Happy Thanksgiving!

I am in the midst of baking pies now, both pumpkin and pecan.  It is the usual thing I do for Thanksgiving; time was, my mother-in-law made the pies, and her mother would come over at some time during the year to make the pie crust.  But Grandma Brown passed on, and so I ended up making the pies, as I learned how to make decent pie crust at Federal Way United Methodist Church during their pie baking sessions for their yearly bake sale at our Holiday Faire. 

The pecan pie recipe has been handed down from generation to generation in the Brown family, and their roots go back to at least the early 1700s in Maryland, around Harbaugh Valley in the Sabillasville and Thurmont area. I suspect the recipe goes back that far, with modern modifications (yes, Karo syrup is one ingredient, which I believe was created around 1900 or so).  I am willing to bet, though, that the recipe was originally made with maple syrup, or some kind of cane sugar syrup. I will have to try that kind one of these years. The Karo syrup version that I have was Grandma Brown's recipe, and her mother's recipe before that. I wonder if Grandma Brown's grandmother made the pecan pie with maple syrup or cane sugar syrup?  I understand there are recipes where it's just sugar and eggs, too.

The pumpkin pie filling recipe is from a Quaker cookbook given to me by a friend, Genny, for my birthday, the year I was married.  It's called "Quaker Flavors" and was put together by the Willistown Friends Meeting, Goshen Road, Chester County, Pennsylvania.  It's well-worn and has spots on it from accidentally spilling things on it, as it is full of hearty and "down-home" recipes that can easily be favorites for any American family. I have modified the pumpkin pie recipe a bit, because I use the puree from the cooked Halloween pumpkins we put out each year (don't worry--the pumpkins were well washed and sanitary before I cut them up and cooked them). Yes, it's totally from scratch.  Because the pumpkin puree tends to be more liquid than paste, I put nonfat dry milk in it so that it isn't runny and cooks well.  One of these days I will experiment with different ways of cooking the pumpkin so that it's more of a paste than a puree.

I haven't modified the pecan pie recipe at all, as it's something that's been handed down, and it's tried and true. Why mess with perfection?  However, the pumpkin pie recipe has been through more than a few modifications, because of making it from pumpkins instead of puree in a can. One of these days, I'm going to write down the process and the recipe.

When I thought about how these recipes came to be, I used to wonder whether I would be able to pass them down to younger folk in my family. I am happy to say that my son has turned out to be a very good cook, so he is capable of doing it, but when he became engaged to Amy, I found out she makes perfect pie crusts.  So, when the time comes, I will be able to pass down these recipes to Derek and Amy, and know that the Brown and Harbaugh recipes will continue to their generation.  There are other recipes I have had from my mother-in-law June (chicken pot pie, wilted lettuce salad, cole slaw), that I will have to bring out.  

June has dementia now, unfortunately, and no longer cooks or bakes.  I am sure there are recipes that she has that I haven't heard of or experienced.  I think tonight, when we go to the elder Harbaughs' house tonight, I will ask John senior if I can look over her recipes, and perhaps take them home.  It would be sad if those treasured recipes were lost.  I'll like to try them out, and I'm sure that Derek and Amy would like to try them out as well, since they like cooking together.

There is a feeling of goodness and abundance in having old family recipes to cook and pass on from one generation to another.  It is a loving tradition, I think, one that has so much love and care and nurturing in it.

May you all have such traditions, old as well as creating new ones, that will tell generations hence that there was care and nurturing here, passed down in love.

How My Mother Came to Love Opera

I spontaneously wrote this story on Facebook, and because people seemed to like it a lot, I thought I'd make it more "permanent" here on my blog. I wondered whether I should put it on my writing blog (Playing With Words) or my Pollyanna Files blog, but decided on the Pollyanna Files because it's less business and more to do with life.  I've fixed it a bit, because hey, I'm a writer and I will tweak words forever if I had the chance. Anyway, here it is:

Between work and other stuff, I haven't written a whole story in a long time. But because I have a little bit of time, I am going to write a story here, right now on Facebook. It is a true story, one that really happened.

It is about how my mother came to love opera.

In about 1939 or so, when my mother was in elementary school in the town of Sasebo, the children were called into the assembly hall to listen to announcements from the Japanese government. The country was engaged in war, and was very nationalistic, and had decided to reject anything that was not Japanese, and of course this meant anything Western. This included books, magazines, music, and art. It was to begin the next day.

The music teacher, a lovely young woman with a classically-trained soprano voice, then announced--with the principal's agreement--that she would sing everything that she knew and loved.

The teacher began to sing all the opera she had memorized. She sang Puccini and Wagner, she sang Donizetti, Bizet, and Mozart. It was the most beautiful thing my mother had ever heard. She felt that heaven had entered through her ears.

After it was all done--hours that seemed like minutes to my mother--the teacher fell silent. All the children broke out in cheers and applause, but my mother noticed that all the adults--the teachers, the principal, and the parents--were weeping. She could not understand why the adults cried over such beautiful music.

After that day, the teacher never sang opera again. My mother did not hear that glorious music in all the years of World War II. She did not know what happened to that teacher during the course of the war, whether she lived or died.

But through all the deprivations, deaths, and starvation during and just after the war, my mother remembered that music, the beauty of it. She told herself over and over again that one day, she would hear it again, no matter what.

And so it happened. Many years later, when my father was stationed in Japan during the Korean War, my mother met and married him. When she came to the U.S., understanding that this was indeed the West, and therefore must have Western music, she heard it on the radio, and once we got a record player, she bought it. Maria Callas, Mario Lanza, all the greats.

As a result, I grew up listening to opera, and when I asked my mother why she loved it so, she told me.

And now, I am telling you.

What if there was a structural engineering reality show?

I am learning new words at the day job: eigenfrequency, eigenmode, and eigen response. Or trying to, because these have to do with vibrations and linear algebra.  Vibrations, I can understand. Linear algebra, not so much. 

Structural engineering. So exciting. Mmm hmm.

Actually, I was chatting with the hubby during lunch, and we were discussing a potential reality show, maybe entitled, "Breaking Bridge," or better, "Erection America" (attention-getting title, yes?)  featuring the trials and tribulations of a structural engineering company. You could have these engineers go onsite to inspect construction, or dive under water to analyze structures, and there are those problems that inevitably come up when some contractor or other has a problem with the design or vice versa.

And of course there are such dramatic events as an engineer inspecting a bridge that needs repair, only to report back to the local city council that it’s in danger of collapsing and has to be closed NOW (cue dire near-death music, interview with city council members on how they had no idea, and how scary it is that citizens were THAT close to DEATH).

Suspense is added when environmentalists threaten protests because the river has salmon spawing in it, and disgruntled commuters complain about the increased traffic, so heroic engineers have build everything FAST in a small window of time so as not to further endanger this species, while trying to make the bridge as safe as possible for the disgruntled commuters.

And then a new bridge is built, with a separate pedestrian/bicycle bridge.  There would be interviews with local citizens who say they absolutely love the new bridge. Show children bicycling happily across the new bicycle/pedestrian bridge, pedestrians pointing out the happy salmon spawning below, with parade of cars honking cheerfully in the Grand Opening Parade over the new bridge. (Cue relieved and happy citizen music.)

It would so work.

It could go on the same network as “Ice Road Truckers,” “Axe Men,” and “American Restoration.”  I think that’s the History channel.

Right?  Right?

Fabric, yarn, and ghosts

Yesterday, I went with my mom and my sister-in-law Margaret to the Sewing and Stitchery Expo in Puyallup, WA. We always go every year, as Mom is one of the Clothing and Textiles Advisors (CTA--which for some reason makes me think of something like "counter-terrorism agency") who help organize the event.  If you're a fiber artist, into sewing or knitting, this is the place to be.  There are tons of helpful workshops and an abundance of vendors selling every type of fabric, yarn, notions, and machines to fill a crafter's heart with joy. People from all over the country and even out of the country come to this expo. 

I went in thinking I'd not buy anything, or if anything, just one item.  Foolish, foolish me! I came away with a skein of furry yarn (to go with some yarn I already have, so as to make a fancy shrug), 8 oz of alpaca fiber (from Longbranch Fiber Farm, which has VERY soft alpaca fleece, and almost NO guardhairs), and a pair of lovely fine silk scarves from Leilani Arts. I could not believe it, but those scarves--quite large--were only $10 each!  What a deal! They also had some very, very tempting Merino Irish Donegal Tweed yarn (actually made in Ireland), worsted weight, two skeins of which would have been perfect for the shawls I've been obsessively making, but I refrained, as I have yarn I need to go through first for those projects. Yes, I was strong, strong, I tell you! Because those skeins were very lovely and so, so soft, and at a very decent price. 

Margaret was about as foolish as I was, for she also had vowed not to buy anything, but of course came away with some to-die-for cute vintage embroidery patterns, and then she got stuck somehow looking at more vintage goods, as well as buying SOMETHING (which I will not reveal, because she is making it for a certain SOMEONE who may read my blog) that I am sure that SOMEONE will like a great deal.

As for quilters...well, if you have not gone to the expo, this is quilter heaven. The fat quarters were plentiful and diverse, and the displays of quilts were glorious.

I was happy to see Maker's Mercantile at the Expo, which is the brand new retail shop that features the famous Skacel Collection (of the fabulous Addi Turbo needles and other fine notions and scrumptious yarn).  I had noticed this shop on my way back from shopping at the Uwajimaya's Renton store, and of course had to stop in because, hello, YARN. It also has RylieCakes within the shop, which is a gluten-free cafe full of lovely gluten-free pastries. AND they have a place where you can sit and knit! What can be better than noshing down deliciousness while knitting and chatting?

Mom, who is 81, seemed tireless as we walked through two buildings for a good 5 hours.  I noticed that she hardly used her cane at all.  What's up with that?  She'd fallen a few times this year, which has caused my brothers and me a great deal of concern.  But here, she hardly showed any signs of fatigue, except once when she wanted to sit down for a few minutes before she was up and about again.  Either her physical therapy is showing good results, or it is a testament to the healing power of fiber arts.  She was in particular pursuit of an iron, but we didn't find one that suited her needs at the time, possibly because she decided to look for one near the end of our stay, and only looked in one building. We did get separated from time to time in our quest for Mom's iron, but thank goodness for cell phones. 

And now we come to the ghost. After all this fabric and fiber glory, it was close to 5 pm, so we decided to go to a very nice Japanese restaurant in the heart of the old part of Tacoma. We managed to escape to our cars between rain showers--it was quite cloudy and rainy--and drove a few minutes to the place.  Fujiya resides at the top of an old building, which--if I recall its history correctly--still has the original stained glass at the top of its windows that face the street below. 

We were one of the first to arrive after the restaurant opened for the evening, and so the waitress said we could sit where we wanted. Margaret immediately made a bee-line for the booth in one corner, saying it looked like a sunny place to sit.  I was momentarily taken aback by this, because the clouds hadn't parted, and there was no sunshine beaming down on that particular booth, not that I could see.  But I went with it, because we could see down to the street below. 

We went through our menu, while the waitress brought our nicely large pot of green tea and poured it into our cups. But while I was sipping my tea, a sudden movement caught my eye--it was the teapot!  It had slid a definite two inches to the side.  I pushed it away from the edge of the table.  Perhaps I was seeing things.  I went back to my menu, watching the pot out of the corner of my eyes.  It moved again!

"Did you see that?" I asked Mom and Margaret.  "The teapot moved--by itself."

Mom said, "I thought you were pushing it."

"No, I wasn't!"  It moved again.  "There, see?"  I had both my hands on the menu, so there was no way I could have moved it.

"Oh, that's weird," Margaret said, laughing.  "Maybe it's a ghost."

I thought about it a minute--surely there was a rational explanation for it.  I noticed that the table was wet.  Perhaps that was it.  I took my napkin and lifted the teapot--still pretty full, even after the waitress had poured the tea--and wiped the table and the bottom of the teapot until it was totally dry.  I felt it to make sure.  I set the pot down again.

"Okay," I said.  "Let's see if it moves."

We went back to our menus again, but it was obvious that we weren't focused on ordering yet--we were watching the teapot.

It moved again, this time a shorter distance, maybe an inch.  Was the table vibrating from something, enough to cause it to move?  Was there something under the table, maybe some magnet, that was pushing it around?  I felt the surface of the table, and under it.  No vibration, nothing. There was no draft of air going through our corner--the air was still.

The waitress came back again to take our orders.  The teapot moved again.  

"Did you see that?  The teapot moving?" I said.

She grinned.  "Oh, I see you've met our poltergeist.  Yeah, he or she keeps moving the teapot at this booth, and sometimes the one next to it.  It's always the teapots, never the water glasses or the sake bottles."

"Are you serious?" Margaret said.

"This is an old building," the waitress said.  "A lot of buildings in old Tacoma are, and we've experienced more than a few things like this.  The Swiss Hall?  You go there and sometimes you hear some old music playing, even when there's nobody else there--you know, polkas and stuff like that." She nodded at the teapot.  "This one is all right. Sometimes I think it just wants to help pour the tea." She opened the top of the teapot and looked in.  "Thanks for helping," she said to the teapot, and laughed. 

We talked some more about the ghost, and she mentioned that she was careful about telling people about the ghost, especially children, because she didn't want to scare them.  Her own young son had experienced the teapot moving, so she told him that it was because she was magic, which he was very ready to believe, because aren't mothers magic to very young children?  She didn't mind telling us about the resident ghost, because it was clear we weren't worried about it.

We ordered our dinner then, and I kept an eye on the pot.  It didn't just move in one direction, but around.  Oddly, it moved when it was full, and never when it was empty or close to empty. I would have thought that it would have moved more easily had it been empty, but it didn't at all.

When our meal came, we dug in and ignored the moving teapot, and after a while it stopped moving.  The food was delicious, and Endo--the owner/chef--sent out a complementary appetizer, which he did the last time I had been to this restaurant.  Margaret had some grilled fish, and I had a combo sushi plate, and Mom chose from the a la carte sushi menu.  So good!

Just before we left, I gave a nod to the teapot and said, "thanks for making our meal memorable."  It gave one last jiggle before the waitress came to take it and our dishes away.  I like to think it was the ghost's way of saying "you're welcome."  :-D

Harbaugh vs. Harbaugh

My dear husband and I are just fine, thank you.  However, he is all over this Harbaugh vs. Harbaugh Super Bowl that people are calling the "Harbowl."  Why?

1.  At last, people will know how to pronounce "Harbaugh," at least the ones who will be watching the Super Bowl.

2.  As a fan of history, he considers this the culmination of all the major conflicts in which the Harbaughs have participated in the history of the United States:  "Harbaughs have fought with honor for the Revolutionary War.*  We have fought in the Civil War.**  We have fought in World War II.***  Now, we are bringing the fight to the Super Bowl!"

3.  As a result, he is very conscious of how momentous this event is in Harbaugh history, yea, even unto the whole country:  "YES! For the first time in football history, two brothers are major league football coaches. For the first time IN THE HISTORY OF THE KNOWN UNIVERSE two HARBAUGHS are going head-to-head at the SUPER BOWL! BRING IT!!!!!!"

Oh yeah.  I am SO looking forward to February 3.  Uh huh.

-----
*John Harbaugh, magistrate, York County, Pennsylvania, 1777; Christian Thomas Harbaugh, Frederick County Militia, 1779.
**The Civil War Journal of Horace Harbaugh
***William Henry Harbaugh, PhD; Professor Emeritus at the University of Virginia; Captain of Battery “A”, 62nd AAA Gun Battalion under Gen. George Patton and Gen. Patch.