The cookie story

I haven’t felt much like Christmas this year. We decided to spend Christmas Day with Mickey Mouse this year since Mom isn’t here anymore and the family seems to be heading in 12 different directions this year. The only decorating I’ve done was to pull a small tree out of a box already decorated and “fluff” it a bit along with putting a strange crèche I found up on the piano. Five minutes. Done. Boom.

While going through a box of Mom’s things, I found a binder full of family recipes. I didn’t think I was up to the task of making the butter cookie cut outs I made with Mom or the chocolate molasses cookies that she sent us boxes of for every special occasion. I decided to make something emotionally easier – my aunt’s “dunkin platters.”

I assembled all of the ingredients on the kitchen island and went off to search for my kitchen aid mixer. I stepped into the storage area and found it right outside the door – not where I expected it to be – but very handy indeed. It was filthy, but I figured it must have gotten dusty when my husband blew in insulation a couple of weeks ago.

I put the full pound of butter on the stove to melt and then I set about cleaning up the dirty mixer. I grumbled under my breath that the last kid to put it away had left something sticky on the base. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but it didn’t want to leave. The bread hook and wire whip were in the bowl, which was odd because I don’t store them together. They looked nasty, too, so I stuck the, into the dishwasher. Next, I checked the mixer bowl for any stray dog hair, since we share our home with 3 of them now. Instead of hair, I found a layer of dead bugs in a variety of shapes and sizes. I shivered a little and then tried to shake them into the trash. They weren’t leaving. It took tons of hot water, soap and elbow grease to make that bowl sparkle. I was more than a little annoyed.

The beater was attached to the stand. I wanted to clean it, too, since it may have touched the bugs. It wouldn’t come off. As I wrestled with the mechanism, more dead bugs fell out of the mixer head. I pinched myself to make sure this wasn’t just a bad dream. Ouch! It wasn’t. It was then that I realized this wasn’t my mixer (thank goodness). It was Mom’s. Those bugs had probably been there for years.

I was still a little queasy. I wasn’t sure that cookies still sounded good, but the full pound of butter was now melted. Waste not, want not..

I have to eat strictly gluten free, so baking cookies required ordering certified gluten free oats and gluten free corn flakes, along with gluten free flour. These were not cheap cookies to make, and they required planning. I was committed now. I went in search of another navy blue kitchen aid mixer. It took a while, but I found it, right where my husband told me he had put it.

I followed the recipe, heated the oven, and lovingly plopped spoonfuls on the ungreased tray. 10 minutes later I found a single 11 x 14 inch cookie instead of 18 3-inch rounds. I decided I needed a smaller spoon. I eventually worked out the right size, timing and temperature for the gluten-free version of these treats. After baking for most of the afternoon, I put two on a plate and made a cup of instant coffee, because Mom always have me a cup of instant to dunk fresh cookies into.

I haven’t cried in a day or three, but when I put that coffee-covered cookie into my mouth, the dam burst. I cried until the tears ran down my shirt, and then I cried some more. It was then that it hit me – these cookies are Christmas for me. Mom made cut outs all year long. They weren’t special. I only got these once a year – on Christmas Eve – and I would eat the dunkin platters because they were my favorite. My aunt who made them is still living, but she has memory problems. I haven’t had one of these cookies in at least 20 years. Suddenly, I was 8 years old and sneaking into a corner with a handful of my favorite cookies before someone else could eat them.

I really needed that coffee. Those cookies are sweet! I guess my adult self prefers slightly less sweet, which is a good thing because even after giving some away there remains a huge box.

I’m leaking a little again. It’s alright. The best memories, sometimes, are the ones that run down your face.

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Perfect Sense(s)?

12983773_10154170302648223_4397169664801694898_oOver the past six months or so, my life has been enriched through the use of essential oils.  I’ve read some of the science behind them, but to be honest I really don’t understand *how* they work.  I just know that for me they *do* work.  This post isn’t really about that, though.

