Live Like Dumpling--Glad Not Sad
Eulogies intrigue me. My friend Kel sent the link to one delivered by Reverend William Sloane Coffin of Riverside Church in New York, ten days after his 24-year-old son died in a car accident. www.pbs.org/now/society/eulogy.html
The words are far from sad. They are deeply powerful. Coffin’s sentiments echo perfectly my belief that the will of God has absolutely nothing to do with death and misery and everything to do with a desire to see us embrace grace and unconditional love.
If ever there were a time you want somebody to get the words just right, I would imagine your memoriam would be it. Thinking about your own eulogy feels a little morbid, perhaps frightening, but it is an effective incentive to take a personal inventory. What will people say about us when we die?
“He sure knew how to pinch a penny.”
“She was great at getting her way.”
“He worked every waking hour.”
“She was always so…thin.”
When we recall the lives of those we love, seldom do we mention the things that society values so soundly, like ambition or wealth. The memories tend toward the goodness and mercy of people. We talk of the times we laughed and cried together, first dates and weddings, road trips and better times.
When my friend Teresa died last year, her friends and family stood to share the spirit of a woman who never gave up, who laughed right up until her final days. Smiling bravely, breast cancer survivors told us how Teresa’s courage and humor inspired their recovery, how she celebrated their remission. I cried like a baby, out of sadness, yes, but also in appreciation of her validation. Life is good, people, I heard Teresa say. Make it good.
Regardless how successful we are in setting ourselves apart from others, there is one inescapable commonality: No one leaves this Earth alive, except for astronauts. Biblical teachings speak of jeweled gates and crowns of gold in heaven. I am hopeful that is an analogy to the bliss of going home. I tend to imagine that our passing takes us to a place that smells of fresh apples and new grass, a warm and wonderful place that suddenly makes all the sense in the world.
Dumpling, one of our childhood pets, taught me an early lesson about dying. She was a big, happy mixed breed dog. She loved to eat, loved to be outside chasing cats and kids, loved to sprawl in the hot sun until her black fur felt near combustion. When she got sick, I got angry. I loved that dog. It felt hugely unjust that her time was up. I was a young hormonal girl, wanting so desperately to make sense of why anybody has to die.
On a white wicker couch on our back porch, I sat next to that big dog and cried. Loud. I emptied my soul, and scraped the sides, sobbing because I felt so helpless. She took her last breath and I cried some more. I learned about grief, but I also learned about peace.
Over time, I accepted the lasting lesson, that although loss of a loved one hurts, the pain can and does diminish. What eases the grief, to some degree, is to know that they lived as Dumpling did, contented and glad. She heartily enjoyed outdoor romps, good food and friendly faces. To see her was to know that life is very good, not counting tomorrow. Some of us get more days than others, and while that might seem unfair, the most regrettable injustice is when we take precious time for granted, like reruns and good health.
What will people say about me when I die? I hope it will be along the lines of what I said to Dumpling as a brilliant blue sky heralded her departure.
“Oh, man, I’m gonna miss you. I love you. I’ll see you again one day.”
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Monday, December 11, 2006
Original Christmas Had No Tinsel
Original Christmas Had No Tinsel
A friend of mine was sharing her melancholy over missing her grandmother at Christmas. She grieved over how the family no longer celebrated together over a big meal at grandma’s table. The collective traditions of yuletide cheer seemingly passed away in her absence, and a nagging emptiness replaced the familiar feelings of excitement and anticipation that my friend and her family had always enjoyed.
My own family has seen better times. It is difficult to face the unsavory challenges of life, when hardships make us feel vulnerable and confused. Christmas, we know, should be full of hope and joy. But peace escapes us, and we struggle to find the warmth and wonder of the season. We long to feel like we did as children, waiting breathlessly, sleepless in our vigilance to detect the faintest jingle of Santa’s sleigh bells or perhaps the voices of angels.
Our Sunday school teacher prayed that we might recall in the midst of all the craziness of Christmas the true meaning of the season, that we would find a way to keep Jesus somewhere within the heart of our holiday endeavors. And while it may not be politically correct to say so, I think we’d do ourselves a major favor if we got back to the true grit of Christmas. After all, Joseph and Mary weren’t exactly on a pleasure cruise when her time arrived over two thousand years ago. In fact, they had it pretty rough.
