The best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother.    Frances Mayes

A few weeks ago I had a chance to spend a couple of days with one of my dearest friends and her sister, who is a fabulous baker, at the sister’s house where I was made to feel right at home by her kindness, friendly and loving children, and the mouthwatering abundance of delicious food.  Needless to say, I had not just eaten some of the best pizza of my life, but I had made a lifelong friend in the process, for which I am always grateful.  Not to allow herself outdone by her sister, my friend Daniela, bakes the most scrumptious desserts which she then takes pictures of and sends to me.  Following is the recipe for one of them, which even I can bake, and I am not a baker. I’ve taken the license to make a few exceptions– the recipe calls for lemon peel and lemon juice, but I didn’t have lemons on hand so I used orange peel and orange juice instead–and the result was still extraordinary. Enjoy!

BREAD

1 package active dry yeast

1/4 cup warm water

1/4 cup warm milk

3 tbsps. sugar

1/4 cup butter, at room temperature

1 1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp. ground cardamom

2 large eggs

1 tsp. grated orange peel

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

CRANBERRY-ALMOND FILLING

1/4 cup butter, at room temperature

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

2 tbsps. sugar

1 cup finely chopped almonds

1 cup dried cranberries

1/2 tsp. grated orange peel

1/4 tsp. almond extract

GLAZE

2/3 cup powdered sugar

1 1/2 tsp orange juice

Stir the yeast with the warm water in a large bowl and let it stand for about 5 minutes, or until it foams.  Whisk in the sugar, butter, milk, cardamom, eggs, salt and orange peel and with a heavy spoon add the flour, one cup at a time, folding it in well.  Stir it for about 10 minutes.

On a lightly floured board knead the dough until smooth, incorporating more flour if necessary to prevent sticking.  Place the dough in a greased bowl and cover with plastic wrap.  Let it rise in a warm place until doubled in size.

In another bowl combine the butter, flour and sugar and whip until smooth.  Whisk in the almonds, dried cranberries, orange peel, and almond extract.  Cover and refrigerate.

Remove the doubled dough from its greased bowl onto a floured board and pound it down to release the air.  Roll it into a rectangle.  Crumble the filling over the dough and then tightly roll it up, sealing the edges by pinching.  Cut the roll in half lengthwise, turning cut sides up and then loosely twisting ropes around each other.

Onto a greased and floured baking sheet shape the twisted ropes into a ring.  Seal the ends by pinching them together.  Set them uncovered in a warm place to rise until swollen.

Bake until lightly browned in a 375 degree oven.  

Prepare the glaze by combining the powdered sugar, orange juice and water until smooth.  Drizzle over the bread and let it cool before serving.  Pairs extremely well with coffee, after dinner, as a snack, anytime.

It is early morning, the house is quiet, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee and my thoughts, looking out the window at the snow falling and swirling every time a gust of wind veers it off its vertical course. The snow is deep, probably around two feet, and it hasn’t stopped descending. While I was loving it days ago, I feel it’s about time it stopped.

Today is my mom’s birthday. I did not need to read through my journals -although I did read a whole lot yesterday- to recapture the emotions I have been going through the last four years.  Since childhood the dynamic energy of our family has been held together by this peaceful, calm and loving woman.  She has sacrificed her youth to us, mothering, cooking, making peace, taking us places, admonishing tenderly when we needed it, teaching us songs, reciting poetry, raising five kids with strong personalities, to be kind, to be loving, to be polite, to love God, to think for ourselves and not give in to the peer pressure around us. Reminding us that mother, father, sister, and brother are one’s true best friends. She has been silly when we were silly, cheerful when we were cheerful, encouraging when we were sad, no matter how inconsequential (from an adult perspective) our hurts.

As we reached adulthood and started families of our own, she gathered us back home on Sundays, cooking up a storm, waiting on us, holding and playing with the grandchildren so we could eat while the food was hot. She babysat on weekends so that the five of us kids with our spouses could go out to dinner together.  She babysat during the week when we were in school or at our jobs, caring for and loving her grandchildren with the same patience and dedication she had shown us.