I’ve been fighting a cold / sinus infection for a week.  The essential oils have been helping me feel a little better than I usually do, but yesterday, something changed.  I made a batch of essential oil-laced bath bombs to share.  I opened my favorite essential oil – the one that I call happiness in a bottle – and took a whiff.  Nothing.  I held it up to the light to see if perhaps the bottle was empty.  It was half full.  I opened the next bottle and again, nothing.

Although I was feeling congested, I was still able to breathe in through my nose.  I opened the cinnamon and the peppermint – odorless.  I opened the peanut butter.  Nothing.

Confused, I ran to consult “Doctor Google.”  He said that anosmia (the absence of the sense of smell) has a number of causes, not the least of which is sinus infection and nasal congestion.  I flushed my sinuses with my neti pot.  Still nothing.

i lamented to my husband that the I wouldn’t be able to taste the dinner that I had planned.  Graciously, he suggested that I save my labor for another day and offered to feed himself and the “boys.”  I ate my flavorless baked potato and a salad. If not for the varied textures, I’m not sure that I would have been able to differentiate between them.

Back to Dr. Google, I wondered if perhaps my neti pot could damage my sense of smell.  I came upon a discussion thread filled with individuals who had been living without their sense of small (and sense of taste) for long period of time.  One professional chef related how she had battled depression.  Life just wasn’t as vibrant without tasting and smelling.

I thought back to my essential oils.  After battling anxiety for years, I’ve found something that really helps me.  My emotional aromatherapy is something that I not only enjoy – it helps me feel and think “better.”  If this anosmia were to persist, how would I go back to “before?”

I ate some flavorless popcorn as I watched television with my husband.  At the suggestion of a friend, I stuck some basil essential oil up my nose.  It cleared my sinuses, but I couldn’t smell it.  I gave a longing look at the essential oil diffuser in the bedroom and debated as to whether or not I should turn it on.  Would it help me drift off to sleep ifI couldn’t smell it?

I woke up this morning and still couldn’t smell a thing.  I couldn’t “wake up and smell the coffee.”  I started feeling pretty sorry for myself, to tell the truth.

If I had to give up a sense, which would it be?  I couldn’t imagine not seeing a sunrise or hearing music.  Without touch, how would I avoid injury?  Before this experience, I suppose I might have said “smell,” but I find myself rethinking that position.  Taste protects us from consuming spoiled foods and makes life richer.  Smell and taste go together, I have discovered.

We depend upon our sense of smell to warn us of danger – fire, smoke, spoiled food.  what a marvelous creation the human body is.  These five senses work so perfectly together to keep us safe – to enrich or lives.

As I pondered the senses, I doused the tiny ants that had made their way into my kitchen with a spray of white vinegar and peppermint essential oil.  Suddenly, the acrid smell of vinegar penetrated my head and I smiled.

I ran to unmold the bath bombs and my head was filled with the odor of “joy” (yes, joy has a smell).

Today, I give thanks for a world filled with smells and tastes, touches and sights and sounds.  It all makes perfect sense.

Just write what you know.

love,

~Be~

 

 

We’re All Winners!

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I believed that “participant” trophies and awards for every child on a little league team or bowling team were silly.  After all, we need to teach these kids that we don’t all win, right?

I believed in my own misguided way that it was okay for just the “winners” to get trophies.  Sure, the coach should take everyone for ice cream, but they don’t all need sprinkle – “Sprinkles are for WINNERS!”  You get the drift…

I believed that – I really did.  Then something unexpected happened:  I discovered running.