Joseph and Mary weren’t married. She was pregnant. At the Roman emperor’s command, all people had to return to their place of birth to register for a new tax. Joseph and Mary had to trek several days from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Angels gave them guidance, yes, but can you imagine riding through the desert on a donkey, ready to deliver, and the uncertainty of finding a decent place to rest much less give birth? I’m thinking that was a miserable time, wrought with a lot of misgivings and more than a little fear.
So in those moments when wretched depression and anxiety lend a somber note to what should be a happy holiday, perhaps those of us who feel less than cheerful should cast aside the ephemeral joys of tinsel and temporary insanity and find instead a way to revisit the original cause for celebration.
When lives are lost every day to war, illness and accident, we are fortunate, those of us who have our health and have something to look forward to. While the focus of Christmas leans toward the exchange of gifts and retail indulgences, the fact remains that Christmas emerged as the birthday for a baby boy who held great promise, a living reminder of the goodness and light that fills the hearts of those who rebuke the perils of losing faith.
Pain and suffering do not take holidays. They carry on, through Christmas, on birthdays, when they are most unwelcome and spoil the fun. Yet, in great adversity, we often discover the deeply magical rewards of human compassion. In our shared struggles, we can always find something, a little spark of hope, a renewed belief that no matter what, there is always a reason to celebrate.
A child was born thousands of years ago to a pair of young and faithful servants, parents to the Prince of Peace who arrived not in comfort and blissful surroundings but in the lowly place where lambs are born. His humble birth launched the transformation of entire nations and inspired stories of glorious victories over all that is dark and dreary and insufferable. In the wake of that first Christmas, it is impossible to deny the enduring message that peace, love and hope are the greatest gifts of all.
Whether or not you believe in the Christian history of the Christ child, you have to agree that Christmas began with a family mired in difficult circumstances. In our loss, among our worries, we’d all do well to remember that and welcome the warmth of Christmas.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Surprise The With the Gift That Keeps on Giving
Surprise Them With the Gift That Keeps on Giving
Most everyone expects to get gifts at Christmas. We make wish lists so friends and family shopping on our behalf know what we want. It's all fairly predictable. I think the element of surprise adds something special to gift giving, but some people don't like surprises.A couple of enlightening encounters at home indicate my husband may be one of them.
He was measuring the width of the kitchen window, a pencil in his mouth, the tape measure stretched atop the curtains. Clearly, he was engrossed in the task at hand and of the opinion that he was alone in the room. Had he known anyone was handy, he surely would have asked for help. In that moment, I realized I could either speak up and scare him to death, or I could exit the room and enter more noisily. "What are you doing?" I asked. He grabbed the walls, inhaled the pencil, and choked out an unintelligible greeting.
"Sorry," I apologized when the laughter subsided and I could breathe again. "Did I startle you?"
Maybe it's the adrenaline rush of surprising someone so thoroughly their hair stands on end. Maybe it's the chance to add some spice to your life. Maybe it's the pleasure of laughing hysterically at someone else's expense. I'm not sure exactly why it appeals to me, but I definitely enjoy a good surprise. I think the spouse feels differently.
He thoroughly enjoys his naps in the recliner with his favorite poodle, Honey. They kick off their shoes, cover up with a comfy blanket and fall easily into deep slumber, belly-up and oblivious to the world. One of them snores contentedly while the other snoozes on stand-by. The disturbing thing about sleeping with Honey is that she barks at the slightest provocation. She alerts us to doorbells on TV, dust bunnies coursing beneath the sofa and imaginary footsteps. So, if you watch this napfest for any length of time, you are sure to witness a most satisfying display of unmitigated surprise.
I happened to luck up on one such Honey eruption recently. Who knows what set her off? It could have been the clanging of moth's wings or the melting of butter, but in the midst of an extended recliner session, Honey went into full throttle siren mode. While she bounced around on all fours, delivering the news from La-Z-Boy central, her partner levitated with eyes wide and mouth agape, looking like Scrooge on his tour of Christmases past.
It's likely sinful how much I enjoy a good surprise.
Yes, I've been on the receiving end. We had a mouse in the house on two occasions. Both cats yawned, uninspired, while I sunk my nails into the ceiling. Once, when I thought I was home alone while my family shopped, my daughter materialized from around the corner and I nearly vaporized on the spot.
And, every Christmas, we hang the Singing Wreath in our foyer. There's nothing like padding to bed in the dark, only to freeze in place to the screeching tune of "Deck the Halls" and the flash of illuminated eyeballs. The wreath once regaled my aunt on her return from the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. Come to think of it, she hasn't spent the night with us since.
