Father’s Day thoughts

 

Jacob, right, with longtime friend Colin
Hosts at Joe T.'s

Across the country today, Americans celebrated Father’s Day. Regardless of what you think of the commercialization of parenthood (think of Mother’s Day which is Father’s Day on steroids), this is traditionally a day to celebrate all things masculine, mostly with food: steak, potatoes, and the grill. Not if you’re a Burton though: like many holidays throughout the year, Father’s Day calls for dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s.

For those not from Fort Worth, the restaurant is commonly called Joe T.’s and is Fort Worth’s classic Mexican restaurant, the place where every celebrity that comes to town dines. Joe and Jessie Garcia began the business in 1935 with sixteen tables. Over the years it has grown, expanding on the original small space until today sprawling patios lush with plants and several dining areas can seat over a thousand. But the menu remains the same. It also remains very much a family business.

Signs were evident though that the children the Burton men are growing up. We went for lunch rather than dinner because Jacob’s host shift at Joe T.’s began at two-thirty and his cousin, Ariceli, had to be back in Denton at seven to work in an ice cream parlor. Times, they are a-changing.

Some sixteen years ago Christian waited tables at Joe T.’s. Since then, he and Jordan have been back often, hosted events there, and generally kept in touch. So for Jacob to go to work there this week was like following a family tradition. (Besides, all four of my children worked in food service when they were in school.) Going to Joe T.’s with Jordan and Christian makes you feel you are in the company of celebrities—the management staff, wait staff, lots of people come hug them, chat about what’s going on, and this time, to tease and fuss over Jacob who bore it all with extremely good grace. Christian sometimes seems to still work there, popping up to get a napkin or look at Jacob’s schedule or some such.

The occasion called for me to push my mobility limits and ultimately gave me cause to brag. We took my transport chair and Jordan pushed me up the long ramp to the patio only to find because of the heat we were seated inside. This meant, with Christian’s help, I walked up three steps, across an entry way, up another step, and then down three steps. Between the up and down I got parked out of the way of traffic and found myself next to a table where someone was finishing a meal. The woman seated there looked at me and said, “You can do this.” I joked about something, but I want to thank her for giving me a boost in confidence. After I got down the stairs, I turned to give her a thumbs up and she returned the sign. Finally we were at the table. Fortunately, we went out through the original restaurant, now a tiny reception area, where Christian could push me right down a ramp—no stairs to conquer. I was uncertain about his joke that if he let go I would go sailing right down. Not a funny thought!

At Joe T.’s at night, the menus is limited: you get fajitas (either chicken or beef) or “the dinner” which consists of mini tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, guacamole, and tortillas—always too much for me. But at lunch there’s a wider choice—I was torn between bean chalupas and tortilla soup, which Christian pointed out were two very different items. I went with two chalupas—full but not uncomfortably so. And wine, while others were having the world-famous margaritas.

Lunch at Joe T.’s for me is subtitled, “How to kill an entire day.” This morning I did about a half hour real work on the memoir I’m struggling with—taking notes from blogs during the appropriate time period. Then I “went” to church on the computer—Christian and Jacob went in person and though I searched the computer screen, I didn’t see them.

There was a moving baby dedication for Father’s Day—two gay men presented the daughter they have adopted, an Asian girl who looked to be maybe three months. She was alert and curious, and as the minister said, loving being the center of attention. Her two dads stood in front of the congregation beaming. Really proud of my church, proud to be a member of an inclusive congregation.

We went to Joe T.’s at 1:30, got home after 3:30, and I ran, not walked, to take a nap. Day drinking may have been okay in my past, but it does me in now. I dozed from about four until five-fifteen when Sophie asked very politely for her dinner. Couldn’t resist—I went back to bed and next thing I knew it was six-fifteen and Megan was on the phone.

So now the dilemma after a Joe T.’s lunch: I’m full but a bit hungry, I want to eat but I don’t know what I want to eat.

Hope all who celebrated had a good Father’s Day. We can always grill something another time.

A familiar anthem—so welcome!

