“For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.” Hasidic saying
Don’t ask me what I want for dinner — I have no idea. Ask me instead what I don’t want for dinner, and I probably won’t shut up.
One of the most beautiful parts of aging is wisdom. In fact, I think it’s the bestpart. Living five decades means I have very clear ideas about what works for me and what doesn’t. As a kid, I foolishly thought old people were boring — doing the same things day after day, with no excitement or mystery. Boy, was I wrong. Older folks curate the days they want. They sprinkle in excitement and mystery as it suits them. Old people are so cool.
I’ve tried — okay, half-heartedly — to become a morning person. I am now one with the fact that this will never happen. I’m a night owl. I’m all sunsets and stargazing and very little sunrise. Sure, I can wake with the sun if I absolutely have to. But it will never be my preference. I crave the quiet of night, when most of my time zone is tucked into bed, where they can’t call me, email me, or ask me what’s for dinner.
This is my peace.
Always a picky eater, I now fully embrace eating at home. Here is where all my favorite foods live — in my kitchen, made exactly how I like them. No more standing at restaurant counters wondering which entree I’m going to waste money on today. I don’t mind trying new places, but please don’t judge me when I immediately look for my standbys: sandwiches, soups, and salads.
This is my peace.
And while we’re fixing things: I have about a million brilliant ideas for making the world run more smoothly. (Just ask my friends and family, who lovingly decline every time I suggest they nominate me for President. Cowards.) Still, I stand by my platform: Let’s just make wearing black the standard life uniform and call it a day. As I’ve gotten older, my closet has morphed almost entirely into black — with a pop of color here and there for flair. I keep it real.
This is my peace.
Getting older doesn’t mean giving up excitement — it means getting better at choosing it. It means understanding what brings you comfort, what fuels your joy, and what you’re just fine living without. It’s not boring. It’s a beautiful kind of freedom. And for me, that freedom looks like tacos in my kitchen, black in my closet, sunsets on the hammock — and a little laughter tucked into every corner of the day…because I’m addicted to sitcom reruns.
ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.
As a kid, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. I credit her with teaching me so many things (some of the biggest parts of my personality I can directly attribute to her), but the most important thing she taught me was how to pray. Through her, I learned that I was created on purpose and for a purpose. She took me to church and reminded me that God loved me unconditionally. She showed me that nothing was beyond forgiveness. In my opinion, she was the greatest example of a Christian woman I have ever known.
In her home, she had a kneeler. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a home with its own kneeler (before or since). It was a beautiful piece, made of wood with a lovely stain and it had a velvety cushion for your knees. (There’s a chance that my Papa made it, but I’m not 100% sure.) If you’ve never seen a kneeler I asked AI to generate what I can remember and the above rendition is pretty close. I was absolutely enamored with it! It was like having a church in your own house! The kneeler was designed to fit an adult, so as a small child, I couldn’t kneel and rest my hands on the top to pray. I knew you weren’t supposed to stand on the cushion, so what was a kid to do?
My grandma told me that you didn’t need a kneeler to pray. You could pray anywhere and at any time. While I knew that someday I would be able to reach the top of the kneeler, that little piece of assurance stuck with me. As a kid, I was plagued with nightmares. Praying helped. I’ve been a news junkie since I was in grade school and knowing about a big scary world caused me to worry and fear. Praying helped. Moving away from home and my support network was hard. Praying helped. Notice that I said that praying helped. It didn’t magically solve everything, but what it did do was deepen my faith and relationship with God. A God who pursues each of us, who hears and understands our worries and concerns, and reminds us that we are not alone even on the most friightening days.
It’s disheartening to know that so many disregard the power of prayer. It’s become a mode of attack in our modern culture to mock those who extend thoughts and prayers in times of crisis or as a way of offering comfort. Understand that praying people know that they are not lifting up their worries to a genie in the sky who will magically fix the ills of the world. Those of us who pray know that God is so much larger than that interpretation. The power of prayer is in the communication with our Creator. This is not lip service. Fervent prayer is action. It is often through prayer that we are called to act AND do more as we respond to the needs of others.
In the uncertainty of this new year, I have seen so many seek to complain and rile up their circles and communities. Many are calling out others, dividing families and friend groups, asking each other to take sides, and demonizing those who have differing thoughts and opinions. Several are canceling those who they once considered close and blocking people who they once called family or friends. This does so much more harm than good and it’s not taking place among those who don’t believe, this is happening within our own churches and communities of faith.
