Mom would call this Meatloaf Weather. Frigidly cold, snowy, with no end in sight. Here’s her recipe, which she sent to me shortly after Gary and I married. I don’t know the story behind the name – could it be her mother’s recipe? Or, more probably, it’s a combination of recipes from friends, relatives, Dad’s feedback, and the back of the oatmeal container. Momma’s Meatloaf 1 lb. (or more) ground beef3/4 to 1 cup quick oatsonion (optional)2 eggs, beaten2 Tablespoons…
When I came across this story in Mom’s archives, I thought of Dad, and wondered if there were any photos of him that might be appropriate to use for illustrations. Then I saw the dedication, and knew it was meant to be. To Hapaffectionately and accuratelyknown in the family as“The Midnight Mouse” And here’s that mouse’s tale: The Pie Sitter There was a man once hired to be a pie sitter. This man was a poor choice because he had…
It’s been sitting on a shelf in our house’s only walk-in closet. Ah, priorities. Family archives are far more important than clothes and shoes. When Gary and I packed up Mom and Dad’s kitchen in 2021, most of the cookbooks went to Becky, Dave’s culinary daughter supreme. But one cookbook I remembered well from childhood. It was in a large ziploc bag, as the cover was no longer attached. That one, I took home. Dad had filled me in that…
What an enchanting name: Marie Antoinette Dansereau. Dad’s great-uncle Franklin Paul Vayo married her on June 4, 1904. Now before anyone gets all silly with a “let them eat wedding cake” meme, let me point out the phrase was first quoted long before the future bride of Louis XVI had even set her dainty foot on French soil. But as long as we’re talking about eating, it feels like poetic justice that Franklin (henceforth referred to as Frank) made a…
Here’s a poem Mom wrote about grandson Andy while he was in college. It made me think of her love for all her grandchildren. Seven in total, there was surely a balancing act to keep track of all the birthdays, accomplishments, favorite ice creams, secrets. Sharing a birthday – April 6 – with Andy, though. Now that’s a balancing act! Balancing Act Now the first fruit fallswhere last July our grandson Andysat under the apple treetelling of college classes old…
Growing up, Thanksgiving was over the top. Turkeys weighed in at 25 or so pounds, and leftovers nearly burst the doors off the fridge. One year, I think it was 1976, Mom and I got the fancy idea to make chestnut stuffing for the turkey. I wish I could remember where we’d heard “chestnut stuffing” mentioned … in a book? A song? Either way, we decided it would be a fun mother-daughter project for Thanksgiving. I know it was not…
Did you ever enter a contest as a kid? Long ago, many brands aimed at kids used national write-in contests to promote their products. All you needed was a boxtop or two. Plus an envelope and a stamp. A first-class stamp cost three cents back in 1940. Sometimes it was just a matter of mailing in a coupon and then watching your mailbox for a free comic book (or, if you remember Ralphie from A Christmas Story, a secret decoder…
How far back can you remember? My earliest memories (as told here) involve brother Dave dropping eggs on the floor, and the arrival of my first feather pillow. As of a few weeks ago, I can piece together a third: My first taste of maple sugar candy. This memory’s missing piece surfaced in December, as an early gift, when I found this: Oh, boy! Dad and Mom were planning a getaway to Vermont! Back in 1961, there were no websites…
Isn’t it amazing how a sound, a smell, or a taste can spark a memory from long ago? Mom was 68 years old when she wrote this poem. Green olives, it seems, didn’t just awaken her taste buds, they ignited a spark that took her thoughts happily back many decades. Study Alone with olivesfour on a gold plateI think of sun and trees and comfortand my Aunt Maywho loved them They make me laughtouting their red tonguesfor teasing tastingour Harry…
“Oh, boy! Stinky cheese!” Dad sure knew how to clear a room. He was crazy about pungent cheese and all the drama his eating it entailed. Maybe it was the Frenchy-Frenchman side of him? We kids would run for cover while he all but inhaled chunks of Camembert, Munster, and Feta. Phew! As a child, I remember begging Mom to let me wait for her outside of a food shop in Pittsfield, a store that specialized (or so it seemed)…