Just 3 foods meant to be shared

Eating with others is just more fun

Emeril Lagasse, the flamboyant American celebrity chef, says, “Food is meant to be shared, especially with friends like you." Although not universally true of all food, some foods are, indeed, meant to be shared and have the power to bring us together with friends—old and new. Besides some of the obvious choices, such as chips and dip, pizza, and fondue, the irresistible and tantalizing aromas of certain foods seem to invite us to enjoy eating them with others. Other foods are simply too much work to make for one person. Here are just three:

Strong Women

Black Widow, an Avengers superhero, is an admirably strong woman

I’m not a big fan of superhero movies, but, I’ve got to admit, I loved that opening scene in The Avengers when Black Widow, tied down to a chair, manages to break free, take out every man in the room, and coolly walk away in her skin-tight, black jumpsuit. Immediately, she won my respect, and I was anxious to see the next scene packed with her superpowers on display. After all, she was the only female superhero in the movie, and I wanted to know if she would be strong enough to keep up with The Big Boys. 

Like good chocolate, strong women come packaged in assorted ways. On Mother’s Day particularly, we women consider our own mothers and wonder which of their strengths we carry forward. I’ve found it sometimes takes looking back a few generations to figure out who we really are and where we get our strengths.

Athelia Sears Tanner (my mother)

My mom's mother was a polygamist, the second wife of a man several years her senior who ruled the roost in typical English style. So, every night like clockwork, Grandma Sears faithfully and cheerfully served him a hot dinner on a freshly-pressed linen tablecloth. She was a strong woman. She had to be. After she had ten children, her husband and Aunt Aggie, the first wife who could never have children, were called to serve a three-year church mission in Samoa, leaving Grandma Sears and several daughters behind to manage the household. Fortunately, this grandma of mine could pull it off because she was not only strong but also extremely capable and, I think, secretly competitive. In those days, every Monday was “wash day,” and she would arise early to be the first in the neighborhood to hang her clean laundry on the line. Her energy and zest, though, did not seem to get in the way of her compassion. In addition to looking after her own children, she cared for all the widows she knew, faithfully baking homemade birthday cakes for them every year.

Athelia Viola Sears Call Irvine (my grandmother)

In spite of her heavy workload, Grandma Sears had a legendary sweet demeanor. Called “an angel” by those who knew her best, she sang from morning till night, encouraging her children to work out differences by hugging each other, and her family swears she never raised her own voice. As a mother and homemaker myself, I find such a pleasant disposition to be remarkable and almost unbelievable. In fact, such claims make it difficult to see much of myself in her.

Mary Theresa Thompson Call (my great-grandmother)

Pamela Elizabeth Barlow Thompson (my great-great-grandmother)

Going back further are two more grandmas also full of kindness as well as fortitude and grit. Mary Theresa Thompson Call was exiled three times from her home in Mexico during the Revolution; however, in spite of the upheaval in her own life, she was always compassionate and never idle. With a keen sense of who was suffering, she would often slip away from the dinner table to deliver a hot meal to a neighbor in need. Also an excellent seamstress, she would frequently sew through the night so the dead could be buried in proper funeral clothes within the 24-hour period allowed by law. Her mother, Pamela Elizabeth Thompson, was kidnapped by Indians at age six but, fortunately, rescued by her father, and later in life she gave birth to her ninth child just six weeks after her husband was killed. Neither grandmother was a stranger to tough times. These were strong women.

Elizabeth Haven Barlow (my 3rd great-grandmother)

Reaching back just one more generation, though, is a woman I can really relate to. Just two summers ago, I learned about Elizabeth Haven Barlow, my 3^rd great-grandmother. Talk about a strong woman! Described now in the 21^st century, she may not sound very impressive, but in her time she was an independent thinker and a feisty feminist. Indeed, set in the context of the early 1800s, she emerges as a real fireball. Motherless at age nine, she sought comfort and learning in ancient books, old letters containing discussions about Puritanism, and the family Bible, which was her personal favorite. 

Thus armed early with a deep and keen understanding of Christian beliefs, Elizabeth later boldly challenged her minister when he tried to convince her of false doctrine. On that very day, she left the church without compunction, taking her friends with her and never returning. This passion for truth stayed with her throughout her life. In fact, her intellectual curiosity motivated her to pursue a teaching degree from Amherst and Bradford Colleges at a time when most American women had very little education, thus “fulfilling one of her heart’s greatest desires,” as her daughter would later report. 

When I “met” Elizabeth, I finally realized whose blood was in my veins. I felt I met part of myself and that I finally fit in with this group of strong women. Like Elizabeth, I love a lively intellectual discussion and am not the retiring, quiet type. In fact, truth be told, I openly challenge opinions, speak my mind freely, and have been known to question authority. Other kinds of strengths—patience, kindness, and compassion—don’t come so easily to me.