This is now a time for real in-depth conversations, in-person relationships, and profound listening. These things don’t take place in news stories, political chatrooms, or on social media. They take place around the table, in homes, and with open minds and hearts.
Please do not contribute to the hate, division, and fear that currently surrounds us. Pray and ask for discernment. Ask God to use you. Think before you speak (or post) so that you can be a source of hope and peace. Prayer is action. In this distressed world, many only contribute to the anxiety by spreading information that has not been fully researched or confirmed. News and information move at lightning speed and it is easy to get caught up in this vicious whirlwind.
At this point, I am again reminded of my grandma and her assurance that we can pray anywhere and at any time. I am more certain than ever that we need a (figurative) kneeler in every home to pray and hear God’s call and we need real-life, in-person conversations to listen and respond with compassion in order to truly make a difference, even if it’s only in our own tiny corner of the world.
This is not lip service. Fervent prayer is action.
In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Psalm 18:6
I started taking piano lessons sometime during elementary school, though the exact year escapes me. I recall learning finger placements, scales, and, of course, how to read music. I had truly wonderful piano teachers who were both encouraging and straightforward. Practice was not just necessary but absolutely required. Whoa, the child who showed up unprepared! I took seriously the idea of practicing every day and it wasn’t until adulthood that I realized what an undertaking that was…not for me, but for my family!
I have a feeling that my personal practice policy was not a directive from either of my teachers but more a process of self-flagellation that I created all on my own. It went something like this, miss a note…start over…from the beginning. Repeat. This may not sound like a horrible methodology, but when you’re a child and prone to mistakes, practice sessions could go on…and on…and on.
My mom had this one joke that she liked to tell over and over. It was probably extra funny because it went right over my head. She would say, “Can you play far, far away?” I naively thought that was the name of a song rather than a location. I’m certain she made this joke for years before I finally got it. Did I mention that our piano was in the living room?
And all that long lead-up to get to another one of my favorite Christmas gifts—my Casio keyboard. Oh, how I wanted a keyboard! Oh, how I loved that keyboard! Oh, how wild it is that 37 years later I still have that keyboard AND IT STILL WORKS!
The keyboard was a gift when I was 12 years old. I wanted a keyboard so bad…think Ralphie and the Red Ryder BB Gun. I would hint about it, talk about it, scheme about it, write about it, and I would lay out my case about why this would be such a good Christmas present. And then on Christmas…I got it!
I certainly didn’t deserve a Casio keyboard. I can play piano but I am no virtuoso. Our family budget didn’t warrant it, not by a long shot. Undoubtedly, I probably wasn’t extra good or anything like that. That’s one of the most remarkable lessons about love, sometimes we get what we don’t deserve (good or bad).
I found out later that my mom and dad bought the last keyboard in the store. It was the demo keyboard on the shelf. Mom said they almost didn’t sell it to her. Yet, she persisted. There was no stand, no box, just the keyboard, and the plug-in adapter. Since it was opened she was cautioned that the purchase was “as is,” no refunds. I should tell Casio just what a quality product they made back in the 1980s.
I don’t have to tell you I was the happiest kid in the whole world that Christmas. Oh, I had big plans. I was going to practice more than ever, I was going to be able to play everything from classical to pop music, I was going to write songs like Debbie Gibson…. Then my mom told me, “You know there’s a little plug-in on the back so you can play with headphones…in your room.”
I guess that counts as far, far away.
GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.
“A typewriter is a portal to worlds waiting to be discovered.” – Neil Gaiman
When I was eight I marched right into the kitchen and told my mom that I was going to college. She asked if I even knew what college was and I said, of course I do. It’s where you go after high school. And that was about as much as I knew about that. It wasn’t long after when I declared that I wanted to be a writer. I’m sure she wasn’t too surprised. I had been writing and illustrating my own books and telling bedtime stories to my siblings for years. Around 4th or 5th grade, I decided that I wasn’t going to be just any kind of writer, I would be a reporter and a reporter needs a typewriter.
At Christmas time I received a Petite 600, a portable little typewriter complete with a learner’s manual. I’m not sure how much of an odd ask it is to request a typewriter at Christmas time, but I’ll admit now that I was an odd kid. Opening that present was the beginning of a new era for me. And while I was not a good typist, typing was a heck of a lot faster than writing things out and that was good enough for me.
