Randy Susan Meyers's Blog, page 22

Rescuing Children With Happiness, Once Again

Being invisible is pretty hard for a kid. Crummy childhoods take many forms and usually it’s an amalgam of yuck. Smacks and screams thankfully have a time limit, but neglect is the evil gift that never stops.

Even the most benign neglect—like being a latchkey kid—can foster loneliness.

When trouble fills a family, kids are pushed to the background. I lived in a land of my own imagining, where I believed my real parents, President Kennedy and Jackie, had left me to fend for myself, testing a ‘cream will rise to the top’ theory. Meanwhile my beleaguered sister, by nine, was trying her sullen best to cook me supper.

If it hadn’t been for the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies I doubt my sister and I could have ended up strong at the broken places. Our mom was a struggling single mother who did her very best. Our dad suffered in ways we’ll never understand, papering his sadness with drugs and dying at thirty-six.

But we had the summer! Through the magical generosity of the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies, we spent our summers at Camp Mikan, our paradise. We entered a bus somewhere in Manhattan’s Lower East Side and came out of the bus blinking in the sunlight and breathing the sweet green air of Harriman State Park. Sunshine! Swimming! Friends!

Visibility!

In memory, it was a Wizard of Oz transition from black and white to color. At camp we went from unnoticed to the coolness of being all summer campers. My sister became a big shot, a member of an envied clique, moving up the ranks of camp hierarchy until eventually she was head of the waterfront (only the coolest job in the world.) I became part of a pack of safely rebellious friends who kept me going through the lonely winters.

We got to be kids

I starred in Guys and Dolls. Jill gathered groupies! We hiked. Canoed.  Short-sheeted counselors. Married head-counselors Frenchy and Danny taught me I could be lovable and through loving them I learned early on that interracial marriage was a non-issue. Luke Bragg taught me to get up on stage and from being with him, through osmosis, I learned gay or straight made no difference.

We got to be kids.

Women ran Mikan. They taught Jill and I that women were strong and loving and firm and trustworthy. They taught us that is was possible to be protected in this world.

 

Back home, we were once again invisible and quiet children cleaning the house, uncomplaining and obedient, waiting for the year to pass so we could again have a childhood. Summer came and once more we could swim, sing, mold clay, hit a ball, learn folkdance (I still dance the mizourlou in my mind) and unclench from being coiled watchers.

Doris Bedell, who ran the camp, shaped our lives more than she’d ever imagine. She loved us, she scolded us, and she made us feel seen. She probably helped my sister become the best teacher in Brooklyn. Her memory stayed with me when I ran a camp and community center in Boston.

Summer can save a kid. One person can offer a child enough hope to hang on. Think about this as we get ready to slide into school vacation.

One adult can change a child’s world.

Remember this.

Think of who you can touch.

Thank you Federation of Jewish Philanthropies. Thank you for my childhood.

 

The above words were written in 2010. Today I am incredibly honored to have been chosen as the Women’s Philanthropy 4th Annual One Book Read of the Greater Boston Combined Jewish Philanthropies. As I ready for the two events held today, I feel a bit shaky. One of the things that happen when your past is a bit off the rails, is that the present never seems quite true. Today I am happy–lucky to have a family I love, work I love, and a love of my life who I love. There’s a whole lot of loving going on. But the isolated girl from above lives on. (Isn’t that always the way?) Today, perhaps for the first time, I feel like I can bring them together. Thank you again, Combined Jewish Philanthropies. 

The Push and Pull of Mothers and Daughters

 

I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven’t loved, and my adoration continued with this book. Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother (retitled for the paperback as For You Mom, Finally) was a deceptively simple snack. (I’m certain that Ms. Reichl, editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)

In her previous books, the author consistently folded her cooking and restaurant reviewing skills into personal memoir—making a mixture with the consistency of magic. Her work has always been fascinating, down-to-earth, and erudite—and always offered the reader fascinating glimpses into the world of food and Ms. Reichl’s own intriguing life, which often included portraits of her sad, unusual, and, to the author, exasperating, mother.

This 110-page gem boils it all down to the author’s mother true story. It is not an apology for what she’s previously written. Or perhaps it is.

