looking through me

Tag: family

November 27, 2014

pickles and yams

I reached for my recipe book—the one my sister-in-law created before I moved to Las Vegas. It holds 101 hand-written recipes from people who love me. Some with illustrations.

Recipes 17-21 are from Grandma: Fudge Cake, Kookie Brittle, Dinner-in-a-dish, Sweet Kosher Pickles and Candied Yams. At the bottom of each page, she added a note.

Tuesday morning I needed the pickle recipe. I double-checked ingredients and made my list. Thanksgiving was coming, and it demanded a relish tray of Grandma’s pickles. Grandpa and I can finish the whole tray—maybe the jar—ourselves. A trip to Grandma’s always meant a pickle or eight. And I can’t count the number of birthdays or Christmases I received a jar of pickles just for me. My eyes drifted past the recipe to the note: “To my pickle eater—this recipe came from a friend of Grandma Weinz and she was a Home Ec. teacher.”

Then my eyes settled on the Candied Yams recipe. I’ve never made them myself. Maybe because of the note: “Kristen—this may be ‘testy’ a time or two around but you will do well. Aunt Verlyn (my sis) gave this recipe to me and we agree—Thanksgiving dinner wouldn’t be the same w/o it.”

No, no it would not. Thanksgiving. It’s the day I can’t put into words. My favorite holiday. My favorite meal. My favorite people. It’s thick with tradition and layered in memories. Like Grandma. Try as I may to capture the essence, the voice, the import . . . there aren’t enough words to paint love on a page.

 

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October 31, 2014

done, already?

Has it been a month already?

Here’s the thing. I don’t write to be read. I don’t write because I have something to say. I write to find myself.

And while I thought I already knew my family—and I did—maybe I didn’t. I knew my story. Yes. I knew there were themes running deeply through me. I knew there were truths that crafted me. But I hadn’t written them. My knowing remained partial at best.

This challenge stretched me in interesting ways. It gave me a chance to think about my family through different filters. And in an effort to write about private people in a public forum, I had the gift of thinking more in roles and presences and moments than in names and images.

These 31 posts are not all-inclusive. They are not comprehensive. They barely scratch the surface. They leave more unwritten than is written.

This month was about more than the discipline of writing; it was about the discipline of thinking. I’m a context person. I don’t understand concepts well in isolation. And to know me, I need my family—my context.

All I write is written from my seat at the family table. The faces around the table change—we’re a dynamic collection some born in, some brought in—but I’m grateful for each one. And I’m grateful for this chance to know us better.

 

This post is part of the 31 Days: Family series. Read the beginning, and see a full index of posts, here.

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