I remember writing stories and even creating my own family newspaper. I would play “newsroom” and “reporter” all the time. I would use carbon paper when I typed so I could create multiple copies of my newspaper to distribute. My sister and I even secured a Barbie 6 O’Clock News Play Set. The determination level was high.
I did go to college and became a reporter and as a blogger today, I’m still writing. Receiving a typewriter was one of my absolute favorite gifts. It was more than just getting what you want under the tree. The magic was in getting the typewriter you wanted because someone believed in your dreams just as much as you did. You can’t buy that kind of gift.
GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.
“Christmas is a piece of one’s home that one carries in one’s heart.” – Freya Stark
The nostalgia of Black Friday shopping rears its head this time every year. Most people glorify the event, and as someone who tiptoed into these waters in the early 2000s, I never really experienced its full heyday. I’ve waited in pre-dawn lines and weaved through the crowds, but no punches were thrown, no shoving of any kind, and definitely no arrests. Still, whenever I think about Black Friday my mind immediately goes back to the 1980s when I was a kid and my Mom somehow managed to secure Cabbage Patch Kid dolls for me and my little sister.
I regret never asking mom for the full story, but I remember minor details. It went something like this: We desperately wanted Cabbage Patch Kids. We likely kept mentioning it and basically annoying my mom to no end. Miraculously the dolls showed up under the tree that Christmas! However, we both received boy dolls. First, I didn’t know Cabbage Patch Kids could be boys as all of my other dolls were girls. Second, my mom was prepared for our shock and confusion as she immediately told us we could adopt them as girls…if we wanted to. Her exact words were, “Peyton and Ramsey can be boy or girl names. So you get to choose.” Who knew?
Amanda had Ramsey and designated her doll a girl on the spot. This was easy to do because Ramsey had a gender-neutral outfit on. One hair bow later and she was all set! Peyton was another story. My doll was wearing a full-on football uniform. He had a helmet, a green jersey and white pants with a green stripe. Then my dad said something along the lines of maybe he’s named after Walter Payton. I knew who Walter Payton was and although my doll’s name was spelled differently, it all made sense to me. My doll stayed a boy. It was love at first sight!
We took those silly dolls everywhere. Back and forth to our grandparents, on car rides, and to bed with us every night. We snuggled them and dressed them in baby clothes. We took them to the grocery store. One of my favorite memories is that Amanda and I put both our dolls in the front of the cart and strapped them in like real babies and then we wandered off leaving my mom pushing around a cart of dolls while shopping. I remember that she wasn’t happy with us after all the strange looks she got that day in the store.
The following Christmas we received another Cabbage Patch Kid doll. Girls this time. Wanda was a cheerleader, the perfect match for my Peyton! I have a zillion stories about these dolls. We had so many adventures and eventually, I passed them on to my own daughter. While I’ll never know the full story of how my mom managed to snag our Cabbage Patch Kids, I do know that the magic of Christmas extends well beyond the day. It lives in these precious memories.
GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.
This song has been on repeat in my brain for several days now, almost like it’s haunting me. Not because I’m a Swiftie, not because of the recent Taylor and Travis love story (of which I am a big fan,) and not because I heard it on the radio recently. So obviously, I’ve been a little spooked as to what has triggered my most recent earworm.
This is why we can’t have nice things, darling Because you break them, I had to take them…
TAYLOR SWIFT
I will admit that the song title has practically become a permanent part of my vocabulary lately. I’m not necessarily singing it, but I am saying it quite a bit. It’s become my standard response to politics, pop culture, the daily news, and especially relationships— “this is why we can’t have nice things.” Basically, it’s my feeble attempt to explain why things go wrong, people can’t get along, and miscommunication abounds. In other words, we’re all imperfect humans who don’t know how to talk to each other and so we take the easy road (and not the high road as some might have you believe) and we default to the cut-off. (Insert scream here!)
It’s become my standard response to politics, pop culture, the daily news, and especially relationships— “this is why we can’t have nice things.”
hymningandhaing.com
We refuse to hear each other out. It’s early October and already I’ve seen three videos and heard one podcast giving talking points about how to shut down your annoying relative over Thanksgiving dinner. There are how-to articles with tips on how to cut-off just about every type of relationship imaginable: boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, parent/child, friends, coworkers, neighbors, acquaintances, and even strangers. What was once thought of as a jerk traffic manuever, cut-off has quickly become a scary way of life.