Now my wall in my workout area is adorned with bling from races in Ohio, Florida and Nevada.  I’m signed up for three more in the upcoming months, each with its own medal (or at least a shirt!).  I’ve never won a race.  Several times I’ve been dead last, but I won that medal fair and square.  Sprinkles may be for winners, but medals are for finishers, and I want mine!

maumee twilight shawshank

Everyone’s Faster in Canada

I could hardly wait to get to the track last night.  My husband bought me an early birthday gift – a “real” (purple) running watch.  I spent a few minutes selecting the functions that I wanted to display on the watch face, then I put on my bright coral and red shoes, a wild orange shirt and my black headband emblazoned in bright yellow with “Suck it Up Buttercup.”  I was ready to tear up the pavement.

My husband was heading that direction anyway, so he dropped me off at the high school track a half mile from my house.  I carefully propped my neon blue water bottle where I could get to it, then I adjusted my teal and black headphones, started my music, and adjusted my hot pink phone band (yes, I was a very colorful sight).

I did my warm-up lap around the track, and then I pushed the RUN button on my new toy.  As I began my first “fast” interval, I was amazed – my colorful watch and new shoes had enabled me to shave a lot of time off of my previous record.  I was puzzled.  Was the Nike app that inaccurate?  Was MapMyRun telling me I was a turtle when I am really a (very fluffy) cheetah?

The laps and miles flew by.  I got faster and faster.  Woo Hoo!  I’m flying, I’m flyyyyying.  My hour ended and I ran home, feeling victorious.  I downed a big glass of water and plugged  my watch into the computer cradle, ready to review the full set of stats for my miraculous run.

I synced the watch with the app and pulled up the session, only to see that I had run it at my typical pace, after all.  It only felt fast.  I scratched my head – why did it tell me that I could run like the wind while I was on the track, only to tell me that I’m still only slightly faster than a turtle wading through peanut butter at home.

I looked at my shiny toy again, and realized that my results were displayed in metric.  Maybe I should move to Canada. I like the way my stats read in metric.  I’m “faster” in metric.  My weight is a smaller number in metric.  Oh – and there’s that free healthcare thing.

I’d miss my dog, though.   He’d be faster in Canada too, though, eh?

All Stuffed Up [Learning to Let Go]

I have a huge job ahead of me.  I’m loving and hating every minute of it.  I have too much stuff.  Some of the “stuff” I have hasn’t seen the light of day in years.

My husband lived in this house when he met me.  He had stuff already when I moved here, and when I added my stuff to his “stuff,” the house was stuffed and we both had to give things up.  The years passed, and we each tossed some stuff and bought some more stuff to take its place.  Before long, he lamented to me, “we have too much stuff.”

I did my best to pare down the stuff.  I went through the boxes and tossed some stuff, but there were things that held too many memories.  I couldn’t bear to give up some stuff, so I stuffed it back into (fewer) boxes.

Some years later, my mom and dad moved from their four bedroom home into a two bedroom apartment.  They had to get rid of stuff, but they let me go through their stuff before they sold their stuff at auction.  I loaded up a car or four with more stuff.  I was opening my professional office, so some of the stuff went there, which made room for more stuff at the house.

More years passed, and the ‘rents moved into an even smaller place with less room for stuff.  Once again, I carted boxes of stuff to my house.  I couldn’t bear to let them get rid of the stuff that I had grown up with.   The stuff has sat, stuffed into boxes and untouched since I stuffed it into the garage, basement and attic.

Mom got sick, then Dad got sick and died, and Mom got sick again.  I was so stuffed full of feelings that I couldn’t bear to go through the boxes that stuffed the corners of my life.

I [re]discovered thrift shopping (thank you, Macklemore!) and brought home even more stuff.  Recently I needed to get something from the basement, but the floor was so stuffed full of boxes stuffed full of stuff that I couldn’t find the stuff I wanted.  I realized I had a stuff problem.

My darling, patient husband understands.  The stuff is stuffed full of memories.

When I hold my grandma’s old root beer mug, it ceases to be just stuff. It takes me back to Grandma’s kitchen.  I can see the Hires root beer bottle (the glass kind that you have to open with a bottle opener).  I can taste the vanilla ice cream that has crystallized root beer on the edges.  I feel the long-handled spoon she gave me with my root beer float.

