Merry Christmas 2021

 

Halloween Pumpkin 2021

 

The Garlic Bread of My Childhood

 This is the first garlic bread I remember having. It isn't much, but every time I have it, it reminds me of all my favorite parts of mealtime together. 

Ingredients

1 loaf french bread*

1/3 cup of butter

1/3 tsp garlic powder

Process

Heat oven to 350

Melt butter in the microwave (probably ~30 sec)

Mix garlic powder in the melted powder

Pour mixture into a 9x13 pan

Dip one side of the bread and swipe around until evenly coated

Flip bread, swipe around again

Bake for 12-15 minutes**

*The crumb of the bread seems to be important here. If the bubbles left from the yeast are two big, the bread isn't as easy to coat evenly. If you use a different style bakery roll, the results will taste about as good, but it's more worrying during the process.

** I pull the bread out when the top of the bread has firmed up.

Untitled Funeral Ruminations

  At my Opa's (grandfather) funeral in 2020, I remember a picture that brought up more emotion than any of the others. It was a shot of my grandparents walking down a boulevard somewhere in Europe. They were already gray. My Oma (grandmother) was laughing.
 Oma has dementia. It's been years since I've seen her walk unassisted, seen her smile, or even heard her speak. She's a little like an antique that we keep around, polish up from time to time, but don't bring out very often.

 I hadn't considered at the time why that particular photo hit me. She laughed sometimes, but more frequently was impatient with us, strict, and quick to correct. She pinched pennies to keep the family of 9 fed. My Opa was generous, sometimes extravagant. He might invite guests over on short notice, probably without consulting Oma. They took us to Europe with them when we were kids and I have a tough time deciding my favorite memory from the trip: either Opa buying us ice cream from a different street vendor every day, even in bad weather, or him getting lost driving from city to city without consulting maps, or locals. His impulsive qualities were frustrating to some of the family, but to the kids, he was magical, always ready with encouragement or something we could do together.

 Oma on the other hand, was not fun. I never looked forward to being with her. Opa would send us down the dairy convenience mart for ice cream. Oma would set me up on her bike and then would get upset when I crashed it. The bike was much too big for me, which means this must have been a very long time ago. Opa would send us out to play in the junkyard, Oma would inspect our beds to make sure they were made properly. Again, I understand why; every large group needs an enforcer as well as an inspiration.

 When I consider my own flaws, I see a lot more of Oma in me. I'm impatient with my children, though I have so many less to contend with. I've discussed a theory with my siblings that maybe Oma went deaf on purpose to finally get some peace and quiet. As I get older, I've found that I retreat into silence more often in conversation with my children. I don't know if this is something I learned from watching Oma age, or something I picked up from my dad. I remember many times being excited to talk to him about something I was learning, and he wouldn't say much, just letting me talk. It always made me feel like I was talking too much. I'm strict and critical with my kids. I remember the stress my mom would always be laboring under when Oma was coming to visit. Everything had to be just so. I remember hearing stories about Oma's good times, but I don't remember them. Like me, I think she spent a lot of time trying to scratch out a little control in a chaotic world.

Balance Every Joy with a Grief - 2020 wrap-up

 How do I start talking about the last year? The surrealistic dread that hovered above me like a guilt-complex. The death of a patriarch. The death of a friend. The threat implied in breathing the air near another person. The unpaid, unqualified, un-asked for frustrations of at-home learning. The concern that cherished watering-holes might dry up before the rains come back. The irritation generated by a demagogue, a charlatan, a spiteful child. The tears shed over being unable to break bread with friends and family.

It is not without relief that I await the final moments of a year I failed to predict. Yet hope rises in my soul. A low bar is not as hard to surmount. Maybe this year will be better. 

Here's the list of lists I've spent all year accomplishing, accumulating and collating, starting with a list of subjectively notable deaths.

Neil Peart
Sean Reinert
Christopher Tolkien
Terry Jones