I’m not saying there aren’t reasons to cut people out of your lives. Clearly, there are. We all know that cut-off has been happening since the dawn of time. Still, it seems that with cut-off there’s a history of incidents or behavior between the parties involved where the cut-off might be warranted. This is why today’s new version of cut-off seems so violent. You can be talking to someone one day and then find yourself blocked or unfriended the next day. Yikes.
It’s almost as if cut-off has morphed into ghosting? (If you’re not familiar with ghosting, the dictionary defines it as the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.) It’s a little unnerving isn’t it? Unlike cut-off where there is an incident or series of incidences that lead up to the end of communication, ghostings often happens with no context whatsover. You exist, they exist, but you go about your lives as if you never knew each other. Creepy. Lately, I’ve been told by more than a handful of people that they’ve been ghosted by someone they thought they knew and trusted. Then poof…they’re gone.
At this point in my life, there’s been a lot of soul searching. I think it’s a natural part of maturing and aging. Maybe this is why this song has been resounding in my head AND my spirit. As we move into this political season and closer and closer to the holidays my heart is heavy. So often I’m reminded that relationships are the most important part of life. More important than jobs, money, status, ego…you name it. And yet here we are, so ready to throw people away. Is it really impossible for two parties to sit down and have a conversation? Perhaps find a way to air out their grievances and make amends? And if that’s not possible, at least understand the reason for the cut-off?
I can only speak for myself, but I have seen firsthand the pain and heartache associated with cut-off. I’m a big believer of forgiveness, living without regret, thinking before you speak, pausing before you act and trying to put myself in the other person’s shoes. None of which guarantees anything. But it’s a start. It’s scary out there. Without the effort, the song will hauntingly play on…”this is why we can’t have nice things.”
The tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood.
There are some who bring a light so great to the world that even after they have gone the light remains. —unknown
Emergency light switch given to me as a Christmas gift from my Mom.
Grief is unpredictable and incredibly uneven. I’m functioning, working, accountable, meeting needs, living up to my obligations, and mostly happy, but even on my best days, I have to admit that I’m operating with very little margin. This means that the space between “okay” and “not okay” is razor-thin. This is new to me and if I’m honest, really strange and uncomfortable. I am the one who is unfazed, unfrazzled, composed, and in control. I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve but lately, I’ve been walking around with the emotional weight of a boulder, the inescapable heaviness of grief. It’s exhausting.
I’m not sure if grief has a sidekick, but if it does, it has to be memories. This is a tricky, little sidekick because it brings great joy and stinging pain. I have such great memories of my Mom! And while these memories remind me of her loss, it’s these same memories that are currently carrying me through my grief. So many wonderful memories that bring smiles and lots of laughter. Memories that produce happiness, and true light…both literally and figuratively.
In February, Kansas and much of the Midwest experienced record-breaking cold. In fact, there was one day where the temperature in my town was colder than the temps in all of Alaska! Forecasters had been predicting the cold spell complete with negative wind chills and harsh conditions, but things got serious with talk of losing electricity…not just for hours but for possibly days. The predictions became reality late one night. The power outage brought our household scrambling to the dining room table. In true survivalist mode, we each set out to retrieve flashlights and a weather radio. It was in that dark moment that there was not only a light but several lights as we each recovered light sources that had all been gifted to us over the years by my Mom. Camping lanterns, push lights, industrial flashlights, and even a battery-operated light switch—all from Mom!
After the “flash.” Ortiz Family Christmas 2017
At first, we laughed. Why had she given us so many lights over the years? Then we remembered Christmas 2017 when everyone received the light switches as gifts and how funny it was to watch each other get blinded by those lights! So much laughter! Thanks to Mom, on that record-breaking cold night in February, we had enough lights for every bedroom, every bathroom, and the kitchen. This was so my Mother—always looking out for us, prepared at every turn, giving us things she knew we would someday need. I am so grateful.
…when surrounded by darkness, always move toward the light…it is love’s glow.