The caddy of red-striped glasses stuffed with newspaper take me to the dinner parties my parents would host.  Mom’s fancy glasses would come out only on special occasions. I felt like a grown up when I could drink my iced tea or lemonade from those glasses instead of the jelly jar glasses or the plastic cups we used for every day.

There is the birch bark tee pee and the Indian chief doll that my Dad bought on a trip out west before I was born. I hold them and hear Dad tell about the steak dinner he bought in Texas for 10 cents with a steak that was bigger than the plate that held it.

It’s all stuff.  The real value is in the memories that are stuffed in this head of mine.  The older I get, the more my house looks like my parents’ home circa 1975. I have my parents’ coffee table, my Dad’s desk lamp, and the piano that Dad taught dozens of kids to play on.  I almost brought home the church organ that he had… but there was no room.  The place was stuffed.

My head is stuffed full of memories.  They are sweet and bitter. Each doo dad and knick knack triggers a mental movie. Dear husband brings the boxes for me one at a time. It’s like Christmas when I unwrap the stuff that was carefully stuffed in newspaper years ago.

I have to let go. There is so much old stuff – mine, my parents’ and my children’s that there is no room for new stuff to make new memories.  I have to part with my stuff.  I’ll keep the treasures that hold extra-special meaning.  The other stuff stays only if I would buy it if I saw it in a store.  As I send the other stuff on to other people who will appreciate it, I will savor the memories that I unwrap. Perhaps I will photograph the items that have the best stories.  As I stuff boxes full of stuff that has no place to be displayed, I should save those memories somehow.

Perhaps one day my children will receive an album stuffed full of photographs and words from their mother recalling moments from the years she spent collecting the stuff.

So far, all but one item has been unpacked intact. The lone casualty is a painted cookie jar.  I’ll admit I nearly cried when I saw it lying in piece.  I asked my husband to glue it.  He said he would… but I’m not sure it’s necessary.  As “stuff,” it’s not worth much.  There’s nothing special about it.  I have the cream pitcher, tea pot and sugar bowl that match. Any one of those things would evoke the same memories.  I’ll never use it as a cookie jar.  Now that it’s broken, nobody else would want it.  Instead of repairing it, I think it’s time to (reverently) stuff it in the trash.

When it comes right down to it, it is, after all, just stuff.  The memories are inside me, waiting to be shared.

Dear “Mom” – Why are you in Havana and who is Terry?

I have had the same email address since just after Google introduced gmail. It’s my first initial and last name @ gmail.com. Pretty simple.  Other people evidently employ the same simplistic strategy, but fail miserably somewhere in the execution.

I get lots of email intended for other people.  Brianna, Bernice, Brian, Brittany, Blake and Barath receive a lot of mail in my inbox. Those emails, I suppose, make sense if they really do share my last name.  I also receive email for Sherkeydra, though.  She’s applying for student loans, and my email address makes no sense at all for her name.

Brittany orders a lot of stuff from Alibaba.com.   Bernice is having problems paying her phone bill. Brian gets a payment from Wells Fargo every Thursday night, and Blake is looking for a roommate.

Brianna’s family is a real hoot.  They travel a lot and seem to have a sense of humor.  Her mom and dad (Terry) are in Cuba right now.

When I began receiving all of these emails for strangers, at first I responded to let the sender know that they had sent the email to the wrong address.  I received a very nice email from one of Brittany’s high school teachers a year or two ago.  I also had a heartwarming exchange with a woman who was trying to reach one of these strangers to participate with a group who was taking food to a family whose loved one was in her final days.  She reached the wrong person, but I surely would have taken a casserole if we lived in the same state.

Another time I began receiving a lot of email from someone’s dad.  I responded to let him know that his messages were reaching the wrong person.  He didn’t believe me.  He asked what I was doing.  I answered honestly – I was looking for a nursing home who could take my father.  Since he believed I was his daughter, he didn’t take kindly to that one.  I replied with a photo of my tear-stained face next to the headline of that day’s newspaper. I never heard from him again.  Most often my replies are usually ignored.