 

This morning Sophie got me up early (like 5:30) with one of her snophalophagus attacks. I got up to give her a Benadryl, went to the bathroom, and saw an email from my high school BFF—she quoted these lines to me:

One early Easter morning,

I wakened with the birds,

And all around me lay silence,

Too deep for earthly words.

She didn’t have to say any more. I knew it meant she was thinking of me, and that in our faith, He is Risen, indeed! Long ago—really long ago—she and I were in a youth choir that sang that music on Easter morning, and it has stayed with both of us. So today, I went through the day with that melody playing in my head. One year, for a sunrise service, my church included it in the program—at my request. I was thrilled.

Good intentions gone awry—we were going to attend virtual nine o’clock church this morning but instead had Easter breakfast/brunch about 10:30 and then were ready for the eleven o’clock service (I think it was the same service, played over again). Brunch was a tater tot casserole that Jordan and Christian fiddled with—who really needs six cups of grated cheese? They cut it in half, substituted sausage for bacon, added eggs—and the result was so good.

Tater Tot casserole

Our church, Fort Worth’s University Christian, has really learned some innovative things about presenting virtual services, and this morning was a triumph. Easter services usually conclude with Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus—this morning various members of the congregation popped up from unlikely spots spelling out the lyrics to accompany the music. It was good-hearted, good fun, and wonderful. The sermon struck a chord with me too because I hear on Facebook from acquaintances who sing of doom because Biden is president—I can’t believe I am patient with them, but I am for various reasons. The gist of what I took away this morning is to never believe that the moment of gloom is the last word. God always gets the last word, and it is “Life,” though I might suggest that it is “Love.”

The Burtons went off to Denton to celebrate with Christian’s family, and I, after a nap, welcomed Subie and Phil. We had gravlax that I had cured—absolutely delicious, with a perfect sauce of yogurt, mayo, balsamic vinegar, lemon, and dill. I will definitely do that again. Russian salad, also new to me, was great—sort of a version of potato salad, but you dice everything fine, aiming for the size of green peas because it has peas, along with potatoes, carrots, cornichons, ham. Dressing is simply mayo mixed with cornichon brine. I think I was a bit timid about the brine, but I will use it with a freer hand next time. Subie brought egg butter, which she had learned to make in Finland—like deviled eggs but without the devil. The perfect accompaniment for gravlax. And dessert? In the interests of being ecumenical, it was matzoh crack.

Matzoh crack
So rich, so good

I have to say, for all I worried about the gravlax, the matzoh crack was the thing I struggled with the most—trying to avoid burning myself with the hot sugar mixture, juggling pans, quick spreading first toffee and then chocolate before it hardened past the point of spreading. Plus I had to do it in my small toaster oven, instead of a traditional one where I could have done more pieces of matzoh at one time. I made two batches—and I have a whole lot of matzoh left over, so I’ve been singing to Christian about the virtues of matzoh brie—just like the migas he loves. Funny how so many cultures have the same dish by different names.

All in all, it was not the traditional Easter I always long for—I still wish I’d been in church and then had a leg of lamb—but it was a great, non-traditional alternative, and I am counting my blessings tonight.

Two days ago, I looked at a tree that is always so slow to leaf out that each spring I am convinced it is dead—and I thought that after our terrible snowmageddon. But tonight I just happened to look—and it has leafed out in two days.

He is Risen, Indeed!

What's on your plate?

 

Americans never debate food as much as they do as Thanksgiving approaches. This year, I’m beginning to feel it’s a little de trop to want turkey. People are having everything from tenderloin to pizza and decrying the traditional turkey. Frankly, I like it, look forward to it, have mourned the last few years because we were always at one child’s house or another and never had leftovers. A benefit of staying home this year is that we will have the leftovers. I’m already having dreams of turkey hash.