A Life Interrupted
This scene reminded me of a dream I had just before Thanksgiving. It was a dream that I’ve had many times over the years, a dream about trying to get home. It always begins the same. I’m trying to walk home from the zoo in my hometown. It’s dark (I hate the dark) and I’m alone. I know exactly where I’m at, I know exactly where I’m going, and I know exactly how to get there, but I’m paralyzed by fear because I can’t see where I’m going. There’s just not enough light. In the dream, I start and stop often and I never make it home. When I dreamt this dream in November, it was exactly the same except when I stopped in a neighborhood near the courthouse I saw a light turn on in a nearby house. Then another light turned on at the next house followed by another at a house down the street. On the second floor of an older home, the light turned on and I could see my Mother standing in the window, smiling.
I didn’t make it home in that dream. Although I was asleep I was incredibly stunned to see her. The reality of her loss could be felt even in my dreams as I started to cry and tried to get to her. Those tears eventually woke me up. I wouldn’t call it a bad dream, how could I? My Mother was in it! She was whole and well, she was looking out for me as she always did. She was lighting my way…literally and figuratively the light I needed just when I needed it.
There’s a reason we equate grief with darkness. Most of us hate the dark, It’s unnerving, disorienting, scary, and uncomfortable. It causes fear, worry, stress, sadness, and even anger. It can be paralyzing, but we are not helpless. It’s important to note that in darkness AND grief it takes time for our senses to adjust. During this season, one must look for landmarks (familiar people, places, and things) to help navigate the journey. Remember, have faith as each step forward builds confidence and trust. And most importantly, on hard days, when surrounded by darkness, always move toward the light…it is love’s glow.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5
“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my mother to COVID-19.
Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.
Alphonse de Lamartine, author
The Thanksgiving Table (November 2020)
I did it. But I wish I didn’t have to.
I made a full Thanksgiving meal on my own. I roasted a turkey. Peeled a mountain of potatoes. Used the drippings to make gravy. Baked a pan full of dressing, green beans, dinner rolls, an apple crumb pie, plus loads of turkey-themed cookies. I even opened a can of cranberry sauce (it’s okay, you can laugh at me). In all my 45 years of life, I’ve never done this before…never attempted to, never wanted to, and never needed to—but these are strange times that we’re living in and strange times apparently demand complete turkey dinners on Thanksgiving…especially when your Mom is gone.
The duality of living in today’s pandemic is evident everywhere you go. In one day you can see groups of friends hanging out and carrying on without a care in the world and turn the corner to see fully masked families heading into the local grocery store. Our elderly suffer from isolation in their golden years and our healthcare workers are overwhelmed and stressed while millions of others continue to call COVID-19 a hoax to their faces. Daily, Americans walk through temperature checkpoints to get to school, work, or to travel while others plan block parties and the like. There are rallies and protests. I even read about some well-meaning parents who hosted a homecoming dance and now dozens of kids have tested positive. I’m not judging. My own family walks in this duality. We occasionally see local friends, we work outside our home, my kids go to the gym, play sports, and try to maintain normalcy all while walking this line with masks in hand. I jokingly remind them “it’s COVID out there” and ask them to stay socially distanced as they head out the door. When they come home, I greet them and immediately send them to the sink to wash their hands. We’re not perfect. At this point in the pandemic, we’ve all had moments where we’ve let our guard down and subsequently prayed that we don’t pay the penalty. Strange times, indeed.
Nine months in and I can no longer count the number of family members who have contracted COVID-19 on my fingers. I don’t want to attempt to count the number of people in my circle who have had it and my heart breaks when I think about how the Coronavirus has affected my hometown in western Kansas. I have prayed for a number of individuals who have battled, struggled, and won. Praise God! And I have cried for those who weren’t so fortunate. As I write this the death toll in the United States is 267,000+
My mother is one of them.
It’s bizarre to grieve in a pandemic. The normal grieving process is both individual and communal, but when you can’t see family members for fear of contracting or spreading a virus, the grieving process becomes even more peculiar. And when your lost loved one is a victim of that same pandemic, you proceed cautiously and carefully. Honestly, there are days where it feels like you’re barely proceeding at all—like you’re standing still while the world has moved on.
You know the saying, “once bitten, twice shy?” Those are the eggshells that I walk on daily. I know how devastating and life-changing this virus can be. There are hundreds of thousands of people who should have been at the Thanksgiving table with their families this year, but they’re not. Empty chairs, not just in my home, but everywhere. Traditions not just broken, but shattered. Those of us who have lost family members and friends to COVID-19 are experiencing this heartbreak over and over as the narrative has gone from “we’re all in this together” to “there’s nothing to see here, folks.” And yet the pandemic and the loss of life go on.