I tried to get AT&T to stop sending me Bernice’s messages, but after 20 minutes on hold, I gave up on that cause.  Now, when I receive messages for the other “Bs,” I just hit delete.

I receive vacation pictures, invitations to Thanksgiving dinner, and emails showing me the newest listings in Bel Air, MD.

The weirdest misdirected email that I received advised me that the “subject” had left the “perimeter.”  When I clicked on the link provided, I got the feeling that I was venturing into super-spy territory, and I wondered whose car was being tracked.

Terry and his wife have, previously, been advised that I am not Brianna, but they don’t believe me.  Brianna’s sister has already replied. Her brother was copied, too.  Mom and dad must wonder why Brianna never replies.

I talked to my own dear mother a few minutes ago. I know she’s not really in Cuba.  Brianna’s mom enjoyed seeing Hemingway’s apartment and like Mojitos.  She had a scary experience in a decrepit building where she followed a shady guy to the 3rd floor because he had a “good deal” to show her.  I’m happy Brianna’s parents lived to tell THAT tale.  I’ll pray for their safety.

I’m assuming that the other people who use my email address primarily give it out as a “spam” address.  If only I had their true email addresses, I could forward their emails from Mom, Dad and the crazy stalker person who has set a perimeter.  I don’t, though, so I’m torn about whether or not to wish “Mom” and Terry a safe voyage from the daughter they never knew they had.

Life is strange sometimes.

Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys

I once read a popular book on relationships by John Gray, PhD.  It was titled Men are From Mars, Woman are From Venus.  The general concept that I gleaned from the pages was that men and women think differently.  When someone presents a problem, a man’s tendency is to try to solve the problem rather than responding with empathy or sympathy.  Women share their problems hoping for emotional support, rather than a problem-solving session.  The failure of the woman to appreciate the solutions offers is unsatisfying to the man, and the woman feels slighted because the man hasn’t given her the emotional response she had hoped for.  Chaos ensues.

By birth, I am a woman.  By vocation, I am a lawyer.  While I am still a woman (and happy that I am), my law school education changed how I respond to other people’s problems.  I have developed a tendency to listen, identify the problem, and offer a solution.  Sometimes I put hours of (unpaid) time into figuring out a legal solution to a problem that has been shared with me.  Imagine my shock and horror when, instead of thanking me for doing free legal research and offering a tangible solution, the person with the problem got ANGRY with me.

While it is not uncommon for lawyers to be maligned, most of us are pretty nice people.  We charge money for our time because it’s all we have to sell, but many of us provide pro bono services to indigent clients, help family members and volunteer our time for other good causes. Forget everything you learned about lawyers from reading lawyer jokes (please).

This week I had a conversation with a friend who was frustrated.  Her frustration stemmed from problems in an area that I have training and experience with.  As she shared her pain and frustration, my mental wheels started spinning.  I had solutions to those problems!  Just as I took a breath to deliver my well-thought-out plan, I heard a little voice in my head say, “Not your circus, not your monkeys.”  I swallowed my words and said nothing.  I listened.  I realized that not only did my friend probably already know the legal solutions to the problems, but she was also not the person who needed to act.  The situation was largely beyond her control.  She was telling her problem to her friend – not her lawyer.  Instead of giving in to the urge to fix the problem, I needed to offer emotional support to my friend.  She just needed to vent.

I’ve been a worrier since I was young.  If I’m not worrying about my troubles, I’ll worry about yours.  I finally understand what Mom meant when she warned me, “don’t borrow trouble.”

I posted earlier about wearing many hats.  Sometimes those many hats lead to confusion.  I am learning that when I am wearing the “friend” hat, I need to put the “lawyer” hat in the closet.  The lawyer hat tends to make me look like I’m from Mars, anyway.