And then cancer struck.  Out of nowhere, no indication.  It took my breath away, and I, who had believed myself strong and optimistic and unafraid, couldn’t stop crying and began to fear every phone call and every shadow.  I became moody and short-tempered and found fault with the littlest, most unimportant thing.  I am sure I was a nightmare to my husband and my son.  And for the first time in my life, I blamed God.  How could He do this to her? To her??  I could name two dozen people who deserved it.  But her? What had she done?

Sensing the pain and disillusionment of her children, she stood strong and unwavering in her faith in God.  She’d never complain, not even when the chemotherapy and radiation left her weak and pale and trembling.  Not even when she lost her hair and her eyebrows and her eyelashes.  When every breath she took must have hurt her to the core and every step was an exertion.  While her heart must have cried out to God and possibly to my father, she was her faithful, encouraging self to the rest. She knew how frangible we were.

I cringe when I reflect upon my immaturity. She, who had encouraged me for years and years, could barely get any words of encouragement from me.  I was too afraid to linger on her illness.  I was too afraid I’d come undone.  I couldn’t find the right words.  I didn’t know if the right words existed.  Everything I came up with sounded empty and pathetic, a screen to keep the real feelings in. I didn’t even know what my real feelings were, other than a jumbled up and chaotic mess.  Besides, I was busy being selfish and busy blaming God.  I wallowed in self pity day after day, wondering what would become of me, were she to die.  Wondering what would become of the relationship between my sisters and brothers and father.  She was the glue between the parts, the filling between the cake.

The winds of despair blew me in many directions.  I reflected about the church I had been brought up in and how it had become a millstone around my neck with its formulas and laws so intent on punishment.  I fell victim to my newfound occupation of holding everyone but myself responsible.  That inner voice that I had always attributed to God, had become less and less dependable.  All the things it was telling me seemed to be meant for someone else.  Angrily, I just stopped listening.  And then one day my mom said something I had often heard (yes, even in my head): God rains His blessings on the just and the unjust, and we have to be strong in our faith and take the good as well as the bad.  It isn’t for us to question, and not because we don’t have the right, but rather because it keeps us from seeing the grace of God and the miracles He works in our lives.

I wish I could say I went home and got on my knees and prayed for repentance.  I wish I could say that hope and courage and contentment and selflessness became such a part of my life that I never questioned God anymore.  But I didn’t fall on my knees.  And, I didn’t become a better person.  Instead I became angrier at God, and (I’m ashamed to admit this) even at her, for saying such simplistic things.  It was all well and good for someone to dole out the advice, especially if there had been no major suffering in that person’s life, but how could she just sit back and believe it?  And not just believe it, but repeat it?

Yet, my mother is a wise woman.  She knew what she was doing, she felt my uncertainties and my need to be uplifted.  She knew those words would slowly work their way under my thick skull and turn me in the right direction.  She has unwavering faith in God to hold her up and knew that I was lacking.  Slowly faith has worked its way back in.

But it isn’t easy. Even now, day by day, I have to remind myself.  To pray. To hope. To lift up my head and stop focusing on the mud and dirt around me. To stop looking for faults in others while just noticing the good in me. Sometimes all I can offer to God is a please or a thank you, because words fail. My mom’s health has improved.  The peace within me has increased.  The love between us all has deepened.

I love you mom.  More than I can possibly express in words or deeds.  For all that you were and you are and you will be.  I love you and thank God for each day we are together.  Happy Birthday!

