planning for the new year

For mom, a story about being a vegan before 6pm (VB6).
Holidays. Nice.

christmas wishes

So this is the obligatory "Christmas was great," post.
I told a friend of mine that this Christmas I was treated like a spoiled only child, because I got such nice gifts - at least that's how I feel. For almost two years now, I've been putting off replacing any cookware. "It's a big investment, and I don't want to pack it." Still, my favorite piece bit the dust. Small black flakes regularly came off the bottom of my next favorite pot. And a few months ago, when I starting playing around with suet recipes, I melted one of my rubber spatulas onto the bottom of the pot also.
These pots have mileage is what I'm trying to say. 21 years. Purchased before I went to college, they've lived in Table Mesa, Boulder on the Hill, Toccoa, and now metro Atlanta. A good run for pots purchased with Greenback stamps from Piggly Wiggly. My parents ended all that benevolent reign with 4 shiny new Calphalon pots. 3 of them have a 10 year warranty and 1 has a 20 year. We'll see if they perform as well as the Piggly Wiggly line.
And after mixing things in a plastic entree container, my mother decided I also needed some mixing bowls. I got five. And because I mentioned that I needed to get a larger kitchen rug so I could get another one for my front door, I got one of those too. And on and on and on. I even got a new birding book from my dad, who mumbled something as I read through it, something about being damned if he was going to get me any guidebooks about Colorado.
I didn't quite catch that comment though. I'm sure he's coming around.
It would be easy, with all my riches, to concentrate on the great things I got for Christmas. What made me most happy however was that after months of trouble, my dad was feeling better after an epidural shot. Instead of being flat on his back the whole time because he was hurting, dad was able to spend time with us. He doesn't have the final solution yet, but he's improved, and that made a big difference. And significantly, two years ago my mother wasn't in the kitchen but in the hospital, breast bone split open like a chicken, getting a quad bypass. Even before that, she spent hours nodding off on her sofa, uninterested in everything around her. She barely read, she wouldn't walk, she wouldn't cook. Slowly, she had drifted away.
This year, she was experimenting with new recipes in the kitchen, baking her Christmas presents this year, growing a batch of winter lettuce in her container gardens. I remember once during the holiday that I smiled at them and remarked that I was debt free. I got the same smile from my mother later in the week when she remarked that if she loses one more size, she will be the same size she was when she got married. Part of that stems from changing eating habits, and part of that is because she started walking the dog. The dog loves it so much he begs to be walked twice a day instead of once. She complains that she's created a monster. But she's walking him twice a day, whenever possible. Because he's like their kid and is as spoiled as I am.
So, I'm delighted to get cookware with a 20 year warranty. I really am. But I embrace my family's improving health even more, because I know we don't get a guarantee with that, ever.
The new year will hold lots of changes, I believe. Some will be the result of planning and hard work. Some will be things we don't expect. It seems important to me, then, to reflect on what I'm thankful for right now.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Hope you had a great time.
--Laura

seasoned greetings

To everyone, I wish you a warm (if possible) and safe time of rest and refreshment.

Seasoned Greetings, ya'll.

-Laura

Coosawhatchie House

Coosawhatchie House, originally uploaded by lalapapawawa.

When I was 8 or 9, my family moved to a dot on the map known as Coosawhatchie, South Carolina, located in Jasper County. At the time, people in this county were the lowest per capita income earners in the state, sharing a border with Beaufort County, which was the highest in the state owing to Hilton Head Island.

At that time, my dad was friends with a local farmer, the father of someone I went to grade school with. The farmer owned and farmed thousands of acres in the area. Tucked away in a small corner of all this land was a small brick ranch style house, and it was a drain on his books because despite being unoccupied, he had to pay taxes on it each year, amounting about $300 dollars. When he found out dad was interested in moving us closer to his work on the island but remain close to mom's work in Ridgeland, he offered up the place in exchange for paying the taxes each year.

The location was nearly ideal. The house was surrounded by land where we could have a garden, chickens and a horse, and not only did it face the water but it backed up to Dawson's Landing, a public boat ramp. It was a living situation impossible to pass up.

If you leave Ridgeland, South Carolina by the frontage road and head for Interstate 95, you'll find Highway 462. Go a few miles down a two lane highway shielded on either side by thick stands of pine and water oak, and you'll discover an unremarkable paved road on your left. A state road sign will tell you that there's a public boat landing at the end of that road. That's an even smaller, less frequently paved two land road, still flanked on either side by stands of trees. At the end is a small parking lot. Long ago the lines for each parking slip faded. At the back of the parking lot is an open air covered structure where fishermen clean their catch and where boaters party when not on the water. It had electricity running to it so it was also where I hosted my 9th birthday party so my friends and I could play loud music and roller skate.

To the left is the boat landing itself. A wide concrete ramp descends into the water below and a rugged dock build from thick timbers coated in creosote ran out to the water with steps down to a lower platform where one could tie up and board a newly launched boat.

Just before you arrive at the landing, there is another unremarkable road leading to the right. It's dirt, not even a road really but two ruts that run between a stand of trees and the fence that marks the county's property line. The curves to the left and marks the edge of a scraggly stand of pines covered in honeysuckle vines. Just beyond this is the edge of a large field where the farmer's planting was done, but for the most part this is hidden from view and easily ignored.

If you were to follow the road further, you would come to a fork. The right fork ran for miles, serving as an access road to the rest of the fields in the farmer's possession, and access for the state forestry's fire breaks, large swatches of unforested land kept clear of trees and debris to provide a break should fire start and try to spread along the tree tops.

The left fork ends in the backyard of the Coosawhatchie House. There is a large oak tree between the driveway and the back steps leading into the house. And several shade oaks, sagging with Spanish moss, stand between us and the Coosawhatchie River, an intercoastal waterway. It is a dark and fertile brackish, carrying fresh water sweet enough to drink from Allendale down to the Broad River on low tide and on high tide bringing back water salty enough to entice the occasional shark. In the old days, trees were farmed nearby. The trees would be felled and rolled off a large lumber platform into the water to float the river to a processing station. The operation long since ended by the time we lived there, but the platform remained a few hundred yards from our house. In the heat of summer you could bust bubbles of the hot sticky tar they had used to waterproof the timbers. Even if I left the house in shoes, I'd return with black toes from running them through hot creosote.

I don't remember the inside of the house in detail. I don't remember if there were two bedrooms or three. It was only important to me that I had my own room, though I remember my parent's room better because it was painted a deep shade of blue and because there was a window seat on one end. I remember the room feeling large, as if it might at one time been two rooms. And toward the end of our time there, my mother was ill, and it would be a room I would see in my anxious dreams.

But that did not happen first. We lived in the salad days after moving in. The kitchen was open to a small front room with a fireplace in it. One door led down the hallway to our rooms while another opened to the livingroom. The door on the other side of the livingroom opened to the back porch, which was screened in and always seemed cluttered with unfinished projects on my parent's perpetual to-do list. I don't remember seating on this porch and never regarded it as anything more than a pass through to the outdoors. I never lingered there. There was always something more interesting elsewhere.

This is the landscape I recall in memories. Any inaccuracies would be a factor of time and my age. But this is how I remember it.

--Laura Burke

Visiting

I'll admit it. I like dinner parties. I really like them when I'm attending them and it's someone else's job to make my evening relaxing and comfortable.
I say that because my friend gave a dinner party recently. It was attended by a good company of people, many of our mutual friends including some I didn't know. There was also great food - warm, mulled sangria. Roasted Garlic Shrimp. Swiss Raclette (Cheese melted in a special broiler, and then scraped over fingerling potatoes), Antipasto with lots of greens, assorted cheeses, hard salami, priosciutto, peppers, onions). Warm spinach and artichoke dip. Swiss Meatballs. Bacon wrapped steak, chicken and shrimp. Creme Brulee Tarts. Espresso.
Within all the hustle of Christmas preparations, it's very nice to spend an evening with people waiting on you hand and foot. Even more important, it's nice to reconnect with people you might have lost touch with during the year.
I think "Visiting" is an art. It keeps you sane.

--Laura

what makes santa cry

Drug Breakthrough

FDA Approves Depressant Drug For The Annoyingly Cheerful

ships of safety

So, I discovered the Indigo Girls just before I arrived at college. It's kind of cliche to say this, but they wrote the soundtrack for many of those years. They were Georgia girls. They are still Georgia girls. I remember how excited I was to see them at the Fox Theatre in Boulder.
It was college. It was live music. I had left the farm. It was also the first time it dawned on me that they were lesbians.
There's no real point to that story, just a random memory about how truly clueless I can be sometimes.
So after a frustrating day at work, I cranked the key on Pearly Lee and blasting from the stereo (yes, old Pearly Lee still has a tape deck and AM/FM radio), was Amy and Emily, singing Closer to Fine. At other times in my life, there was a phrase in the song I identified with.

I spent four years prostrate to the Higher Mind, got my paper and I was free.

That meant something poignant to my degree-seeking self. So true, I felt. So true.
Tonight though, I heard a different part of the song:

Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
And lightness has a call that's hard to hear
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it, I'm crawling on your shore.

The truth in the words became clear. I think when it boils right down to it, it's hard to believe that there's good out there for you, unless someone is telling you constantly. What falls in your lap is yours to keep, but accomplishments beyond that require a certain confidence that you deserve them. The downside though is that when you accept the ship of safety, not only does it become your only life experience, it can surprise the hell out of you by not being safe at all. Ships of safety can drag you straight to the bottom. Even more telling, you can ride it to the bottom willingly, thinking you're protecting yourself.
What's your ship of safety? What's the lie you're listening to? Crawling to shore takes some effort. Believe me, I'm learning this first hand. True, I would like a more constant source of positive affirmation to make it easier.
We, who are about to jump ship, salute you.
--Laura

Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols

For as long as I can remember, people have appreciated my singing voice. It's something I'm pretty low-key about, if you'll pardon the pun. It's never something I've really worked at. I've been given a voice people find comfortable to listen to. In fact, the last time I was at mass in my parent's town, the woman in front of me turned around at the end and said, "it was so nice to sit in front of you. You have such a nice voice."
I get that all the time.
I wish all the people who say that could come with me each year to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, because at last, they could see a group of performers who actually work to make singing a beautiful experience.
Based on the traditional service at King's College Chapel in Cambridge, this event has been observed at Emory University since 1935. Christmas music has been performed by a university chorus since 1925, beginning with the Glee Club.
There are so many reasons I enjoy going to this event. First, Emory campus is beautiful. Just going there makes me want to start a research paper. Second, there's a sentence on the first page of the program: Because this is a sacred program, we request that there be no applause.
And there is none, even when you want to clap, even after the last chorus member has left the building. Third, it begins and ends in candlelight. Fourth, there's absolutely nothing commercial in the entire evening. You walk up to Glenn Auditorium, receive your ticket, find a seat (it's general seating), make small talk with those around you, and wait. And then, in silence and candlelight, it begins.
It's a quiet center in a season devoted to noise and action. I've always been of the opinion that beauty has its own value. When you see or experience something beautiful, it elevates something inside you. It is something you can look back on as an anchor when things aren't so beautiful. I think that's something that should be available to everyone. At least everyone who has things in their life that aren't always beautiful.
All this to tell you that my favorite song of their program is the one you see below. It's called O magnum mysterium, written by Morton Lauridsen.

Tree: Real or Fake?

I have a collection of random memories surrounding the holidays. A few days ago at work, we were discussing family traditions and the eternal christmas question - Tree: Real or Fake.
Well, our family had two adults with opposing viewpoints on this topic. My father was a Fake Tree Man all the way. And he bought a tree that was the biggest annoyance of my holidays. Well, he bought this tree well before I was born, and in his mind it should last at least until I was ready for the nursing home. My dad was a practical man. A one-time investment, spread out over Christmases Infinite would mean the tree would cost pennies by the end of its evergreen life.
Mom wasn't convinced. Don't get me wrong, mom would use the tree in a pinch. Some holidays were just too hectic for tree hunting. But she wasn't one to give up on a Real Tree.
Bringing me to those random memories about tree hunting. This all took place either before the concept of tree farms became very big, or because mom couldn't get dad to relinquish the thought that the tree should be free. But my mother was raised with a rural mindset. She wasn't to be discouraged by that rule.
And that's where the bow saw came in.
Some time, it would have been before I was 10, we lived in the Coosawhatchie House, on the coast of South Carolina. I remember being at home when my mother arrived from work one afternoon.
"I saw the perfect tree, right on the side of the road. Get the bow saw."
Off we went. My mother drove a dark blue station wagon at the time, so having the capacity to haul a tree was no problem.
"Mom, we can't just cut down someone's tree."
"Of course we can. It's on public land. No one is going to notice." Well, she was right, it was on public land. We drove across the interstate. We turned off on the frontage road, which ran between I-95 and the railroad tracks. A few yards down, she pulled over to the side and pointed to the top of the hill.
"That's it. It's perfect."
I focused my attention where she was pointing. A ridge ran near the train tracks, and growing near that ridge was the top of what looked like a pretty decent tree. And that's what mom wanted me to cut.
What mom didn't realize from the road was that the tree was growing on the other side of the ridge, so we weren't looking at the entire tree, just the top. I remembered explaining that to her as I stood on the ridge.
"Well just cut off the top, that's all we need." So I did. And because we couldn't put up the tree until closer to Christmas, we took it home, stuck it in a big 5-gallon bucket and filled that with water, setting it discreetly on the porch until it was time to put it up, still in that bucket which would be covered with a tree skirt.
I think of how often my mom travelled those roads as a community health nurse, and how often she must have passed that tree, deciding if it really was perfect for Christmas. That day, I might have been a little embarrassed, but I had a fearless mom. And Real won out that year.
I hope, this year, as we are all perhaps tightening our belts more than usual, that you're making wise decisions about what things to concentrate on and what things to let slide right on by. Whether it's a tree, a favorite recipe, or someone special who needs to hear how much you care about them, I hope this year, you fearlessly choose Real over Fake too.
No offense, dad. It's a metaphor, and I'm sure that old tree misses you.
--Laura