Maybe you want to surprise a loved one this Christmas. You could sneak up on them when they least expect it with a bunch of mistletoe or a box of chocolate. You could call someone out of the blue to wish them a happy holiday. Whatever it is, don't underestimate how the element of surprise can make this Christmas one they'll never forget. Lasting memories are the ultimate gifts that keep on giving.
Catch Kristen's columns at every Friday in The Hattiesburg American at www.hattiesburgamerican.com
Most everyone expects to get gifts at Christmas. We make wish lists so friends and family shopping on our behalf know what we want. It's all fairly predictable. I think the element of surprise adds something special to gift giving, but some people don't like surprises.A couple of enlightening encounters at home indicate my husband may be one of them.
He was measuring the width of the kitchen window, a pencil in his mouth, the tape measure stretched atop the curtains. Clearly, he was engrossed in the task at hand and of the opinion that he was alone in the room. Had he known anyone was handy, he surely would have asked for help. In that moment, I realized I could either speak up and scare him to death, or I could exit the room and enter more noisily. "What are you doing?" I asked. He grabbed the walls, inhaled the pencil, and choked out an unintelligible greeting.
"Sorry," I apologized when the laughter subsided and I could breathe again. "Did I startle you?"
Maybe it's the adrenaline rush of surprising someone so thoroughly their hair stands on end. Maybe it's the chance to add some spice to your life. Maybe it's the pleasure of laughing hysterically at someone else's expense. I'm not sure exactly why it appeals to me, but I definitely enjoy a good surprise. I think the spouse feels differently.
He thoroughly enjoys his naps in the recliner with his favorite poodle, Honey. They kick off their shoes, cover up with a comfy blanket and fall easily into deep slumber, belly-up and oblivious to the world. One of them snores contentedly while the other snoozes on stand-by. The disturbing thing about sleeping with Honey is that she barks at the slightest provocation. She alerts us to doorbells on TV, dust bunnies coursing beneath the sofa and imaginary footsteps. So, if you watch this napfest for any length of time, you are sure to witness a most satisfying display of unmitigated surprise.
I happened to luck up on one such Honey eruption recently. Who knows what set her off? It could have been the clanging of moth's wings or the melting of butter, but in the midst of an extended recliner session, Honey went into full throttle siren mode. While she bounced around on all fours, delivering the news from La-Z-Boy central, her partner levitated with eyes wide and mouth agape, looking like Scrooge on his tour of Christmases past.
It's likely sinful how much I enjoy a good surprise.
Yes, I've been on the receiving end. We had a mouse in the house on two occasions. Both cats yawned, uninspired, while I sunk my nails into the ceiling. Once, when I thought I was home alone while my family shopped, my daughter materialized from around the corner and I nearly vaporized on the spot.
And, every Christmas, we hang the Singing Wreath in our foyer. There's nothing like padding to bed in the dark, only to freeze in place to the screeching tune of "Deck the Halls" and the flash of illuminated eyeballs. The wreath once regaled my aunt on her return from the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. Come to think of it, she hasn't spent the night with us since.
Maybe you want to surprise a loved one this Christmas. You could sneak up on them when they least expect it with a bunch of mistletoe or a box of chocolate. You could call someone out of the blue to wish them a happy holiday. Whatever it is, don't underestimate how the element of surprise can make this Christmas one they'll never forget. Lasting memories are the ultimate gifts that keep on giving.
Catch Kristen's columns at every Friday in The Hattiesburg American at www.hattiesburgamerican.com
Monday, November 20, 2006
Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One
Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One
Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.
My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.
My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.
Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.
“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.
With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.
The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.
Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.
This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.
Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.
My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.
My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.
Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.
“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.
With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.
The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.
Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.
This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel
Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel
As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.
My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.
"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.
The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.
"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.
"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.
"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.
"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.
"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.
"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"
We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.
"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."
"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"
Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.
"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."
The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.
"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.
"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"
"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.
"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"
"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.
"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.
"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"
Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."
In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.
All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.
"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.
"Good riddance," I replied.
Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.
We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."
As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.
My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.
"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.
The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.
"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.
"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.
"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.
"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.
"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.
"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"
We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.
"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."
"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"
Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.
"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."
The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.
"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.
"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"
"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.
"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"
"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.
"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.
"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"
Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."
In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.
All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.
"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.
"Good riddance," I replied.
Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.
We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."
Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life
Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life
Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.
One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.
Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.
Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.
Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.
Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.
There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"
Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.
So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.
Revel in the soundtrack of your life.
Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.
One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.
Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.
Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.
Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.
Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.
There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"
Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.
So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.
Revel in the soundtrack of your life.
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