There are hundreds of thousands of people who should have been at the Thanksgiving table with their families this year, but they’re not. Empty chairs, not just in my home, but everywhere. Traditions not just broken, but shattered.
a Life Interrupted
As we move into this unusual holiday season I can feel myself picking up the pieces of my broken heart non-stop. Normal Thanksgiving meant a road trip across the state with my kids. Normal Thanksgiving meant consulting with my mom, sister and sisters-in-law about what we would each contribute to the meal. Normal Thanksgiving meant hugs and seeing my nieces and nephews. Normal Thanksgiving is game nights, snacks and cousin sleepovers. Normal Thanksgiving is coffee with my best friend. Normal Thanksgiving meant going to my mom’s house instead of making a complete Thanksgiving meal on my own.
I did it. But I wish I didn’t have to. In fact, I would have traded anything for it not to be the way that it is.
It was the first Thanksgiving without my Mom and at every turn, we paired our grief with gratitude. I miss my mother so much and my appreciation for the time we had together has continuously grown. Today, I am even more thankful and grateful for her love and influence on my life. Often times I feel like my mother’s memory lives in the kitchen which was so appropriate as I prepared the meal. And while she has been on my mind constantly, in missing her this Thanksgiving I felt like she was very present…somehow still mothering me…urging me to make the most of the holiday, not just for me, but for my kids. That’s the kind of mother she was. Give, give, and give some more. Grieve, but be grateful. In the back of my mind, I kept hearing “keep the traditions.” In my heart, her memory confirmed the feeling that forward is the best option, the only option.
If you know me, you know I take tons of photos and videos. I document everything. (It’s the reporter in me). As Thanksgiving approached this year and the memories started popping up on social media, my daughter said to me, “Mom, I’m so glad you take all the photos and the videos so we can see and hear each other. It makes me sad, but it also makes me happy. We laugh a lot.” Taking photos and videos to share this Thanksgiving seemed extra important. And Casey is right, we do laugh a lot. In many ways, sharing photos and videos are the only way for the whole family to be together while we continue to grieve miles apart.
In the mix of photos I took this year is this one of me at our Thanksgiving table just before the meal was served with an accomplished grin on my face. And guess what, Mom? I didn’t break the oven like I did that time I tried making strudel! I know you’re proud…and maybe even a little bit relieved. We saved you a seat.
“In the day when I cried out, You answered me, and made me bold with strength in my soul.”Psalm 138:3
“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my mother to COVID-19.
“Cooking and mealtimes are some of the most overlooked aspects of grief,” Heather Nickrand, author of Culinary Grief Therapy
Taco dinner complete with pico de gallo, black beans and Mexican rice.
My mother was a fabulous cook. She had this amazing way of making something truly delicious out of nothing at all. Looking back, she would have been a great contestant on The Food Network show, “Chopped.” You know the one where they give you a mismatched basket of food items and ask you to miraculously make something amazing out of it in 15 minutes flat. She was that good. One of my favorite memories of her cooking was just how much she could do with eggs. She could make them a million ways and they were always BOMB—and if she had cheese and tortillas—lookout because you were about to meet your new favorite dish. Breakfast for dinner was an absolute treat as a kid. She was creative, innovative, and basically a food magician. I miss this about her.
I’m not really a cook. I mean, I do cook, but I’m definitely not on her level. I am a baker though. We complemented each other this way. She would make my favorite dish when I would visit home (tostadas) and I would make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies or apple pie. In those moments, all was right with the world. And while I don’t consider myself a great cook, most of what I know, she taught me.
When my son was still a baby she showed me how to make Mexican rice. Sean loved to eat it, it was soft, fluffy, and flavorful. I can remember the first lesson in my kitchen and the subsequent lessons in her kitchen as she helped me perfect it. Mom cooked according to looks and taste, I, however, needed a mathematical formula. Through a series of trials and errors, I finally figured it out. Using an equation (yes, I am a nerd), I can figure out how to make any amount of Mexican rice needed to feed any size group. You can call it a gift…but mostly it’s a nerd thing.