Today there are ways to cook the turkey that my mom never thought of. I remain a fan of good old oven roasting, which provides good flavor and lots of gravy. For several years, my sons and sons-in-law have fried turkeys, and I admit that produces a good bird with crisp skin. But still, my Austin daughter and I often have a separate turkey roasting in the oven, so we’ll get gravy. Then, there was the year of the rancid oil—but we won’t go into that horror. This year, we are operating in this house without an oven (long story), so Christian will air-fry the turkey, which he would do anyway because he loves that way of cooking the bird. I have bought extra gravy from Central Market. It’s usually good in flavor but pale in color, and since food is half eaten with the eye, I use Kitchen Bouquet to darken it.

Then there’s dressing or stuffing. I think years ago we solved the nomenclature problem: stuffing goes inside the bird; dressing is fixed in a separate pan. About the same time we figured that out, we realized that while stuffing the bird had real flavor advantages, it also offered health problems in the form of potential food poisoning. I don’t know anyone who stuffs the turkey these days.

In Texas, there is not much controversy about dressing—except in my mind. I do not care for cornbread dressing. I want good old northern stuffing made with Wonder bread and lots of celery and onions and butter and sage. My good luck because my friend Jean also loves northern stuffing and will bring me some. She is a bit upscale though and uses Pepperidge farm white bread to make it. Meanwhile Christian will make the cornbread dressing of his childhood.

And then there are sides. My family is firmly convinced green bean casserole is essential, and they want it made with canned green beans, mushroom soup, and French’s onion rings. Period. One daughter-in-law makes it with fresh green beans (the horror!), sour cream, and Parmesan. We’re all polite, and it’s good—it’s just not the same. Recently I’ve discovered that some families consider Brussel sprouts traditional, and I’ve come to realize that my family wants mac and cheese on the table.

Folks move away from traditional desserts too. I have a childhood friend whose large family still makes my mom’s chiffon pumpkin pie recipe. Pumpkin won’t go in my house, which bothers me a bit, but one son loves sweet potato pie. Mostly we don’t pay attention to dessert because we’re too full by the time it comes around. This year, for the four of us, Jordan will make a chocolate pie and a yellow cake with chocolate frosting—the latter because Jacob loves it. Overkill in my mind, but I am quiet about it.

So there it is: in spite of all the trendy changes and rebellious choices of new foods, my family comes down firmly on the side of tradition: the four of us will have turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, dressing (with northern for me), green bean casserole, and mac and cheese. For dessert, chocolate pie and yellow cake.

Although we have much to be thankful for this year—health, plentiful food, meaningful work, a safe home, the love of family, a year without the devastating losses many families have faced—it is a year tinged with disappointment. We should be in Austin, at Megan’s new house, with all seventeen of the family. Covid put the squelch on that gathering, so we will give thanks for a new administration coming in, a vaccine on the immediate horizon, and other blessings—and we’re watching for the next occasion when we can all gather at Megan’s. Heck, we might just create our own Alter holiday some weekend.

Meantime, join us in giving thanks. May your table be bountiful, your journey easy and happy.

Twelfth Night, neighbors, and an ongoing tradition

My family has along tradition of celebrating Twelfth Night, or Epiphany, with a roaring fire in the fireplace. Each person, in turn, throws a small sprig of evergreen into the fire and makes a wish for the coming year. If you tell your wish, it will not come true. A Chicago neighbor, who was like an aunt, started that when I was very young. I have no idea if she made it up or where she got the idea. I’ve heard of other Epiphany traditions—King’s Cake, for instance—but never heard of anyone else burning branches.  What it could have to do with the arrival of the three kings at the stable in Bethlehem is beyond me, but I like traditions.

I kept it going with my children when they were young, and we’ve done it with Jacob every year, I think. In recent years, Jordan, Christian, and I have included a few neighbors, as we did last night. Jordan had a lengthy list of friends, but several declined for various reasons, so there we were ten of us. The evening was pleasant, only a little chilly, and the Burtons have a new (to them) outdoor firepit, so we burned our branches on the front porch.

