Edible Memories

February 9, 2026 / 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

January 25, 2026 / 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.

Along the Borders

November 10, 2025 / Lisa / Leave a comment

The wonderful book Once Upon a River, by Diane Setterfield, opens with the lines ‘Along the borders of this world lie others. There are places you can cross. This is one such place.’ As soon as I read that opening I knew I would love the book. It’s an amazing story that is a mystery, a fairytale in some ways, and an homage to storytelling all wrapped up together.

I also love this concept of thin borders and other worlds and it’s been growing in me for a while. It’s becoming clear that this is what I want to write, and have leaned toward in This Deep Panic and Otherkin.

*A growth on the tree or a forest creature?*

I love also the question of what is real and what is not – and if not, who says so? Who has the right to say what is real and what is not? I’m not talking science here, obviously, as proof of what is real. I’m talking about myth.

Times change, our understanding of the world changes, and legends change, but at one point in time, that story was very real to the people who lived it.

I also am intrigued by the idea that our hearing and sight only make up a tiny spectrum of sound and seeing. The theory is that this means there is much more around us than what we are aware of. So, again, if someone sees or hears something not there, who are we to say it’s really not there?

Is your imagination starting to take off right now?

I want to write stories that look at those questions but I’m not sure how to go about it. I don’t yet have a story structure that supports the idea and I’m not a good enough writer to accomplish this. Yet.

But, wow, so many stories could come, and have come, from those questions of what is real and what isn’t, what is true, what was true, and why it’s no longer true.

I’m reading a book right now called The Lace Reader and it’s a mystery but also takes what you believe about the story and turns it upside down by the end. So many books do that, especially mysteries, and I don’t normally like to be tricked by the author. I dislike that whole ‘it was only a dream’ style of ending something. The Lace Reader is more subtle than that but that kind of misleading the reader isn’t what I mean here by asking what is real and what isn’t.