After my Mom passed away, life was a blur. Daily chores were neglected, my mind foggy, I felt extremely lost. I’m sure I was exhausted in every sense of the word—mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually…you name it. And yet, people needed to eat. It was probably three weeks later when I finally got around to cooking something “real.” I decided on tacos, a dish I was certain I could make in my sleep, and of course an accompanying pan of Mexican rice. Every part of the process was agonizing. Each ingredient a tangible reminder of the mother/daughter and teacher/student relationship we had when it came to food. I immediately went to my Mexican rice math equation, but there was nothing. After almost two decades of memorization, my reliable recipe (formula) escaped me. I stood there looking at an empty pan, uncooked rice in hand and I couldn’t remember step one. Nothing, then tears.
I remember thinking, please, Lord, don’t let me forget this! I need to know how to do this. I can’t lose this. I’ve already lost too much. Please, help me to remember.
Here is the part where you might expect a sudden revelation. I hate to tell you this, but there was none. I tried. I cried. I screwed up the rice. Not only that, but I screwed it up the next time and the time after that. Time and time again I stood there, dumbfounded and lost. In the big scheme of things, forgetting how to make Mexican rice doesn’t seem like a disaster and yet it was. It all was. The pandemic, losing my Mom, coping, and trying to move on. It was all a disaster. The kids ate variations of crunchy, under seasoned, too wet, blah tasting Mexican rice…encouraging me all the way. I can remember my daughter, Casey, saying, “You’ll figure it out. Go slow.” These are phrases that I often say to my kids when they’re struggling and being hard on themselves. Hearing these words directed at me stopped me in my tracks. When a child repeats something you have frequently (or incessantly) told them it’s a parenting compliment, a parenting win. Honestly, though, I think it’s just called the circle of life.
I remember the frustration of learning new things as a child. Somethings came naturally, but for me, cooking wasn’t intuitive. My Mom was always gracious in her teaching. I went to college only knowing how to make cereal and grilled cheese, but through her guidance (and many telephone calls) learned to make so much more! I went through my Rachel Ray phase about the same time the internet and smartphones became a part of daily living enabling me to share my mealtime creations with just a click. I remember a phone conversation where she walked me through making a rue. I was terribly unsuccessful. We tried an in-person lesson on my next visit home. Still unsuccessful. It probably took me five years to learn, all the while she would say, “You’ll figure it out. Go Slow.” Yes, definitely, the circle of life.
You might be surprised to know that cooking wasn’t my Mom’s favorite thing. Talented as she was, and I’m convinced food was one of her love languages, she did it for us and for others lucky enough to be at her kitchen table. And, she always made it fun! I come from a large family, so preparing meals for gatherings was time-consuming. No matter, we all just piled into the kitchen and got to work. Mom was great at delegating tasks according to our abilities. This makes me laugh because most of my expertise was in chopping vegetables while my sister, Amanda, was in charge of more complicated (and delicious) menu items that required actual cooking and seasoning. All the granddaughters would get involved —assembly-line style—for enchiladas (a family favorite!) No one ever complained as being a part of Mom’s kitchen crew meant lots of taste testing and samples. A huge perk to the process! By far, the biggest win for me personally was the day my Mom complimented me on my Mexican rice. I carry those words around like a badge of honor, then and now.
So when I failed to remember how to make the Mexican rice, it felt like I was losing something special. In true resolute fashion, I refused to give up. With my Mom’s words in my head, I kept trying. Shortly after she passed I came across a social media post that said, “Be the things you love about the people who are gone.” I saved it on my phone, a poignant reminder on the hardest days. I’m not a cook. I don’t believe I’ve been gifted with that ability, but for my family, cooking and time in the kitchen were so much more than that. I believe my Mom cooked because she loved us and it kept us close. The kitchen was always the center of our home life growing up. The heart of the home, it’s still one of the rooms I spend the most time in, my kids, too.
It’s been more than four months now, and I’m not screwing up the rice anymore. I finally remembered the recipe (formula) and hope that I’m never in a place to forget it again as part of my Mother’s memory lives in the kitchen. She’s in every drawer as she has gifted me with a number of utensils and tools. She lives in the cupboard and the refrigerator as she has influenced the things I love to eat and feed my family. She lives on the countertop, her whiteboard taking up center stage on the kitchen island. And she’s certainly in my cookbook as I try to maintain the recipes and traditions that I’ve grown up with and pass them on to my own children.