Every Christmas Jordan longs for the chocolate chip bars I always made for my annual tree trimming party. It’s been at least four years since I’ve given that party, so it’s been four years she’s been talking about it. So for last night, nothing would do but I had to make those bars. It was always a project, but more so in my tiny kitchen. The dough is like chocolate chip cookie dough only much stiffer—to make bars instead of cookies. I took it as far as I could but had to call Jordan for the final stirring.  My arms have lost strength, and I mostly cook from my Rollator which makes an awkward  angle for heavy-duty stirring. By the time Jordan came to help me, I was covered with flour and had a good smear of chocolate across my chest. Not only that but I had dropped a whole egg on the floor—it literally jumped out of my hand.

            The chocolate chip bars were a hit, the firm warm and cheering, the wishes silent – I’ll never tell! Even Sophie got to be part of the festivities though neighbor Greg, who ended up with her, said it was apparent she doesn’t spend much time on a leash. After the ceremonial burning, we sat in the living room and caught up with each other’s news.

Chalk the evening up as another nice memory.

Brinner heralds the Christmas season

Two or three years ago a small group of friends got to talking about how good it occasionally was to have breakfast foods for dinner—pancakes, fried potatoes, bacon and sausage, and so on. The upshot was we had a pot-luck meal we christened “brinner.” Everyone brought a breakfast food to an evening gathering.

But then we all got busy, got together less, and no one mentioned brinner—until recently when someone suggested we should revive the tradition. So tonight, there was brinner with Jordan and Christian hosting.

One of the problems with such a meal is that everyone tends to bring sweet or starchy dishes. We had cinnamon rolls, that wonderful hash brown potato casserole, pancakes and syrup, carrot cake, and a cranberry cake. But one person balanced the meal by bringing bacon and sausages, and someone else contributed an egg-and-green chili casserole.

Wine flowed and so did conversation as we caught up with each other, discussed neighborhood doings, speculated about new neighbors who will be moving into our tight little area. We even spent time on changes in local traffic and parking regulations. No wonder one person, who will remain anonymous, broke into bars of “God  Bless America.”

A fitting way to mark the beginning of the holiday season. Jordan and Christian have their Christmas decorations throughout the house and a fresh green tree still in its wrappings, where it will stand in full splendor when decorated. Christian takes great care with decorating the tree, a project that sometimes takes him a week.

In the cottage of necessity I have a small artificial tree and am grateful for it, even though I have spent a long life railing against artificial trees. This year, when my tree came ou of the attic, I realized it has over the years grown scrawny, with a big gap in the middle. Plus half the lights no longer work. A new tree is on order and should be here soon.

Meantime I have touches of Christmas. When I was making the cranberry cake today, I reached for the salt on the shelf where I keep it over my work space and saw that Jordan had put a up Christmas plate, on a stand, that has special memories for me—probably at least forty years old, it pictures a family of mom, dad, three kids, and an infant in a carrier decorating a tree. It is of course me, the children’s father, and my four children. Jordan is the infant.

A glass brick with Christmas lights inside—how did they do that?—sits on an occasional table, a Christmas tree pillow and a soft, stuffed bunny in a Christmas outfit are in a chair (Sophie has a problem with that because it is her chair), and Santa Mac, a Scottish Santa, shares a bookcase top with a folk art Saint Nicolas. I feel very festive, and it’s wonderful to be surrounded with decorations that all carry fond memories.

For those of us who celebrate Christmas, it is Advent, a time of anticipation, of hope, of gratitude. A special times of the year.

“God bless us, every one.” With a tip of the hat to Tiny Tim.

It really does take a village….

What's the saying? The family that eats together

stays together

People often ask me how I managed to raise four such great children as a single parent, and all I can do is shrug and say, “Sheer dumb luck…and maybe a heavy dose of love.” Lord knows I look back on those years and see all the things I did wrong as a parent.

But this weekend, talking to the kids’ half-sister, I realized one thing I did right. She is an only child and referred a couple of times to growing up on an isolated farm in the hills above Santa Rosa, CA. Later, thinking about it, that proverbial light bulb went off in my brain.

Sunday dinner! That was the thing I did that I doubt many single moms did. Somewhere along the way, when they were approaching teen years, I made a structured if not formal event out of Sunday dinner. Once the kids got part-time jobs outside the house, and they all did, work was the only excuse for missing Sunday dinner.