Any daughter whose lived her life under the thumb of her mother’s quirks and enraging mothering mistakes will fly through this book, reading of Reichl’s brave attempts to find out the truth of her mother’s life. She writes of living her life on “Mim tales”—a trait with which my sister and I can over-identify, having dined, perhaps too long, on a pathetic treasure trove of Mom stories.

But as I read the author’s unearthing of her mother’s truth (her now-realization of her mother’s eccentricities as representing being crammed into the tiniest of housewifery boxes and the narrowest of work roles) I found it hard to catch my breath, amazed at the author’s courage in uncovering her own perhaps lack of generosity towards her mother, and deeply admiring her ability to now find the heroic in her mother.

Because I was with her every step.

Like Ruth Reichl, I too berate myself for not managing to rise above the role of daughter to my mother, and become a woman and friend to her. However, perhaps when one grows up with a larger-than-life mother, that’s an impossible goal. Maybe only after death severs a relationship that holds us emotionally hostage can we step back and find perspective.

So, thank you Mom for being a role model of friendship, you who offered such a striking portrait of being a loyal companion to so many wonderful women.

 

Thank you Mom for showing such a flair for beauty.

Thank you for showing us the wonder and fun of work.

For laughing very hard. For always appreciating a good story. For your advice on men.  And women.

Yes, you were often right. About many things. I can now consider you a hero, because you lived your life trying very hard. And I know that now.

I miss you. Happy Mother’s Day.

(originally published in 2010)

Give Mom Some Schadenfreude for Mother’s Day!

Two years ago ago, at an event at the incredibly wonderful Reading Public Library (in Reading Massachusetts) one of the librarians bought my second novel book, The Comfort of Lies, for her mother. For Mother’s Day. Using a large amount of not-usually-available-to-me control, I didn’t say any of the following:

“Nothing says Happy Mother’s Day like a cheating, anger, and hating-being-a-mother book!”



In fact, that’s true. Who the heck wants to get Little Women on Mother’s Day? Not me. Does anyone want  to psychically compete with Marmee?

No. I. Don’t.

I want to be feted with a pile of books that say:

Dear Mom,

This book is about a really troubled mother. This is a mother who truly effed up her kids.  This mother is so much worse than you, Mom!!

Love,

Your fairly normal and grateful daughters.

With that in mind, five books that will tell Mom: You are so much better that these mom-characters. We could have been so much more screwed up! These are difficult complex (not necessarily bad, but not exactly who you want to rock you to sleep) mothers in memoirs and novels. These are all books I’ve read and loved. Which probably tells you everything you need to know about me.

  1. We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver

“Eva never really wanted to be a mother—and certainly not the mother of a boy who ends up murdering seven of his fellow high school students, a cafeteria worker, and a much-adored teacher who tried to befriend him, all two days before his sixteenth birthday. Now, two years later, it is time for her to come to terms with marriage, career, family, parenthood, and Kevin’s horrific rampage, in a series of startlingly direct correspondences with her estranged husband, Franklin. Uneasy with the sacrifices and social demotion of motherhood from the start, Eva fears that her alarming dislike for her own son may be responsible for driving him so nihilistically off the rails.”

 2. A Map of The World by Jane Hamilton

“The Goodwins, Howard, Alice, and their little girls, Emma and Claire, live on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. Although suspiciously regarded by their neighbors as “that hippie couple” because of their well-educated, urban background, Howard and Alice believe they have found a source of emotional strength in the farm, he tending the barn while Alice works as a nurse in the local elementary school. But their peaceful life is shattered one day when a neighbor’s two-year-old daughter drowns in the Goodwins’ pond while under Alice’s care. Tormented by the accident, Alice descends even further into darkness when she is accused of sexually abusing of a student at the elementary school. Soon, Alice is arrested, incarcerated, and as good as convicted in the eyes of a suspicious community. As a child, Alice designed her own map of the world to find her bearings. Now, as an adult, she must find her way again, through a maze of lies, doubt and ill will. “

3. Terms of Endearment by Larry McMurty

“Aurora is the kind of woman who makes the whole world orbit around her, including a string of devoted suitors. Widowed and overprotective of her daughter, Aurora adapts at her own pace until life sends two enormous challenges her way: Emma’s hasty marriage and subsequent battle with cancer. Terms of Endearment is the Oscar-winning story of a memorable mother and her feisty daughter and their struggle to find the courage and humor to live through life’s hazards — and to love each other as never before.”

4. Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl

“Tender at the Bone, is the story of a life determined, enhanced, and defined in equal measure by a passion for food, unforgettable people, and the love of tales well told.  Beginning with Reichl’s mother, the notorious food-poisoner known as the Queen of Mold, Reichl introduces us to the fascinating characters who shaped her world and her tastes, from the gourmand Monsieur du Croix, who served Reichl her first soufflé, to those at her politically correct table in Berkeley who championed the organic food revolution in the 1970s.  Spiced with Reichl’s infectious humor and sprinkled with her favorite recipes, Tender at the Bone is a witty and compelling chronicle of a culinary sensualist’s coming-of-age.”

5. The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

“Jeannette Walls grew up with parents whose ideals and stubborn nonconformity were both their curse and their salvation. Rex and Rose Mary Walls had four children. In the beginning, they lived like nomads, moving among Southwest desert towns, camping in the mountains. Rex was a charismatic, brilliant man who, when sober, captured his children’s imagination, teaching them physics, geology, and above all, how to embrace life fearlessly. Rose Mary, who painted and wrote and couldn’t stand the responsibility of providing for her family, called herself an “excitement addict.” Cooking a meal that would be consumed in fifteen minutes had no appeal when she could make a painting that might last forever.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Book I Miss this Week: Ice Bound a Doctor’s Incredible Battle For Survival at the South Pole, by Dr. Jerri Nielson with Maryanne Vollers

(first published in 2009)

In the continuous stream of NPR that is my life, I just learned that Jerri Nielson died of breast cancer. Dr. Nielson wrote a book I’ve read more than once, and that has now become the final solidification of my vow not to lend out well-loved books.

Her book, Ice Bound a Doctor’s Incredible Battle For Survival at the South Pole, co-written with Maryanne Vollers, fit every criteria I have for a great read: engrossing plot (which I remember in more detail than usual, considering I read it years and years ago) writing which flows (just read the first page on Amazon,) gotta-find-outness (for goodness sake, she discovers she has breast cancer while in Antarctica,) and all sorts of juicy subplots (family troubles, check; intriguing setting which is a story in itself, check; side characters who you deeply care about, check; heroics large and small, check, check, check.

Nielson was hired for one year at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station on Antarctica, a place where a year brings one sunrise and one sunset. It remains night for the entire winter; you can’t leave during this weather.  “Winterover” crews are there for the duration, dependent only on each other.

Saying it’s cold is like saying ants are small.

Nielsen must perform a biopsy on herself after finding a lump in her breast. And that is just the beginning of this amazing tale of medical courage and adventure. I’ve already sent for two copies from Amazon—one for me, and one for lending. I know no better way to honor this woman, than by re-reading her memoir.

The best of authors become part of the book family who whom keep you going. They offer solace, fun, interest, company, adventure, insight, escape, and flashes of brilliance. Dr. Jerri Nielson felt like one of those friends. Rest in peace, Jerri.

A Little Santa Baby on the Side

 

Oh, Santa. Baby. I’ve been writing about our tortured love for how many years?

In 2009 I shamelessly pled for you, staying together until finally breaking up in 2012.

In 2013 we acted like friends with benefits.

In 2014 we pretended everything from Thanksgiving to Hanukah to Christmas was one big bacchanal for us.

Then we went to therapy.

I think this might be the year of just having a little on the side (wondering if I should have married a member outside the tribe for the sake of the tree.)

Ah, Santa, sweetheart—you’ve tortured me since childhood. You took the place of my BFF Kathy Murphy (hissing at me when I was 9 years old, “You’ll never get into Heaven, no matter what you do.”

Year in, year out, there I was again, knocking on the pearly gates. (Because that’s what Christmas can look like when you’re child’s nose is pressed up against those gleaming Macy’s windows. Heaven on earth.)

In 2012, my therapist had enough. He told me I’d been whining about my unrequited love for too long. “It’s not him; it’s you,” said Dr. Dreidel. “Enough. Get over it. You want him so bad? Go after him.”

So I celebrated.  I wriggled back into your fuzzy red arms. But really, were you there for me anymore than Redford was truly there for Streisand?

I know, baby. There are many (maybe most) Jewish people who grow up warm and secure in their faith, those for whom the eight days of Hanukah don’t have to compete with Christmas: Jewish nurses and firefighters who take Christmas Eve shifts to ensure that their Christian brethren are home for the holidays. These are the lucky Jews with long standing traditions of Chinese food and a movie on Christmas.

But darlin’, I’ve never been one of them.

There were no Hanukkah (I can’t even figure out how to spell it right) traditions in my house, nothing to fall back on, so I longed for that Rockefeller Center sparkle. My sister and I even hung stockings one year. (What were we thinking? That the keys to the kingdom lay in our old limp socks?) Mom was out on a date; we stayed up as late as possible, until, exhausted, we went to bed giddy with the prospect of what would be spilling out the tops of those socks.

Mom must have thought we’d once again left our dirty clothes around the house, because when we woke, those damn socks were in the hamper.

As a teen, I went out with a similarly disposed Jewish friend and bought a pathetic Charlie Brown tree on Christmas Eve and smuggled it up to her room, decorating it with God knows what. The dangly earrings we’d buy with our baby sitting money? Her mother was not happy.

Other years I spent a Christmas with my best friend’s family, trying to be as adorably Christian as possible, praying they’d invite me back.

Christmas Present

Finally, I left home and gave you up, big guy, for a few blessed too-hip-for-holidays years.

Then I became a mother. Christmas reared its head. I was determined that my children would have a big old piece of the American pie. Why shouldn’t you love us, Santa? We lived with a non-Jewish couple in a rambling Victorian House and I fell into Christmas as though I were Jesus’ sister. Religion played no role for any of us: it was simply an orgy of food, presents, lights, good will, and Christmas stockings so full we needed overflow bags. You were there, Santa baby. (Though there was always a fly in my Christmas pie. Friends, who hadn’t stepped in a church since they were baptized, exclaimed as though I were crashing their personal kingdom: “you celebrate Christmas?”) But I went all out.

The kids got older. Christmas became firmly entrenched, including building our own family heirlooms straight from the Crate & Barrel collection. Still, I felt as though I were crashing Jesus’ birthday party. At a certain point I knew my  Barbra Streisand in “The Way We Were” feeling with you was accurate, Santa. You were my goyishe Robert Redford who I’d never truly possess. You’d hang out with me, for years even, but you’d never really make a commitment.

I’d never get your ring.

The kids got even older. I shrunk Christmas. I got a little standoffish with you. A miniature rosemary tree replaced the light-crusted evergreen. Orgy of presents stayed, but some years I’d name them presents.

But it wasn’t enough, Santa baby. I just couldn’t quit you. I didn’t have the will to spend the entire day at the movies. Chinese food is never enough after years of licking peppermint sticks.

I got those old Santa Blues. I put that weird aluminum tree up again—the one I tell my husband is hung with Stars of David. (Does he sense you hiding in the corner?)

This year the gap of weeks between Hanukah (which, honestly, growing up as I did I can’t even spell right) is huge. We had the brisket, the kugel, the baffling Chrismunakah stockings, knowing half the family would spend December 25 with the Danish side of the family.

Us here at home? I’ll be keeping the faith with confused pagan windows honoring King David, Raggedy Ann, menorahs and orchids.

And in the corner? My personal Secret Santas. Cause despite what they say, someone does keep Santa Baby in the corner.

 

Shop Bookish & Small! Etsy Holiday Presents for Book Lovers

I love shopping small & local, but like you I sometimes I require clicking in my pajamas. Etsy to the rescue—bringing the artist to you. Here’s ten presents for book lovers (but you can take care of everyone at this site & and still shop small.)

1. Solve the mystery of the dirty face with Sherlock soap from TeaSoapBooks

 

2. If you’re gifting a library user, what could be better than a ‘due date’ cuff from Accessoreads to help them remember to get those books back?

3. Carry the books home in this Madeline tote from Sharpshirter.

4.Add some Dinosaur whimsy to their library via KnobCreek Metal Art 5. For the brother who always says “The books was better”—nothing is better than this mug from theabandonedpiano.

 

6. For the child (or light-hearted anyone) ready to make a one-of-a-kind book, this beautiful paper pack from SmithDryGoodsShop.

 

7. And as a reminder for the writer/imbiber in your family, this from getARCHd

8. You  can really show  love with these heart-wrenching bookends from hobbymakers

 

9. Drape the romance of Jane Austen over their shoulders with this wrap from EnjoyTheTraffic:

10. For the long-haired , a book barrette is a necessity, yes? Certainly this one from PINSwithPERSONALITY.

 

Writer Wars, Hierarchy & Can We Get Over Ourselves?

I’ve never been without books since my addiction began at age four and I pray to have a TBR stack until the moment I die. On that heap I want it all: pounding plots, the wow of discovery, the comfort of recognition, and astounding characters. If I’m lucky, some will have all of the above. Whichever book I’m holding, I don’t want to be judged or lauded for it and I don’t want to shelve my books by race, class, or gender.

Tayari Jones, writing to fellow authors about the stratification of literature, said it very well: ‘other writers do not deserve your scorn.’ In the spirit of writer/reader heal thyself; I’m going to work on remembering those words. There’s room for all in the big tent of reading.

At about age ten, I began crafting my library checkouts, hoping I’d look smart. I’d balance my Nancy Drew with a biography of Abraham Lincoln so the librarian thought well of me. (It seems my self-esteem problem enacted early.)

There are times when writers (raising hand) all seem to be versions of that 10-year-0ld me.

Not a month ends, or so it seems, without the battle of literary fiction being weighed against commercial fiction, which might then spit on genre, often with writers feeding on their own. And women’s fiction? Who even knows what it is, right? 

 (above text from Accidents of Marriage) 

Many writers and reviewers deny the claim that newspapers ignore women and non-white writers and unfairly categorize mainstream novels (a topic well-examined by Roxanne MtJoy and Michelle Dean) asserting that they’re simply reviewing superior fiction, which quickly devolves into another fight of literary fiction versus commercial work, which then becomes tainted with the  construct of healthy peas and carrots books versus sinful bad-for-you ice cream reads.

Michelle Dean writes far better than I could on the danger of, as eloquently put by Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s, “The Danger of A Single Story,” noting, “the silencing and devaluing of those voices has consequences, particularly when it tends to happen disproportionately to certain populations.

People ask me to categorize my work, but I can’t. The media has treated me well. I’ve been told I’m everything from commercial to women’s, to literary fiction. (And let’s not forget the all-new “upmarket fiction.”) Trust me, I know when I’m being complimented and when I’m being scorned.

I’ve read Franzen, Haigh, King, and Picoult. I turn to the right, look at my bookcase, and see Ann Patchett, EB Moore, Gail Caldwell, Lola Shoneyin, Julie Klam, Catherine McKenzie, Robin Black, Kim McLarin, Paul Theroux, Elizabeth McCracken, Renee Swindle, Ernessa Carter, People, Poets & Writers, Carleen Brice, Jenna Blum, Ann Bauer, M.J. Rose, Nichole Bernier, Juliette Fay, Charles Dickens, Larry McMurty, Vincent Lam, Liane Moriarty, Julie Wu, Alexander Smith, Bill Roorbach and Saira Shah. (They’re getting along very well, thanks for asking.)

It saddens me seeing writers buy into a class war. Lit looks down on commercial, who look down on genre, who eschew whatever’s lower on the literary food chain.

Some argue that commercial books find their audience, only literature needs reviewing—but how does that answer the male/white tipping of review scales? How does that take into account mid-list graveyards, marketing bonanzas and being hit by the pretty stick? It seems a specious and power-retaining argument. Independent films survive even as reviewers include commercial films in their wheelhouse.

In a time when black writers are shunted to an African-American section, when men are deemed artists and women crafters, when science fiction and thrillers are better covered than woman-identified historical fiction, and romance is relegated to the deepest closet of shame reads, then the commercial-lit divide becomes nastily entwined within a gender and racial writing divide. Coloring this is the character versus plot battle, well described by author Chris Abouzeid in his post, “The Decomposition of Language.”

“Of course, a skilled hand will always make a story more enjoyable.  And if  you can do it in a manner that’s never been done before, all power to you.  But let’s not fool ourselves.  There will be stories told in the clumsiest, most conformist, even trite manner imaginable that will endure longer than most of our beautiful sentences.  There will be tales we’ve heard a hundred times before that will thrill us simply because the circumstances are different, or the characters are new, or the times have changed.  Maybe language will be part of that difference.  But if not, it doesn’t matter.  In the decomposition of literary bodies, words are the first to go.  What’s left is the enduring beauty of story.”

 

 

Last Meal Stuffing

 

Introduction to Stuffing circa a long-time-ago

You know that sick game one plays: “If you were on death row, what would be your

last meal?” Mine would be stuffing. Not just any stuffing. This stuffing. Originally

made by my Grandma Millie, and passed to her daughter-in-law (my mother) to

me, to my sister, and now to my children. And you.

There have been many changes over the years. The original recipe had the now-discontinued Uneeda Biscuits, for which we still mourn. My sister Jill adds garlic (what!).

This is as close as I can come to giving this recipe—as it has always been a trial, error, see-how-it-tastes-raw and then cook-it-when-it’s ready sort of food.

Preheat oven to 350°.

I don’t stuff the bird, but you can. I prefer baked stuffing. As you can see, this is the most casual and forgiving of recipes. Close as I can come to amounts are:

A bag or two of Goya crackers.

A dozen small Bertucci rolls, or 6 large crispy rolls. (Buy ahead and let get stale. Toast in oven if you forgot to make them stale.)

Break crackers and rolls into small (but not teensy) pieces.

Soak crackers and rolls in warmed milk. (Enough to cover, but not overwhelm. You want the milk to soften the carbs, but not drown them.)

Beat about 5-8 eggs (or more, depending on how ‘eggy’ you like your stuffing)

A bag of carrots (or more, depending on your taste), shredded

One or two large onions (or more, depending on your taste)

5-8 stalks of celery (or more, depending on your taste)

1-3 boxes of sliced mushrooms, depending on how much you like mushrooms

Melt lots of butter in largest skillet or sauté pan you have. Add onions, sauté for a bit. Add all other vegetables and sauté until soft. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Squeeze leftover milk from crackers (or add more if they seem too hard). Mix in vegetables and butter. Pat into baking dishes and bake until top seems crunchy (about an hour, sometimes less).

This recipe calls for the ability to play and taste as you mix, sauté, and cook. Uncooked it should be heavy and soggy, but not wet. Baked, it should be crunchy in places, soft in others, buttery, and, if you are a carb lover, you should find it almost impossible to stop eating.

 

 

 

The Year Google (and Goya) Saved Thanksgiving

 

I don’t care how many people shed tears for the good old days, before we were so connected, before life sped before our tapping fingers: Web, thee did save me.

My sister and I may not have grown up rife with traditions–when when Jill and I hung our socks on Christmas eve, the flat unfilled sight of them the next morning may have reminded us that Santa didn’t stop for little Jewish girls–but darn it, we had the stuffing handed down from Grandma Millie. If we were on death row, our last meal would be the stuffing.

You could tweak it (Jill uses garlic, I don’t) but you never messed with the main ingredients: Uneeda Biscuits and stale rolls. The stale rolls might change from year to year—we’re flexible. Recently I’ve discovered that Bertucci’s rolls are perfect and we make sure to stop by the restaurant where our take out order is, um, 2 bags of rolls.

But don’t mess with the Uneeda biscuits.

In recent years, Thanksgiving became a little scary. The weeks before the hallowed meal I became obsessed with finding the suddenly difficult to find blue cardboard crackers boxes decorated with the little boy in the raincoat. Year round, the entire family went on the lookout for these increasingly rare crackers. What was going on with Nabisco?

One year I was able to order them from Amazon. Then not. Finally, I discovered that DeLuca’s Market in the Beacon Hill neighborhood of Boston stocked them (I think for nearby frail ladies in their nineties who crumbled them in their Campbell’s.) For years, I’d drive down and clean them out, sometimes, when only 4 or 5 boxes remained. I’d shudder, knowing how close I’d come to a Uneeda-less year.

A year ago, when we were already dangerously close to Thanksgiving, they seemed to have disappeared. My older daughter swore she’d seen them in a Market Basket in a suburb 40 minutes from our house. My husband and I raced over. We scoured the aisles. I called my daughter—oh, had she forgotten to mention the sighting had been months before? We drove to DeLuca’s, (surely they’d re-stocked) thinking it an auger of success when we found a parking spot in front (a Beacon Hill miracle.)

Nothing.

A wonderful clerk went to the order form.

Nothing. No longer being ordered.

Nauseated by fear, I went home to, of course, Google Uneeda Biscuits. Where I learned, on Chowhound (my new best friend) that it was over. They were gone. Discontinued. Kaput.

But, oh Lordy, it turned out that Grandma Millie’s secret ingredient was known by others. OMG! We were not the only family in America using Uneeda Biscuits for stuffing. We were not the only family in America for whom Uneeda Biscuits were the cure for stomach aches, depression, and holidays.

We were not alone.

But wait; there’s more. The miracle of Thanksgiving unfolded on my screen. Others, secret byte-sized friends, had already attacked the problem: Goya Snack Crackers. They weren’t a clone or a complete match, but, as my savior,Bicycle Chick wrote, they are quite similar in flavor.

She was correct.

We were saved. Because when it comes to keeping tradition alive, sometimes you have to go online.

Happy Thanksgiving to friends of all dimensions.

GRANDMA MILLIE’S (FLEXIBLE) STUFFING

This is as close as I can come to giving this recipe—as it has always been a trial, error, see-how-it-tastes-raw and then cook-it-when-it’s ready sort of food.

Preheat oven to 350°.

I don’t stuff the bird, but you can. I prefer baked stuffing.

Close as I can come to amounts are:

A bag or two of Goya crackers.

A dozen small Bertucci rolls, or 6 large crispy rolls. (Buy ahead and let get stale. Toast in oven if you forgot to make them stale.)

Break crackers and rolls into small (but not teensy) pieces.

Soak crackers and rolls in warmed milk. (Enough to cover, but not overwhelm. You want the milk to soften the carbs, but not drown them.)

Beat about 5-8 eggs (or more, depending on how ‘eggy’ you like your stuffing)

A bag of carrots (or more, depending on your taste), shredded

One or two large onions (or more, depending on your taste)

5-8 stalks of celery (or more, or less, depending on your taste)

1-3 boxes of sliced mushrooms, depending on how much you like mushrooms

Melt lots of butter in largest skillet or sauté pan you have. Add onions, sauté for a bit. Add all other vegetables and sauté until soft. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Squeeze leftover milk from crackers (or add more if they seem too hard). Mix in vegetables and butter. Pat into baking dishes and bake until top seems crunchy (about an hour, sometimes less).

This recipe calls for the ability to play and taste as you mix, sauté, and cook. Uncooked it should be heavy and soggy, but not wet. Baked, it should be crunchy in places, soft in others, buttery, and, if you are a carb lover, you should find it almost impossible to stop eating.

(from the rerun files)

Weaving a Safety Net for Strider & Gallagher Wolf: Let’s All Help

 

“It ’s not known what Justin Roy used to punch a hole in Strider ’ s stomach in December 2011.”

“The life and times of Strider Wolf” Boston Globe, Sarah Schweitzer

Many calamities conspire to push a family off the edge: abuse, illness, accidents or a confluence of all these events.

Strider Wolf underwent three surgeries in four days to repair the torn intestine suffered at the hands of his mother’s boyfriend. His brother Gallagher, 11 months, also suffered, but couldn’t speak. Their grandparents—already using every resource they had to maintain what they had— took them in, but at great costs and with only the slightest help.

Sarah Schweitzer’s article outlines a family working harder than most of us, a family almost drowning in debt and bad luck. With a small effort from the community, these two resilient little boys can have a shot. And then grow up to pay it forward.

Individually we can’t remedy every tragic circumstance, but individually we can each directly help with at least one family.

Read the article. Look at the shorter pictorial or video. Think of what a difference it could make if we raised enough money to pay this family’s rent for a year. To allow them a permanent home and consistent school, rather than a corner of Walmart’s parking lot, just enough breathing space to step away from the edge of the world. To help two little boys and their grandparents get enough security to make a plan for their future.

Give yourself an early holiday present: Write a check for Strider and his brother. Gallagher. Help his grandparents, Larry and Lanette Grant, provide a secure home. Support a future for this family.

Funds can be sent to the address below. The money is going to go for food, shelter, educational expenses, camp, and other expenses at the discretion of the trustee.

Strider Wolf and Gallagher Irrevocable Trust

c/o Sara Wells, Esq.

Morgan, Lewis & Bockius  LLP

One Federal Street

Boston, MA 02110

Thank you Boston Globe, Sarah Schweitzer and Jessica Rinaldi, for continuing to bring the light of the press on our community.

 

 

Photos with permission from Boston Globe // Jessica Rinaldi