Traditions

I gave my staff time off for the Thanksgiving holiday which meant that the bulk of the cooking was left up to me. And if you believe I actually have a staff, you might believe in Norman Rockwell feasts as well. My guess is that many of you belong to a family like mine, one that operates in organic spasms of change and revision. We don't follow a script that always includes perfectly roasted turkey, lumpless gravy and homemade pumpkin pie being served to a beaming family of impeccably groomed recipients.

There was a time when we gathered together as a large family unit with both my parents, all six of my siblings, the spouses and the grandkids. Extra tables were set up and bowls and bowls of food were passed. The little ones squirmed as we coaxed them into trying a little bit of the sweet potato dish and maybe a cranberry or two. The adults kept their forks and mouths in motion as food and conversation flowed throughout the afternoon. Snoozes in the easy chair (by the menfolk, if I recall correctly) were followed by more pie.

Time marches on and the feasts continue to change. Grandkids marry and have families of their own. Siblings move around the world from Peru to Papua New Guinea. Black Friday inches its way into Thursday's festivities. And, in the Midwest, the weather doles out the final verdict for all travelers.

This year, the cast of characters included two nephews from Peru, a nephew and his wife from North Carolina, my mother and mother-in-law, my husband, my brother and me. The setting was grandma's kitchen table near a large picture window with a grand view of her backyard birds. The dialogue was all improvised as we sampled our way through turkey, cornbread stuffing, orange jello and pumpkin dessert with Cool Whip. Intermission included a little TV football, more conversation and maybe a quick nap before the next round of snacking.

Norman Rockwell we might not be, but willing to keep the drama alive, that we can do. Whether you are gathering around tables full of kids and centerpieces or eating Chinese takeout with a few friends, rest assured, blessings can be found for the grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My kitchen the day before Thanksgiving. Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart!

Here is a favorite pumpkin dessert of mine. I clipped it out of a newspaper the year the dinosaurs disappeared. Enjoy.

Pumpkin Dessert

Crust:

1 box yellow cake mix

1 beaten egg

½ c. margarine, melted

Remove 1 cup of cake mix and set aside. Add egg and margarine to rest of mix.  Place in bottom of greased 9x13 pan.

Filling

1 (15 oz,) can of pumpkin

¾ c. sugar

1-2 teaspoons apple pie spice

2 large eggs

1 (12 oz.) can evaporated milk
pinch of salt

Mix pumpkin, sugar, salt and spices thoroughly. Add other ingredients and mix well. Pour over crust.

Topping:

1 c. reserved cake mix

½ c. sugar

1 tsp. cinnamon

2 Tbs. margarine (melted)

Mix and sprinkle over filling. Bake at 350 degrees for 45-50 minutes. Serve with whipped cream.

Country Mouse

Even though I have spent the majority of my life in urban settings, I still consider myself a country girl. Modern day interpretations of what it means to be a country girl often imply all things wholesome and tenacious. My perception of such a classification differs a bit. For me, being a country girl is an awkward, naive feeling that bubbles up whenever I'm thrown into a situation that feels urban and sophisticated.

Mind you, the urban setting I started my married life in was a town of 1,000 people. Hardly a bustling metropolis, but worlds away from the country house I grew up in that looked out on to the prairie. Night sounds in the country were filled with the banging of hog feeder lids and the rustlings of wildlife scurrying about. A towering yard light was the sentinel of security and illumination on our farm place. The day began with hearty breakfasts, ended with satisfying suppers and included two lunches and a dinner in between. We didn't worry about eating fat, clearing sidewalks or wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. The demands of the day were dictated by the needs of a farm family. There were garden beans to be picked, chickens to be butchered, peaches to be canned and weeds to be subdued. Meal preparation relied on the farmhouse cache and the weekly trip to the nearest town's lone grocery store. Life wasn't glamorous. Just necessary and practical.

