Vivid Living

I’m still at Goucher College, nearing the end of my residency, which begins the two-year MFA program in creative non-fiction.

No, this post isn’t about the surprisingly good dorm food or my own desire to head to the kitchen and whip up salmon almondine.

It’s about humility.

I’ve been feeling it since my arrival here partly because of the newness of the experience, and partly because of all the talent surrounding me. My fellow students include Pulitzer nominees, newspaper editors, Supreme Court correspondents, college English professors, and already published authors.

Admittedly, the company of my peers feels a bit daunting.  And yet, like the game of tennis, your skills only improve when playing better opponents. I don’t play tennis anymore, but I’ve tried to keep this example in mind when talking to my new contemporaries.  Serve. Volley. Deuce.

In a lecture this morning by Tom French, one of my Very Accomplished teachers and author of the just released Zoo Story: Life in the Garden of Captives, we learned that life at its truest moments occur in the kitchen – not at the dining room table where the party is taking place and the guests exhibit their best behavior. The comments were made in the context of reporting a story, drawing specifically upon techniques used by Nelle Harper Lee and her close friend, Truman Capote, while gathering research for Capote’s In Cold Blood. In order to capture the vivid details about Kansas, Lee ingratiated herself among the community, insisting people call her by her first name and asking, “Can I help you in the kitchen?” She wanted to observe all the background conversations, colors, tastes and textures to round out her understanding – those telling humble details – for the story.

It’s true in writing. It’s true in life. Humility is how you win the game.

My new job is shaking things up a bit in our household. Working from home has been a godsend to me these past several years for the obvious reason:  flexibility and control over my schedule.   As a single mom until recently, it meant the world to my children (and me) that I was there to pick them up from school and volunteer in their classrooms mid-day.  My twins have wanted to sit alongside me while doing homework and to be able to hear and watch and help me cook dinner.  And I’ve loved these rituals, too.  The safety of their world fell apart after their dad died in 2004 but my steady presence bolstered their security, confidence and sense of belonging.

I still want to do all that I used to, but I can’t since now I have to be elsewhere.  Because I remarried a year ago  and have a willing partner, Steve picks the kids up from school on my work days.  Last week my son, Casey, accidentally tripped over the garbage can and dropped part of his lunch inside (don’t ask) and the teacher called Steve not me.  This is a first.  It’s also a first to have a partner stock up on groceries and make dinner twice weekly. I should clarify that Steve’s current job is getting a job, so that’s why he’s around to make dinner and for school emergencies like spilt lunches.

All this, of course, is good news, particularly the part about my having a steady, long-term assignment.  And yet, it’s been surprisingly hard for me to give up the old ways.  When I see Steve in the kitchen, there’s a part of me that feels he’s “invading my turf.”  No, he’s not pining to replace the marvelous Ina Garten and her Barefoot Contessa empire, and no, I don’t feel displaced. It’s just that letting go of these roles that framed my identity for eight years is taking some getting used to. 

But I’m learning.  I’m learning that I can still be a steady presence for my twins without needing to be physically present all the time.  I’m learning that I really like working offsite even if my daughter, Rebecca, self-combusts because I can’t attend her school picnic.  She’s a survivor and it’s actually essential for her to see her mother meeting other responsibilities. I’m learning to trust that my twins are in a fantastic place: they’re happy and well-adjusted and for the first time in their young lives they actually have a dad to “show off” at school.  Speaking of my new hubby, I’m learning that it’s really okay if he buys tomatoes that aren’t quite ripe.  I’m learning that marriage is a partnership in every way. 

What new waters are you dipping your toes into?

My friend, Sarah, recently lost her 95-year-old grandmother, a mite of a woman in terms of size but giant in spirit and determination.

Grandma Kimi, a Japanese American, survived the Great Depression, internment at the Manzanar camp during World War II, and later, her husband’s suicide. Kimi was an enormous presence  – a life force – for Sarah and her family, and Sarah is naturally reeling from her death.  I, too, lost a beloved grandmother, Casey, five years ago at age 96, and I think a lot about the eventual death of my remaining grandma, Mrytle, who’s 93 and in the final, ugly stages of Alzheimer’s, or so I hope. 

Living into your 90’s is an incredible feat.  Good genes? Luck?  My guess is probably a bit of both.  My first husband, Brett, died of a brain tumor at the age of 39 so trust me when I say, “living a ripe old age is a fine, fine thing.”  While Brett’s death was a tragedy and remains very different, the loss of older loved ones still leaves deep pangs of grief.  We don’t miss those we love any less because they die later in life. In fact, I’d argue that in a sense, we miss them more because we can’t help but see our lives and histories reflected in theirs.

Time is the great healer, for sure.  So, too, is the power and sweetness of memory.   I think about my grandmothers all the time – but always alive and vital.  I can still taste Grandma Casey’s crispy chicken wings and picture her masterfully slicing, dicing, and fanning vegetables.  Had she lived, she might have been dubbed “Iron Sous Chef” by the Food network.  And Grandma Myrtle … it’s awful to see this classy lady reduced to diapers and utterly removed from reality.  So I try not to.  Myrtie can no longer form words and understand language, but I still picture her staying up half the night reading.  She’d plow through six books a week in earlier days.  She doesn’t hum anymore either; yet I hear her clear as a bell singing dah dah dah, dah dah dah, dah dah dah.  I wish I held onto her gold lame slippers, but I wore them threadbare.

What I’ve discovered is that sharing stories and traditions, even recipes, allows lost loved ones to endure.

I’ve just opened my Grandma Casey’s recipe box, lovingly written in her own exquisite hand.  Here’s her recipe for strudel:

2 cups flour

½ pound oleo or shortening or butter

1 egg yolk

¾ cup sour cream

Mix well and knead into three balls.  Refrigerate overnight.  Roll dough into three thin sheets – spread coconut, raspberry jelly, chopped nuts, raisins, and cinnamon.  Roll into long strudel.  Spread milk on top.  Bake 375 degrees about 45 minutes or until done.  Cut into pieces and serve.

Enjoy.  That’s my ode to grandmothers loved.  Grandma Casey would approve.