We commonly revere gentle, soft-spoken, compliant women—the peacemakers and bread bakers—and raise eyebrows at outspoken, nonconforming women. Especially on Mother’s Day, it’s good to remember that all kinds of women can be strong. I come from a long line of them. 

The glass is half empty, thank goodness!

Why can't we call a glass half full and half empty?

Why do we buy into the notion that we can see the proverbial glass only one way—either half full or half empty? Why can’t it be both? I reject the notion that our view of the glass automatically relegates us to the ranks of either optimists or pessimists.

I’ve been slacking a little in my blogging, and I don’t have a terrific excuse except that I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking about my life. Looking back on my almost-five decades, I’ve done a lot of really good living. By almost any standard, my life has been rich and full. Now, as I’m closing in on 50, some might say I’m only halfway through my mortal journey. If that’s so, then I’ve still got plenty of undetermined, unchartered, unlived years ahead of me. In other words, my glass is only half full; the other half is half empty, thank goodness! 

Tappers and listeners

Shared experiences can make listeners tune in so much more easily

I love those first letters home when kids go off to college. It’s that moment when they realize you know so much, they know so little, and they’re so grateful for you. Finally, after years and years of trying to teach them what they might need to know (how to balance a checkbook or work out a disagreement) or tell them things to beware of (too many late nights or poor nutrition), they finally get it. Suddenly, your words make sense, and it’s payday for parents.

Etched in our hearts

Children leave behind mementos of themselves  

I was mad. Really mad. In his path of destruction, Craig first spray-painted a big smiley face on the green utility bucket because he “just wanted to make everyone happy.” Then he took a sharp knife to the kitchen faucet, leaving deep gouges in the white enamel. But the topper was when he began carving his name into one of our kitchen chairs—“C R A . . . .” Enter the mean mommy, aghast at my little vandal. To this day, the dirty deed remains incomplete, a reminder of his errant behavior forever etched in the chair.

Remembering the elderly and being a grandma

Good grandmas come in all kinds of packages

My good friend of 20 years or more moved away and is now living in an old folks’ home halfway across the country. I miss her very much and told her so at Christmastime in a Facebook message, even though accessing such technology is challenging for her. Yesterday she sent me a letter in the mail—yes, the kind that comes with a stamp and a handwritten signature. I cried when I read her words, “For sure I didn’t intend to live this long. It takes lots of effort to fight depression, but I’m doing just fine.” Evidently, her children and grandchildren visit when they can, but, as she says, “Everyone is busy.”

A little more pink

Pink has a way of bringing out the girl in me

Sometimes I just need a little more pink in my life. I grew up surrounded mostly by brothers and their guy friends. As a young adult, I spent a year and a half serving with mostly male missionaries. I married my husband and had four sons, two of whom still live at home. I now go to networking events attended mostly by men, and I just started a volunteer tech group whose membership is about 95% male. (In fact, I would have been the only woman at our last meeting had my girlfriend not offered to come along as a carpool companion.) I’m used to seeing suits, ties, and black Wing Tips, and I’m used to washing blue jeans, boxer shorts, and white tube socks, which are all fine and good. I like boys and I like men. (Truth be told, at social events, I typically gravitate toward the male conversations.) But sometimes I just need a little more pink in my life.

Please tell me when my fly is down

Real friends tell friends when their fly is down

Please tell me when my fly is down. I know it’s awkward (for both of us), but try to remember that discovering that kind of faux pas is even more embarrassing when it’s too late (and you know when that is).

I feel the same way about making typos and grammatical errors . . . like a couple Sundays ago when I misspelled a word while I was teaching.

In praise of country music (and other stories)

Country music's popularity may be due to the power of its stories

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I lived with my sister and her family in Utah where I landed a temporary job at a small factory doing manual labor. Not the kind of labor that gets dirt under your nails. No, it was the mind-and-seat-numbing kind. My brother-in-law, a very successful businessman and entrepreneur, kept telling my sister how good this was for me and how I would learn to appreciate more stimulating jobs, and how I would become even more motivated to get an education. I thought, “Yeah, right! It doesn’t take more than one day at that place to figure out I should stay in school.”

Back in the day

Letters can capture inescapable truths about our lives

Back in the day (before emails, text messages, Skype, blogs, instant messages, Facebook, and inexpensive phone calls), my family of origin used to write letters to stay connected. Each of the 13 children would contribute a monthly update, and one person would mail copies to everyone. (Yes, we actually used "snail mail" - stamps and all.) Recently, while cleaning out her garage, my sister-in-law found those letters and sent me the ones I’d written. One of them from 18 years ago helped me remember what parenting was like back in the day of tight budgets, toddlers, and tension. Here’s a portion of it: