Edible Memories

/ Lisa / Leave a comment

I came across a question yesterday asking what food, taste, or scent immediately transports you to a place, or a memory, or a person.

Well, that’s an easy one. The harder part is limiting the response so it doesn’t become a novel.

Let’s see. There was dad’s god-awful bologna roast that he was so very proud of. A huge chunk of bologna that he would stuff with peppercorns and then put on a cookie sheet in the oven and roast. It was a dangerous thing to eat, not only because of the massive amount of grease, but the peppercorns that could break a tooth. I’m sure it was also dangerous to cook because of all the fat. Dad loved it.

Then there was dad’s other masterpiece which was fried pork chops with a can of pork and beans poured over the top.

Of course, the dinner that caused PTSD in my younger sister: mom’s liver and onions.

Oh, mom’s ‘goulash’ which we all loved. When the ketchup bottle was getting low enough that only an inch or two of ketchup remained, we could anticipate goulash. She’d add water to the bottle, shake it up, pour it over hamburger, add elbow macaroni, and there you were. Goulash. Add some cheese and it was a cheap gourmet meal for five kids.

I’m sure you can see why my husband cooks our dinners.

Aunty, on the other hand, spoiled us kids. Layered fruit jello with the corresponding fruit added, so you had a rainbow in a bowl. Little Nilla Wafers carefully frosted and with sprinkles. A huge platter of fried chicken with a corresponding smaller plate of fried smelt in case there wasn’t enough chicken to go around. Smelt. Their little eyes watched you while you ate. There was always enough chicken.

I once attempted to make homemade Hollandaise sauce. I curdled the eggs and the butter separated and it was like grease. Dad, needless to say, loved it.

Luckily, I have Art. Smoked brisket and fantastic lasagna with spinach and herbs. Stromboli and gumbo, Cajun potato salad and fish. Barbecue and prime rib.

Then there’s my sister who is vegetarian and makes the best zucchini boats with rice and herbs. And buckwheat pancakes. And her steelhead with molasses and soy sauce and spices.

Would I love buckwheat pancakes or lasagna if they were made by anyone else? Probably, but they definitely wouldn’t be as good. It’s obviously the cook, the home, the company, the sense of love, and the memories that make everything taste to much better.

Except for bologna roast. I loved my dad, I cherish memories of him, but really, that stuff was just horrible.

A Cold Luminary

/ Lisa / 3 Comments

Last night was the annual gathering in the little town I used to live in. I’ve written about this event before, but here’s a bit of background first, for those who are new.

Back in 2018, a young man by the name of Sam Grafton died. If you would like to see a small glimpse of who he was, go to YouTube and watch a video called ‘Tumwater Solitude’. Obviously it was a horrible time for family, but something wonderful happened that is a testament to a tiny town and the people who live there.

The first anniversary, people gathered and lit luminaries, setting the candles all along the bridge and streets and around his memorial bench. There was no set program, just an evening of walking among the candlelight and friends.

Since then, it’s become a regular gathering, but it has grown. It’s a gathering to remember all those we have lost over the previous year, to remember those we’ve loved, those we miss, and those we grieve for.

Yet at the same time, it’s a time to laugh and catch up, to visit with people we may not have seen in too long, to enjoy the sound of the whitewater river, the view of mountains and forest, and to simply wander around the town. It’s a community gathering, and yes, there is sadness in our memories and our loss, there is also a lot of laughter and hugs. There may, or may not, be a story floating around involving a golf car with a dying battery doing extremely slow donuts in an intersection one year being loudly cheered on by locals.

This year, it was thirty degrees (F). Cold. Really cold. Frosty and clear and a sickle moon so stars were out. I think my new hearing aids froze because they sure didn’t want to come out when I got home. Everyone was bundled up, and the evening probably didn’t go on as long as normal. I know I lasted an hour and didn’t ride in any golf carts.

Not to sound corny or anything, but my soul was warm when I left. Isn’t this what community should be? I’m not saying this little town is perfect. There are always conflicts and drama. But when people come together it brings home to me what is lacking in so many places.

After too many news stories, too much exposure to all the awful things in the world, I needed to go out into a chilly night, breathe in fresh air, hug friends, rest by the candlelight, laugh with those I love, and remember.

Thank you, Sam.

A Quiet World

/ Lisa / 9 Comments

I’m in that fallow period between writing projects. Waiting for Otherkin to move through the publication process and waiting for a new story to come to me. It’s like the winter season, quiet and dormant, cozy and gestating.

In the meantime I’ve made a few discoveries relating to hearing.

Several years ago I lost hearing in one ear. Three little bones that should vibrate, calcified. Surgery replaced them with an implant that didn’t work. More recently, my ‘good’ ear has been getting worse. So I gave in, got a referral, and found out just how bad my hearing actually was.

I didn’t realize how much hearing was related to context. When face to face with someone, in a conversation, able to watch faces, you can anticipate what the words are going to be. But when you’re in a little room alone with headphones on and a specialist speaking random words with no context, it’s a completely different matter. I couldn’t figure out any of the words. After a series of interesting tests, I left with a graph that showed where normal hearing was, and where mine was, way, way, way down at the bottom. I also left with an appointment to come back and be fitted with hearing aids. When my husband saw the graph, his response was ‘Sh**, you can’t hear f**k all’. Succinct and true.

This past week has been the trial, and I’m not adjusting well. The hearing aids are extremely painful, there’s a loud echo to everything, an odd high-pitched regular beeping like a miniature car alarm in my head, and, of course, noise. Most of this will be adjusted at the next appointment.

In the meantime, I’m startled by noise. Birds! So many birds. The squeak of the floorboards. The sound of traffic. It took me way too long driving home to realize the odd breathing sound I heard was cars passing going the other direction. Conversations and clanking and voices of strangers. It all sounds so exaggerated.

It’s made me realize how quiet my world has been. How muffled. I can no longer hear my own heartbeat. I’m no longer cocooned. Which has made me realize I’m not sure I want to be in a noisy world.

Hearing aids are going to be fantastic at work and out in public where acoustics make it impossible to pick out individual voices. I can see other benefits, too, such as the fact that music will play directly into my hearing aids and no one will know.

I find myself using the pain though, as an excuse to take them out. To return to that quiet place with just my heartbeat. I might choose to only wear them at work.

There’s something to be said for quiet, for the ability to remove hearing and step away from the noise. I suppose that’s why people use ear plugs, putting something in, to find quiet, rather than taking something out to prevent sound.

Though I think my husband just said something. He hasn’t realized I took the hearing aids out. This might actually end up being fun. Either way, it will be an interesting learning curve.