Past Blogs

I believe I hate turkey dressing as the result of a big misunderstanding when I was 4 years old. Seated at my grandmother’s well-laden, lace tablecloth covered table, I spotted a big bowl of brown stuff. “I want that, please,” I said to my mother. “You’re not going to like it, “she replied. I might note that in her entire life, my mother never made a turkey or dressing. “Please,” I begged.

She put a big scoop on my plate, and I was shocked when I tasted it. I was certain the brown stuff with celery was one of my favorite foods – tuna salad. I’ve never recovered from that moment.

Fortunately, my grandmother made mounds of mashed potatoes and schlag laden pumpkin pies. She also had the best salt and pepper shakers in the world, a pair of Nippers, the RCA Victor Dog. I inherited them and still find them charming.

When my grandmother could no longer produce the Thanksgiving feast, I grew up on chop suey or Swiss steak for the big day. Yet, I longed to be like everyone else in America with a big turkey and mashed potatoes. I could simply say, “No dressing, please.”

As a newlywed, I vowed never to have a Thanksgiving sans turkey. Wild rice would be the stuffing. My first excursion into turkey cookery was memorable. Who would imagine someone hiding a plastic bag of neck bones, hearts and gizzards INSIDE a bird? Not me. I roasted them.

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My grandmother was poor, but she had one prized possession, her 150 piece set of Homer Laughlin dishes. Like many women of her era, she set an abundant table with a dish for every purpose. Scores of dishes including two gravy boats, celery plates, and gigantic meat platters proved that the American dream was real.

My mother decided to go modern when she was married in the height of the Depression. She bought Homer Laughlin dinnerware, too, but hers was the radical new Fiesta® Dinnerware (click here) .

How lucky I was to eat every meal of my childhood off those Matisse colored dishes. By the time I was five, I decided that the deep cobalt blue plate was the most prized. If I didn’t get the blue one, then red, green, yellow and white were my favorites in descending order. Perhaps I veered to a career in art because of those paintbox colored plates.

I started marriage with a small set of earth tone dishes. But my dish philosophy took a radical turn one day in a delightful Montreal restaurant. Our family ordered different entrees, and each came on unique dishes. The Asian inspired food graced a Chinese plate. An elegantly flowered plate set off the French entree. And the creamy white pasta arrived on a sleek, black platter.

Not being strapped with 150 matched dishes, I decided then and there to go home and comb the thrift stores for unique plates that matched my cooking.

Like my grandmother, I now have many, many dishes. Unlike my grandmother, I have cupboards full of mismatched plates. I wouldn’t dream of serving mac & ched on white china.

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The other day a friend of mine was venting her rage over the convoluted security rituals we all endure at airports. My only advice was the classic St. Francis line about learning to accept what we cannot change.

On reflection, however, there are a few concrete measures that can improve life in the security line.

The most obvious is, unfortunately, not feasible. Flying in the nude isn’t legal. But I do try to come as close to this ideal as I can. Stripping down to the bare essentials does send a visual message to the authority figures that there is not much left to mess with. In summer I can pare down to only two items of clothing, one being a dress. (Shoes don’t count, because they are coming off.)

Diamonds and jewelry are not a girl’s best friend at the airport. The other day I had the misfortune of being behind a woman who apparently did not know that jewelry aficionados are prime terrorist suspects. It took her three trips through the scanner to locate and cast off all her multiple rings, bracelets and necklaces. She definitely needs a class in bead and string jewelry making.

Other accessories also can make you an instant center of attention. Giant belt buckles and big metal buttons send a person directly to the pat down line as do western style hats, jackets and skirts decorated with metal studs. Metal hair hardware is a real alarm ringer, too.

Shoes deserve special mention. Face it, you will probably have to take them off. Would it be wise to wear those cute, high boots that lace all the way up to your knees? No wonder I see lots of people wearing flip-flops at airports … in the dead of winter. These people aren’t slobs, they are just patriots.

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Most everyone knows that witches are make believe. Those that don’t have created much havoc down through the ages right up to the present day. Poor Harry Potter gets censored, and Halloween parades get cancelled.

Thanks to L. Frank Baum, we know that witches come in two varieties, the wicked ones and the good ones. My favorite wicked witch is from Russian folklore. Her name is Baba Yaga, she has iron teeth and flies in a mortar and pestle. But the best part is her house; it stands on giant chicken feet and can spin around. (click here if you are feeling brave)

If witches were real, there is still nothing to fear. The defense is found in almost every adobe house in our own American Southwest. You simply paint the doors bright blue. Blue doors keep the brujas away.

I’ve spent considerable time being a children’s storyteller, and Halloween stories are among my favorites. But I always preface these storytimes by telling the kids my viewpoint — “I hate really scary stuff. So we will only do fun scary stories.”

One day when reading a silly witch story to a group of youngsters, I discovered a latent talent. I can make the best witch voice in the world. Sadly, I am not bragging – it’s true.

When I switched to my witch voice in the story, one of my storytime kids burst into hysterical sobs and shrieks. The nice storytime lady had turned into a witch! When you’ve got a gift, you must use it with great care.

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I confess to a great fondness for spiders. Spiders are creators of great beauty, and I’m a sucker for visual delights.

The Navajos have a lovely story about Spider Woman who lives under the ground. Changing Woman visits Spider Woman and is taught how to weave, with one condition. Changing Woman must teach other Navajo women the art of weaving. Since Navajo women are some of the greatest weavers in the world, Spider Woman must be pleased.

On certain magical mornings, when the dew covers our meadow and the sunrise is just right, everything in the yard is looped with webs outlined in sparkling drops. That’s when I remember that we live absolutely surrounded by spiders all the time.

The spiders on the outside walls of our house and I carry on a polite ballet. I hate to destroy their gorgeous handiwork. But if I don’t occasionally cleanup, they proceed to “seal” all our outside doors and windows with their lacy webs. After my gentle cleaning, they can spin new orb webs in about an hour.

As I explain to kids in my science classes, spiders don’t chase people. Their venom is for getting lunch. All spider bites are accidents, so it behooves us large-brained mammals not to stick our body parts in dark corners or lonesome woodpiles.

The largest spider I’ve ever met was the size of a teacup. It was curled up taking a daytime nap in a rainforest tree in Costa Rica. This tarantula was definitely not a woman-eater, and I feel privileged to have encountered it.

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