Aimless

When your Mom dies

you kind of loose your way...

an epiphany that settled on me years ago after observing it unfold several times no matter age, gender, race or any other categorical divider.

Now is my time to wander...

~K

Friday

I loved Nan for 25 years, but I only knew her for 17. And for the first 17 years of my life, she was my safe place.

    From the moment I could eat "solid" food till one day when I was 17, I would spend every Friday night at her house. That house was like a time warp, a safety bubble of my very own. Friday was where I left my troubles at the door, a problem for another day. It didn't matter what the week brought me, Friday was smiles, laughter and adventure. Friday was ours.

    Nan was one of those people who silently helped others. She was never someone who got deep into things with me, but in her own way helped me through so much. She had a way of guiding me without me always knowing it. Now that I am older I've realized the questions she'd occasionally ask me - such as "how are things at home" - was her gentle way of checking in on me and mom.

    She wasn't flawless, but she was ours. And she loved me intensely, something only rivaled by my moms love for me. Not a day goes by that I don't miss her. But then again I think I've really been missing her since I was 17 and I stopped spending Friday nights with her. What I wouldn't give to make that decision over again - but I didn't know, then, that we were on borrowed time.

~ C

Scarlet Letter

She wasn't perfect. She was fiercely mine though.

Left alone to clean out her house I came across several sentimental treasures; and a surprising revelation.

In the back of a dusty shallow spare bedroom closet was pushed a 2-drawer file cabinet, the old metal kind with that slight smell of oxidation. Handwritten letters she'd held on to throughout decades and at least 4 house moves revealed the affair.

Young, only a few years married and long before I was even a thought, she'd had a lover. I was altogether both shocked and intrigued! Although she and my father were both undeniably attractive as well as competitive, I couldn't imagine my Mother ever entertaining an affair.

But, then again, with righteous indignation I would have called you a liar if you'd told me I would too. Over time this unexpected find would prove to reframe how I understand maturity, interpersonal relationships, and grace.

~K

Cult…ure?

Mom was brought up in church. Married over two decades to someone who was not and never did attend, she’d quit going. After the divorce, she found her way back and seemed to settle into a worship groove of her own. Mom would often sit alone in her chosen pew; back left on the aisle end. For years she took on program hand-out duties at the door but she did not immerse herself much further in the cult…ure.

I am utterly uncomfortable in church. “Greet your neighbor” feels just like a directive to smile and wave.

For twelve years Mom worked very hard to afford sending me to one of the best, and bougiest, private Christian schools in our area. Although it caused her to clash with my father about the annual college-level expense especially during the last 4, my high school years, she gave me the choice.

One of my classmates had transitioned to public high school. Recalling her bragging about turning in C-graded papers written in our private middle school but receiving As and Bs on them there, I was off put. Plus, we were required to attend Chapel and Bible class. I enjoyed learning about scripture. However, there were times of feeling like Jesus was pursuing me and I was afraid. Maybe that was a beginning realization of the gravity of the matter. It most certainly was a nod to my lifelong distain of anything that feels like ropes on me. Yeesh…queue the Spirit Cimmaron Stallion music!

Throughout our dementia journey these last five years I was compelled to make sincere attempts to find a church home for myself. One flat out rejected me when I confided that sometimes I have doubts, infrequently wondering if it’s all just a story. But at Mom’s funeral, even though I’ve been divorced many years, the pastor of her church where I got married over 30 years ago told me it’s just as much my church as it was Mom’s. What a gift! And how much more clearly I see it as such in light of the earlier rejection.

Unfortunately, that didn’t work out for me either. Maybe since Mom was never accepted into nor desired to be a part of the cliquey-ness there, only the Pastor really seemed to feel that it was also my church. I attended in person a few times with my daughter and son-in-law (henceforth known as “SiL”). We sat where Mom used to. I gazed at the beautifully crafted stained glass windows just as I did when I walked down those aisles.

Currently there is one other local church, a completely different denomination, that I have some interest in visiting but the fact is; I usually prefer to attend online. From home. In my comfies. Which I’m aware is frowned upon. But I’ve finally decided to reject that thinking mostly because I’m so grateful for it.

Now, if I can just keep my mind on the message, the lyrics, and worship instead of the one choir lady’s wonky wig, the other’s ear-splitting octave, or the inevitable AV issues…

~K

Low & Slow I

If Mom ever tried to entice me to learn to cook with her, I don't have any memory of that. 

Now, keen to eat but loathe to cook, I've found the slow cooker tolerable.

Although, like most everything in life, timing is still important...left way too long and even thighs turn into rubber chicken in the crock!  

A favorite Allrecipes host brought this to life for me.

I like the 16oz Great Value Organic Medium Salsa from Walmart and homemade taco seasoning from a recipe by Stav at She Equips Herself . Typically I use organic spices and triple the amounts to keep some on hand.

Taco Seasoning Ingredients:

~1 Tblsp chili powder

~1/4 tsp garlic powder

~1/4 tsp onion powder

~1/4 tsp crushed red pepper

~1/4 tsp dried oregano

~1/2 tsp paprika

~1 & 1/2 tsp ground cumin

~1 tsp sea salt

~1 tsp ground black pepper.

Delicious in a whole wheat burrito-sized flour tortilla or over brown rice! 

And, it doesn't spike me...win.

~K

"Dammit!"

     Lets talk about Buttermilk Fried Chicken. The quintessential soul food of the south. And a dinner I am proud to make for my husband.

     I began to love the art of making food and being a home chef from watching my dad in the kitchen, but I understood how for some it was a "labor of love" when my Nan would make me her fried chicken when I was younger. She would rarely be willing to make it, though sometimes I could convince her simply because she loved me. When she did I never failed to hear "DAMMIT!" come shouting from the kitchen. 

     Now I find myself saying the same thing when I make it. As making GOOD fried chicken is indeed a LABOR of love. IYKYK. I also need to stop and say, I am a HOME COOK. I rarely measure other than with my heart; I learn through trial and error. I am finding my taste and most of my recipes will reflect that. I am happy to answer questions if any arise.

     

     My Labor of Love recipe:

1. Soak chicken thighs in buttermilk over night

2. Heat about 2 inches of high-temp oil in deep sided pan on medium heat (it should take longer to heat the oil than you'd initially expect as you're not flash frying them, as I learned my first time)

3. Remove chicken thighs from buttermilk and thoroughly coat in an egg wash - which is typically made up of one egg per chicken thigh and a splash of milk (maybe about 1 TbSP)

4. Then coat in seasoned flour - I season mine with garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, salt and pepper to taste

5. I cook them the right amount (till their golden) on each side. I verify they are done when the internal temperature is 165°F.  Here is where the "DAMMIT" comes in, feel free to scream it when the oil inevitably pops on every exposed square inch of your skin.

6. Let cool a little before you dig in or you will regret it as my husband and I learned the hard way...

~C