Patchwork Prose and Verse
it’s Grandparent’s Day Breakfast for us
with our always-reading grandson
a fourteen-year-old freshman
born only yesterday
today, he plans to
be a pastor
of a church
someday
soon
but
for now
he teaches
Sunday School class
holds Bible studies
with his youth group mid-week
and volunteers as leader
his great grandfather (and great-great)
were also called into ministry
Stacey Joy is our host today for the 21st day of #VerseLove. You can read her full prompt here. She inspires us to write Mama’s Kitchen Poems.
Kitchens are oftentimes the heartbeat of a home. They are gathering places and hold memories like no other room in a house. Stacey mentions a recent podcast episode featuring legendary author Judy Blume, finding herself mesmerized by Blume’s memories and stories of her mother’s kitchen. If you are interested in listening to that episode, here is the link.
Next, Stacey shares the process: Let’s share our memories from our mothers’ kitchens, our own kitchens, or any kitchen that holds memories for you.
A Lock of Hair
there, hidden in the cakes and pies section
of Mom’s Gold Medal recipe box
with all the family secrets
an unsealed blue envelope
holds tender gold tendrils
~ cherished childhood hair ~
ethereal
long blond strands
of me
steeped
in
love, one
remaining
wisp of a child
blended, kneaded, shaped,
her own recipe for
disaster ~ aproned kitchen
ancestors gather still to check
on this bun baked through all their ovens:
did she fall? did she rise? did she turn out?
A few years ago, I began reading more about the Danish concept of hygge and learning about the ways to create comfort – at home and in life. Ambient candlelight, toasty socks, hearty meals of soups and stews, warmth of fireplaces, soothing sounds of music, and coziness of blankets and sweaters. The enjoyment sitting by the fire with the dogs as I write and sip hot tea. These small measures of comfort go a long way in self-care.
One author who brings all the feels of hygge is Gladys Taber. This morning, I read about November long ago from her book Stillmeadow Sampler, published in 1950. This book was a gift from my father last Christmas, and is signed by Eugenia Price in 1977 as a gift to Lady Jane.
Below, I share an excerpt:
Now, toward the end of November, rain falls steadily and it is a chilling rain. The bare branches look black and the browns in the meadows are deepened. The pond’s level rises and we can hear the water pouring over the dam and on into George’s brook. The small-paned windows of the house are a wash of silver. The lamps go on early in the day.
When we go out to do the chores, the air smells of wet fallen leaves. It is a curious musty smell, but pleasant. Jill brings in an apple log from the woodpile and the fire burns brightly. The Cockers and the Irish doze on the warm hearth. It’s a good time to have Brunswick Stew, that delectable combination of chicken, tomatoes, lima beans and corn simmered with seasonings in the old iron soup kettle.
When the rain finally ends, usually at dusk, the whole world looks polished. The horizon has a rosy glow. The air is like vintage wine, properly cooled. When we open the door, the dogs rush out and dash around the house. Rain’s over, rain’s over, they say, barking happily. Inside, with the rose-colored light coming in the windows, the house takes on new life. The milk glass gleams, the brass and copper shine. And the soup kettle is ready to be lifted from the crane, the popovers are hot.
“Next thing we know,” says Jill, dishing up the stew, “it will be snowing.”
I glance over at my dogs, deep in a morning snooze, and glimpse my mother’s rippled swiss dot milk glass on the kitchen counter. I think of her recipe for E-Z Brunswick Stew, and I take it from the recipe box to share with you today. Though Mom is no longer here with us, her legacy lives on through her recipes and memories.
This is hygge in its finest form.
Today, our host at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 1 of the August Open Write inspires us to write poems about hands. Denise Krebs of California is hosting today’s writing. You can read her full prompt here.
Welcoming Magnolia Mae yesterday, these hands gripped handlebars, holding on for the ride with friends yesterday, these hands swaddled babies, bandaged knees as children grew up yesterday, these hands stitched a quilt for a grandchild I will meet today for today, these hands will build Legos and fairy gardens first, and then….. today, these hands will swaddle a new granddaughter in rosettes and sage so that tomorrow, these hands will be remembered this heart full of love
Lately I’ve been grounding myself in my rural Georgia blessings by rereading Gladys Taber‘s books about her life on her farm, Stillmeadow, in the hills of Connecticut. Every sentence she writes, it seems, takes me to comforting places that fill me with the joy of memories and the inspiration to carry on the traditions and legacy that my mother left.
In the August chapter of Stillmeadow Calendar A Countrywoman’s Journal, Gladys shares, “Corn stands silken in the field, chicory stars the roadside, and goldenrod mints her coin. The kitchen smells of spices and syrups, ming and sweet pepper. It is the time of “putting up,” a rewarding time for country-folk. I believe it is an instinct in man to store things against the winter, even when there is a supermarket a few blocks or miles away. It is part of the rhythm of life.”
When my children were young, I’d meet my mother at the halfway point so that the kids could visit a week every summer with their grandparents. Just a few weeks ago, as I was visiting one of my girls, we passed a Dairy Queen.
“That makes me think of all those times Mimi would take us to get a Cotton Candy Blizzard,” she shared. “Those were the best days of my life. I loved making strawberry pigs with Mimi.”
My mother had a fig tree, and they’d all go out and pick figs in the back yard and strawberries from a neighbor’s patch. Mom would get out the pressure cooker and a box of clean Mason jars and lids. Everyone had a job to do well beyond the picking – – washing figs, hulling strawberries, slicing fruits, measuring sugar, stirring. It was a day-long event with everyone fully-aproned, and they stocked our pantry and theirs with all the toast topping they needed for the coming winter months.
My grown children still call strawberry figs “strawberry pigs,” from their days of childhood mispronunciations.
When we moved onto the Johnson Funny Farm in 2008, I found a little twig of a scratch-and-dent turkey fig on the clearance rack at Home Depot and bought it for $3.00. My husband put up the orange plastic netting around it to keep from running the tractor over it, and today it stands taller than a clown on stilts and is more solid than any prize bull.
I walk out to the fig tree this morning, inspecting the forthcoming fruits, anticipating their ripening. A fig harvest heralds the end of summer and beginning of fall – my favorite time of year! And I feel my mother’s arm around my shoulders, erasing all distance between heaven and earth, assuring me that the time spent doing simple things with those we love is the best gift of all. The simple act of making memories transcends years, space, and distance and preserves the togetherness and belonging – – the “putting up” of love scooped and slathered freely like a medicinal balm at the twist of a jar lid when it’s needed in the winters of our lives.
Common Threads 