked around the plate instead. He tried again. "Mom, this potato is hard as a rock!" It was a rock. I had scrubbed, boiled, plated, and served a smooth red rock.

So I have covered my kitchen laziness and lack of expertise by saying, "Whereas some are gourmet cooks, I put dinner on the table." But I was still feeling very inadequate. My son, realizing his father, grandfather, and all the men in his life were good cooks became a Foodie, a fantastic cook. Inspired by these people, I have begun to collect recipes, read directions, use measuring spoons and cups, and prepare healthy, tasty, attractive meals. Once in awhile.

My grandmother was an incredible cook who never measured and seldom used a recipe. I watched her make brioche in her big country kitchen. No recipe. No measuring devices. Anna would scoop the flour with her hands and use a huge bowl and a large spoon to beat the batter. No $300 Kitchen Aid for her. Her rhythmic kneading was beautiful to watch. The payoff was picture perfect mouth-watering rolls.

Watching the film I saw how cooking can be a passion. It provided a little window into the soul of cooks like my son Will who invest a lot of money for the freshest Whole Food fruits and vegetables so they will have optimum flavor. My daughters Tami, Marla, Aletha, and Will may outcook me, but no one enjoys good food more. Except Julie and Julia. Historically speaking.

Reservation Rock







At the south end of Stanley Park’s
Lost Lagoon, Reservation Rock
pokes out of the cool blue
providing a sun-bathing raft
for sleepy turtles. Very popular
this small rock which holds three--
just three of the thirty or so feral
red-eared sliders which have
clawed out of the lagoon’s mud
after a long winter’s nap
with a vegetarian hunger
greater than a panda. After
chewing a huge swath through
water hyacinths, cannas,
and many of the grasses,
these cold-blooded sliders,
big as dinner plates,
must warm themselves in
the afternoon sun, but with
few logs and rocks, it’s
first come, first warmed
on pedestal rock, unless
there are previous reservations.

Calendars: March 3

Calendars are about expectations.
The worst? online, blank box calendars
staring back at me, begging fulfillment,
like ground waiting to be planted,
defying me to ignore Special Days.

As if calendars are the gift of time.
Christmas brings more calendars;
Audubon nature calendars, art calendars
napping cat calendars, and humor calendars.
This year I made room for three.
all gifts from loving family.
Family photo calendars, warm,
benign, still on January’s picture.

Those daily calendars enslave.
On my daily art calendar, stuck on Feb 1,
the Gauguin women clash with my blue sofa.
My Learning-by-the-day calendar is the worst.
“Manana es un dia especial” reads
my Spanish Language calendar,
February 13th. Manana, tomorrow.
Manana, time awaits.
Manana I may get my calendars updated.
Manana I may put them all in a box.

My Floral History

Left my two grandmothers are pictured. Anna Pettit is on the far left, and Anna Nitzke is on the right. They are inspecting peonies, and rightfully could serve as master gardeners. Anna Pettit raised her flowers along the three sided fence in her back yard. Rose and pink peonies lined the south side, and daisies and delphiniums lined the back fence. In the middle of the yard was a oblong gold fish pond filled with bright orange fish. (My brothers and I really enjoyed feeding those fish, especially when they resided in grandmother's basement during the cold Iowa winters.)
My father's mother, Anna Nizke, was an important mentor in so many ways. She was an incredible baker and cook, a fisherman, quilter and needlework artist. Our souls clicked on so many levels. We fished together, she showed me how to can, and included me on her needlework days. Her life had a plan. Laundry Day was early Monday morning. Tuesday was gardening day, and Wednesday was baking day. All of this work was performed before this granddaughter got out of bed unless I made an effort to bike the four blocks to grandmothers on an early summer morning. Afternoons were for fishing, needlework, or calling on friends.
The following poem comes from Grandmother's gardening advice.

Deadheading

This morning as I
groom my flower patch,
I feel grandmother looking
over my shoulder. Anna,
my grandmother who died
in 1979 at the age of 98.
She counsels me often,
but this morning I remember
her lecture on deadheading
when I was about ten.
As we strolled through the peonies
and rose bushes in her backyard,
she surgically removed suckers,
and shaped the rose bushes
slicing above the buds on
five leaflet stems. “Your flowers
will be bigger and your bush
healthier,” she said.
Snipping dead yellow cone
flowers, she admonished, “If
you want blooms, you must
clean out the flowers that have
passed.” That lesson worked
on the poppies, delphiniums,
and the asters. but grandmother
remains my most gorgeous flower.

Quilts

Every woman in my family did some type of needlework. As I was growing up, I watched my mother, grandmothers, aunts, and great aunts, appreciating their skill. Grandmother Pettit tatted. Although I never picked up that skill, I sat at her feet transfixed as she wove lace. They all crocheted. I managed to pick up that skill and once made a bedspread for my son, completed several years after the promised birthday. There were also scarves for boyfriends, although the

suitors often disappeared after receiving the gift. Of course everyone had quilts that were made by a family member. My favorite pictured in this blog were made by my paternal Grandmother Nitzke with several made by my husband's mother Hazel Balis.
I have wonderful memories of visiting Grandmother Anna and her twin sister Gustie. Afternoons they would sit in the living room with a quilt spread out over a frame, their tiny stitches swirling in the margins of the quilt. It was not quiet work. They laughed, told stories on family members and neighbors. Quilting was an act of love that made everyone happy.
Grandmother would use many of her quilts as gifts. They were frequently her wedding presents and become treasures of the granddaughters like myself who were lucky enough to receive them.



The Warmth Of History

When the temperature drops below freezing,
I pull the family crazy quilt from the closet.
Blue, black, lilac, and rose squares greet me
as I unwrap this gift from the past.
After this quilt blessed grandmother’s bed
for the last quarter of her life,
I inherited its loving warmth.
I lay caressed by the past,
snippets of skirts, vests--family clothing
grandmother artistically assembled.
Smoothing brown herringbone squares
from grandfather’s Sunday suit,
the suit he wore to Goodsell’s funeral,
over my corner of the bed, I flatten
dusty rose patches from the dress
grandmother wore to bridge club
and my childhood piano recitals.
Courting sleep, my finger follows
chain stitches in bold black yarn.
Yet white buttonhole embroidery
decorates the rich black triangles
from Aunt Anna’s black velvet gown.
The best family finery now
my bedtime heritage of love.

Here you are Barb. This poem is for you.

The Stickies

Yesterday I grabbed a rosy pomaceous
Mackintosh from my fruit bowl;
As I bit this perfect apple,
crunchy meat and juice ran
down my freckled hand. Yet
wedged between my molars,
skin or seed tormented my teeth.
At last a toothpick freed the
bar coded villain—pricing label #4042.
These hideous labels do not wash away,
often bonding with skin and pulp,
refusing removal from the fruit.
Who slaps numbers on my food?
Apples are no longer Delicious or
Gravenstein: they are 4042, 4131, or 4139,
Even my tomatoes bear the brand 4664.
Standing in the produce aisle,
beside the flowers, I sense
no fragrance except the newly waxed floor.
Those Cyclops labels stare at me,
ready to jump into my basket.
Is that glue organic?

Off to the Farmer’s market
with their naked, aromatic fruit.
I will delay the day when I’ll sit
on my porch, peeling labels
from each grape, cursing
the pricing God who labeled them.