May I be all the good things that I love about her…today and every day.
“Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is holy to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10
“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my mother to COVID-19.
When you stop believing in Santa you get underwear. –unknown
Okay, so I’m not really a member of the official Santa Claus family, but Christmas is my FAVORITE time of the year! I am well versed in all the songs of the season, I know the “Code of Elves” verbatim and I’ve successfully completed several Christmas-themed Buzzfeed quizzes online. So OBVIOUSLY I’m practically an adopted member of the Claus household! As a self-appointed Christmas authority, I feel obligated to share these twelve little goodies with the planet to ensure you and yours experience your best Christmas yet! In no particular order, I cheerfully present to you Anna Claus Holiday Must Haves…
Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris. I read this collection of short, satirical (and politically incorrect) stories every December for many, many reasons. Mostly because who doesn’t love the escapades of a grown man parading around Macy’s as an Elf, the unlikeliest Christmas Eve houseguest EVER and the snarkiest review of children’s Christmas pageants you’ll ever read? Nothing gets me in the holiday mood quite like this fun (and funny) book. Complete brain candy, it is good for continuous laughs.
Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas If you love jazzy, upbeat Christmas music this album is for you! The 60s style jazz offerings are traditional yet they possess that special “zing.” CAUTION: The “cool cat” vibe this album induces may cause scatting! Wonderful background music for doing just about anything holiday-related.
Candy Canes Nothing says Christmas like candy canes. Sweet and pepperminty I try to consume as many as possible. Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, it’s not unusual to find these tasty treats (and their tiny crumbs) in my purse, in my pockets or in my mouth!
Pandora’s Swingin’ Christmas Radio Station This is the ONLY internet radio station I listen to during the holidays. On the computer and on my phone this is my go-to background music for the holiday season. Here you’ll find everything from the Rat Pack Christmas album and Louis Armstrong offerings to Michael Buble and everyone in between.
Santa Hat (Reindeer Antlers optional) My all-time hat of choice, the Santa hat comes out right after Thanksgiving and lives among the coats all Christmas season long. This year I’ve decided to add reindeer antlers to the list of approved December head-gear. Very festive!
Starbucks Christmas Blend and Peet’s Holiday Blend Warm, sweet and spicy…this is what Christmas tastes like! For a coffee lover like myself this is a terrific blend that gets the day going…also serves as the perfect addition to an evening dessert. Would I like another cup? Of course!
Nativity Nativities set the scene for a Christ-centered holiday. Our family nativity is my all-time favorite and I love to share the story about how we acquired such a unique set. I also love visiting the homes of family and friends and seeing their nativity displays. Most times it leads to another wonderful story as well.
Cookie Baking I am probably guilty of too much cookie baking during this time of the year, but I love it!!! I wish we could live off Christmas cookies, but I’m afraid of what we might look like if I got my wish. Too many favorite cookies to name, I especially love making treats to give away to family and friends.
Hallmark Channel Christmas Movies The Christmas season would not be complete without the Hallmark Channel! Who can resist seeing all your favorite teen heartthrobs return in these fun and romantic Hallmark movies! Nothing says it’s officially Christmas like the picture-perfect Christmas towns and tales of true love conquering all. It’s the gift that keeps giving…round the clock with a new opportunity to spread a little holiday cheer every other hour!
Holiday Flicks My all-time favorite is It’s a Wonderful Life, a classic with the lovable Donna Reed and her screen beau, Jimmy Stewart. Watching the Charlie Brown Christmas is a must. I also like to sprinkle in a little Christmas with the Kranks, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, A Christmas Story and Elf among others.
Christmas Lights Tour This is a tradition that goes way, way back for me. I can remember piling up in the car as a child and checking out the Christmas lights in my little hometown. Today, we continue to take (drag) our children out to look at the lights. This year we cranked our adventure up a notch with a Holiday Lights Scavenger Hunt. Great fun!
Snow Never a guarantee, but snow really makes it all perfect. It seems that whenever it snows the world seems to slow down a bit…offering us a moment to take in and savor everything around us. The holidays typically fly by…I need a little snow to take it all in.
A few honorable mentions to my list: holiday cards, cocoa, caroling and Christmas parades! They don’t call it the most wonderful time of the year for nothing. Wishing you the Merriest Christmas!
hymningandhaing 