It wasn’t that the five of us sat around the table. There was usually anywhere from fifteen to twenty. My brother, also single by then, came with his two kids, and various friends came—some regularly every Sunday, others only on occasion. All were always welcome. One friend, widowed and older than me, came most weeks, as did a young couple whose baby, now well grown, is my goddaughter. The dad put her in one of those chest carriers and often spent much of the meal standing by the table bouncing up and down. We thought he’d probably never learn to sit quietly through dinner again.

My brother instituted a tradition whereby he went around the table and each person, child or adult, had to tell him what was special about their week. The kids moaned and groaned, but in retrospect I think it let them know that we cared about each of them and wanted to know what was important to them. Table manners were important too, and John was quick to correct any slips like elbows on the table. As a result, my kids have great table manners, and they are passing that on to their kids. Colin in particular—his youngest, Kegan, watches me like a hawk to catch me with my elbows on the table and then says slyly, “Juju, elbows.”

Sometimes it got funny, like the Thanksgiving (okay not Sunday but in the same spirit) when John asked each to tell what they were thankful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner, and he stood and very solemnly said, “I am thankful for Megan and her beauty.” The other three of my kids and their cousins practically swallowed their tongues in an effort to keep from laughing. It’s a favorite story to this day.

I don’t remember all the things I fixed—turkey breast Wellington (I used two boneless turkey breasts), not too many casseroles because the traffic wouldn’t bear it. Maybe once in a while a leg of lamb and sometimes a roast, but my budget often wouldn’t stretch that far. Probably roast chicken, maybe spaghetti—things I wish I could recall, though some maybe in Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books. Once I made a dish called, I think, hamburger corn bread—it was from a history of Texas foods that we were publishing at TCU Press at the time. John tried it and looked at me to ask, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

This morning Jordan and I were in the car together, and I told her my sudden inspiration that Sunday dinner probably made a difference in their lives. She picked up on it immediately. “Yep, it was a community of family.”

I was crushed when the kids moved away, and Sunday dinners dwindled. When Jamie moved to Dallas, I figured it was close enough he’d come home for Sunday dinner, but he scoffed at the idea. Living alone, I often made it a point to invite others for Sunday supper. It was good, and I was grateful for the company and for a reason to cook something special, but it wasn’t the same.

Today, in the Burton/Alter combined household, we try to make Sunday dinner special, but it’s just us. Christian and I take turns cooking special dishes, but guests are rarely invited. Some days I really miss those large happy dinner tables. I do think they were an important part of my children’s growing years.

But I still say it’s sheer dumb luck that my kids, each so different, turned out so great.

The night the tornado came through

Nineteen years ago tonight a tornado roared through central Fort Worth. It came from the northwest, and I know it did some damage in the Rivercrest area, then moved on to devastate the Linwood neighborhood and cause widespread damage downtown.  Then it, or storms spawned by it, roared onto Arlington where there was also severe damage. I’m sure everyone has their story of that evening. For me, it’s memorable because of the tornado and because it reminds me how long I’ve had the wonderful tradition of dinner with my friend Betty.

I don’t know if back then we had settled on Wednesday nights, as we do now, but we had gone to Pappadeaux, one of our favorites. There were storms forecast, but who pays attention to that? As we enjoyed our dinner,  we  watched the sky go from gun-metal gray to that ghastly green which foretells real trouble.

I remember once being away from home when my children were little, and the sky turned green. My ex and I called the nanny, and I said, “You do know what to do in case of a  bad storm?” I asked. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” she reassured me—followed by “What?” We lived at the time in a house with a basement, and I told her to take the children and go to the basement.  Nothing happened that time, but nineteen years ago we weren’t so lucky.

Betty and I decided it was the better part of wisdom not to go out in that scary weather, and so we sat and watched a horrific storm—sideways rain, high winds, all the things you dread. I still marvel that in that restaurant with all its windows we were not told to hide under the tables or something, but I suppose they wanted to avoid panic. We ordered a second glass of wine  and watched. After a bit, the sun came out, and the sky turned blue again. We finished our wine and left, still not knowing what had happened.