Life in the city has a different heartbeat. There is a communal interdependence that demands a skill set that occasionally baffles me. If snow falls, one has 48 hours to get it removed. The sidewalk you paid for doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the city. Vegetation is more aesthetic than utilitarian. Water, fertilizer and weed control are used to maintain the look that neighborhoods demand. Retail centers are tucked into every available space, beckoning all passersby to come in and make a purchase. Streetlights punctuate the night with never ending illumination and vehicles rumble by no matter the hour on the clock. Wildlife sounds are limited to a few chattering birds and an occasional barking dog. Daily meals can be easily accessed with a trip to the nearest drive-thru, upscale restaurant or neighborhood grocery store. Supper is called dinner, dinner is called lunch and lunch is called break time.

Truth to be told, my years of urban living have softened me. I do not kill chickens for my dinner. I buy them in prepackaged trays at a grocery store that is less than two minutes from my house. I don't worry about getting into town because of the latest snowstorm. Snowplows are scraping by my house within 48 hours of a winter weather event. I don't need to milk a cranky cow for my dairy requirements. I can choose from 1%, 2% and skim (nasty stuff, I might add). I can find a gas station every few blocks when my vehicle is rolling along on fumes. I don't need to call the fuel company to make a trip into the country to fill a bulk gas tank for me.

Every once in awhile, though, I am reminded that I am just a little country mouse visiting the big city. My package of pre-cut chicken never includes the gizzard, a favorite of mine. When I step outside my front door I know that I will mostly like encounter human beings other than my family so it's time to put on a happy face and say, "Hi, how are you?"  My backyard is not a section of cropland, it is a tiny rectangle of carefully manicured grass.

So, whether I am in the city or the country, it is probably wise to remember the advice of Aesop's little rodent, "It is better to have beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear."

Daybreak

There is a serene promise that comes with a sunrise. In the early morning glow of the soft velvety light, we have a sneak peek into the possibilities that are ours for the taking. No matter how long or dark or harsh the night hours are, a new day is kissed with the hope of better things to come. Yes, I love sunrises. Not the kind where I hike to the top of some plateau in Namibia and wait for a burst of solar epicness to appear before me. I'm more in love with that moment of the day when it is just me, my cup of coffee and the gentle washing of light sneaking in through the window panes.

The winter hours are best. There is plenty of time to have the coffee made and  all senses firing before dawn releases its first hiccup of light. The birds join me in revelry as they gossip away about the latest happenings in birdland. A few ravens announce their presence with piercing caws and fly-bys. Service trucks and buses rumble into action. Folks blearily grab newspapers off their front steps and dogs of all sizes tug at their leashes while their owners (servants) gingerly follow behind.

Sunrises on vacation are certainly the easiest to behold and savor. The start of a new day among the Ponderosa pines begins with the sprinkling of light filtering its way in with muted color palettes. Sunrises over the ocean glisten off the incoming waves with reflected contortions. Lakes provide the perfect mirror for a double exposure of light popping forth. Mountains play peek-a-boo with the first light of day while wide open prairies give ostentatious views of the action on the horizon.

My most memorable sunrise, however, did not happen in any place exotic or particularly notable. It was on a Saturday morning in the parking lot of my local grocery store. I like to finish my weekly grocery shopping trip before the rest of the city wakes up. That means I am meandering down the bread aisle visiting with the delivery folks before the break of day. One particular morning, I exited the grocery store and was immediately greeted by an array of color tones that I believe are impossible to create by human hands. The colors enshrouded the car wash across the street, changing the ubiquitous building into a work of art. The swirl of radiance was jaw-droppingly glorious and challenging to the senses. I stopped for a moment and inhaled the beauty of the moment, thanking my Creator for such a wondrous gift during such a mundane task.

Life is funny that way. We bump along through our everyday tasks, doing whatever is on our to-do lists and then suddenly, without warning, we are greeted with the light of newness. Sometimes it happens in bursts of grandeur, but more often than not, it slips in through our windows with unpretentious potential, reminding us that it's okay to let the darkness go for awhile.