When I walked in the house, the phone was ringing. I answered to hear Jordan say, “I’m all right.” Well, why wouldn’t she be? Only later did it dawn on me that she assumed, as kids will, that her mom was okay and at home and frantic with worry. She never asked, “Are you okay?”

Gradually I learned that the tornado had gone less than half a mile from where we sat sipping that second glass of wine. Ever after, Betty’s husband, Don, would say, “I can’t believe the two of you just sat there and ordered more wine.” But what would he have had us do? I think rushing out in the storm would have been the worst kind of foolishness.

The anniversary is also important because it reminds me how long Betty and I have made a ritual of our weekly suppers. And it wasn’t even a new tradition then. I’d say we’d been going to supper—or sometimes happy hour—for three or four years. Today our friend Jean has had a change in her family situation, and we include her so now we’re a regular threesome. But longstanding friendships are one of the things I appreciate in life, so tonight I look back on a long tradition of dinners with Betty. We’ve had some adventures and tried some wacky places, but we also have our favorites, and I am so grateful for the friendship—and for the near-escape of tragedy nineteen years ago.

Tonight Betty, Jean, and I had supper at La Madeleine on Camp Bowie, carrying on the tradition. The weather was calm and lovely, and tornados were far from our minds. Christian reminded me when we got home.

Here’s to a spring full of warm rains and gentle breezes and free of severe storms.

The beauty of quiet, nice moments

 A quiet, unremarkable day, but I’m sitting at my desk looking at a sleeping dog curled in her favorite chair, perfectly content, sure that she is safe. Today, when my daughter came in after work, Sophie directed her to my bedroom because I’d been napping. But I’d gotten up and gone to the bathroom. Sophie barked and yipped at Jordan to follow her and went to stand and bark (her view of talking) outside the door, telling Jord that’s where I was. (Usually she just barges through the door, destroying any semblance of privacy.) She was doing her job as keeper of the castle. Now she’s relaxed her duties.

Last might Megan called and asked “Guess what I’m doing?” She was making her grandmother’s roll dough, something I haven’t done in years. She had a false start, called for advice, and started over again. But her dough rose beautifully, as I warned it would, and I suggested she roll it out, bake rolls at home, and freeze instead of trying to do it Christmas day in a rental kitchen. So proud she wants to carry on the tradition.

Jacob to me last night: “I acolyted today, Juju.” Priceless. Jacob and I had a crisis today—he landed here at 1:00 p.m. not having had lunch and asked for waffles (is this a spoiled kid?). I couldn’t find the new syrup I knew I had, so he had the tag end of a bottle which barely moistened his waffles but he ate them all. When his mom came, she found two new bottles plus the jar of honey I couldn’t find (she recently rearranged my cupboard).

Lunch with a good friend—we were serious about some matters (I think she worries about my tremors and uncertain footing and so watches me carefully) but we ended up laughing a lot. I suggested we make a pact to always laugh and not become those old people who always see the downside of things and end up being glum.

Presents are wrapped—when Jordan saw them, she called me Mrs. Claus; grocery lists made, and I’m all ready for Christmas, so the days are made up of these small, precious moments. I’m wishing the same for each of you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cranberry Wars

Cranberry relish is a memory of my childhood. My mom had an old, hand-cranked grinder that she attached with a clamp to an even older wooden small ladder or stool. Then my dad would sit in front of it on the appointed night and patiently crank the raw cranberries and chunks of orange and apple (unpeeled, of course) that she handed him. It was an endless, time-consuming process. Mom would add sugar—a cup at the most I think. We all loved the relish, served only at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My children will not touch it, and my grandchildren, having never been introduced to it, probably would not either. So I don’t make it, but many holidays I long for that good old relish. This year, I am going to my brother’s house for Thanksgiving, and I will make cranberry relish. He likes it, and his brother-in-law is dippy about it. So Kevin will take home the leftovers. Of course, these days, it’s much easier to make in a food processor—you just have to catch it at the right point, when it’s chunky but not mush. No more hand-grinding, nor does it take but a few minutes.

Both my daughters-in-law prefer that jellied stuff that comes out of a can—an abomination to me. They chill it, slice it, serve it, and most of it is still on the plate at the end of the meal. I think it had to do with what you grew up eating.

Here’s my version:

1 apple, fairly tart, cored and seeded, cut in small chunks

1 small orange, seedless if possible (I blew that one), cut in small chunks

12 oz. raw cranberries, rinsed and picked over for bad ones

Mix all ingredients in food processor. Watch carefully so as not to blend into mush.

Add 1 cup sugar or more to taste, but you don’t want it too sweet.

Refrigerate up to five days in an airtight container. Serve at room temperature.

Enjoy. I’ve always thought of this as something you just put a spoonful on your plate and ate along with the turkey, especially leftovers the next day. But I read recently of someone who made it as a sauce to go on pound cake. Now there’s an idea!

But it's not Sunday!

 

Jordan took this picture because when she first looked into the darkened sanctuary, her thought was, “But, Mom, it’s not Sunday.” I was there to take Jacob for acolyte training, and while the organist was explaining the chancel, parts of the service, etc. to Jacob, I sat in a far corner pew. There’s something quite comforting about an empty sanctuary with afternoon light streaming through the stained glass. It hadn’t been a good day, and I sat in the silence and talked to the Lord about that, asked for his help.

Jacob kept this appointment only under threats and duress. He was not going to do it. Couldn’t we just not show up (I said his mom was meeting us and he said he didn’t care) and explain Sunday that he didn’t want to do it. I said no. The organist, who walked him through things, was good with him, and by the time he was robed and handed the whatever-it-is that lights the candles, he was quite enjoying himself. His mom came along, and since acolytes usually work in pairs, she was his partner. They walked up and down the center aisle, climbed the steps to the chancel, lit candles, practiced sitting in the correct seats simultaneously. Jordan’s comment after three trips: “That’s really a long aisle.”

There are strict requirements for an acolyte—hair brushed (his curly mop was wild and adorable after a day at school, but he was headed for a haircut), dress shoes (he had on sneakers), and I presume proper clothing under the robe. Through third grade many kids come to church in shorts and a collared shirt but Jordan says fourth grade is a transition year.

I’m proud of Jacob and of his dad, who is now a deacon in the church. When I was growing up on the South Side of Chicago, church was an important part of my life, particularly my social life. I like to see that tradition carried on.

Epiphany--the Christmas season is done

We celebrated Epiphany tonight, the night that legend tells us the Wise Men arrived at the manger, having followed the Star. It's a wonderful tale--you can see them in your mind, bowing down before the babe, awestruck by his holiness. My church does an annual Boar's Head Festival celebrating both the birth of Christ and the medieval banishment of evil. The arrival of the Wise Men is always one of the most dramatic moments.
In my family, we have a tradition that began who knows where? Probably in the imagination of a neighbor/aunt when I was a child. But I've carried it on with my own children and now with at least one grandchild. Each individual throws a small evergreen branch into the fire and makes a wish. It's done by age, though we couldn't remember if the eldest went first or the youngest. Clearly, there's no question about which is which--I am the eldest, and Jacob is the youngest. I went first, threw my branch too far back, and it didn't light. I was given another twig and it burned, but I really think that's cheating. Of course, you can't tell anyone what your wish was. But I think mine will come true anyway. Of course I'm very curious what Jacob wished but I'll never ask.
We had vegetable soup--easiest group dinner I've ever fixed--but still by the time I set the table, cleaned up from last night, did a laundry, emptied the garbage, made a delicious smoked salmon spread, made the soup, etc., I was exhausted. I woke up tired today and never got over it. Looking forward to an early bedtime tonight. Since this is the tail end of the holiday season, I got out my plaid china (it's red and green) and used green place mats. All festive looking. I'll get my groove back on tomorrow.
Once again, my wish for you is everything you want 2015 to be. I feel in my bones it's going to be a good year--but then I wonder how much damage the Republican Congress can do!