I’ve been gone for a few days away from my kids, husband, and the freezing weather we’d been having lately.  It was a short, fun trip, seeing friends, relaxing, eating well.  But whenever I leave my family behind I miss them much more than I anticipate and I worry that the kids are not dressed warm enough, eat enough, sleep enough (although, my husband is the greatest dad and hasn’t ever given me due cause to be concerned) and so on.  I believe that since I have grown in age, I have also grown in maturity, and so I like to think that I am by nature observant and try to be considerate of people’s feelings in general, and my friends and family in particular.  It was difficult, yet I verbally restrained myself from voicing my concerns  when it came to answering questions about them.  Of course, it helped that I was in civilized company where none of that social one-upmanship that starts with a feigned question about the other person’s family, is allowed.  In fact (speaking of good manners), come to think of it, even our husbands were so courteous that they didn’t bother us, unless it was bed-time for the kids and the kids wanted to say goodnight -and ask to give them hints regarding what presents we were bringing.  

While I have been guilty for years, I have admitted to myself just recently, that for all my easy going and fun nature, I am an anxious person.  It helps, of course, that my mother was and is anxious.  I suppose that somewhere along the way it rubbed off on me.  I remember instances as a child and teenager when I’d agonize over things I had said, or feelings I may have hurt by my flippant remarks.  The apprehensiveness was assuredly propelled along by my dear ones figuratively washing my mouth out with soap.  As a young adult, right out of high school, that anxiety to be whatever my so called friends wanted me to be, to believe whatever they wanted me to believe, regardless of denouncing my true self in favor of what I was convinced was wrong, caused much internal anguish.  Since then, I have learned to speak my mind and stand my ground, even if unpopular to some, and yes, I have lost friendships in some instances.  

Pregnant with my son and talking about the birthing process with my mother, my aunts, my sister and my friends, all of them brave women who had already experienced it, the anxiety lessened.  My sister, a big reader herself, recommended all the right books, non-fiction and fiction, and I willingly devoured them all.  The A Baby Story show helped as well.  As the big day approached I spent countless hours watching birth after birth, until I realized one day that I had no worries about that anymore.  Possibly that period of my life was the most worry free. I recall one night, spooning with my husband on the couch watching some show, and being swathed in tranquility.  I was happy, calm and content.  Then my son was born.  And I began to worry that I’d die before I had a chance to raise him and see him grow and I prayed as never before for good health, a sound mind, and old age.

As my son grew and then I had my daughter, concern about their well being, my well being and my husband’s well being became the accompanying white noise needed in my life.  When we used to have a TV, the Oprah Show and the local news were the main instigators of anxiety.  Now, of course, it isn’t as bad.  I get that rush of adrenaline from reading the papers.  Undoubtedly, underneath all the unease, is fear.  Fear of failure, fear of the evil humanity is capable of, fear of disease, fear of all that is out of our control, fear for my children, my nieces, my nephews, the children of my friends, fear for my aging parents, my sisters, my brothers, fear for their fears.  All wrapped up with a big, fat bow of anxiety around it and presented to me.  Somedays I accept it, frantically pulling it open by it’s barely sealed edges, somedays I demurely refuse, and others, I rudely hold up my hands and shake my head, wanting nothing to do with it.

I love winter.  I love sitting inside with a warm drink in hand, cozying up to my husband on our goose down filled couch, watching the flames dance in the fireplace, the children around us, my son reading to us from one of his books, my daughter wanting my sole attention, while outside the snow falls in huge, fat, barely formed flakes or sheets of rain pound the roof, the wind roars, the windowpanes rattle (and you can bet they do in our 100+ year old house), as nature merciless, yet, at its loveliest, makes itself feared and respected.

As I write this, the wind is howling and knocking on the windows, lifting the snow that had fallen earlier in the day in spirals and clouds and flinging against the panes its grainy flakes.  The house is quiet, everyone, asleep.  I remember the winter our daughter was born, and the snow storm a few days after we brought her home. Our house up on the hill shook and trembled with every gust of air.  I was afraid the windows would pop out of their frames or shatter in thousands of sharp edged pieces, and that night I sandwiched both children between my husband and myself in our big bed, too terrified to fall asleep.  It was our first winter in the house.  The next morning everything outside glittered in dazzling whiteness.  My husband and son couldn’t wait to bundle up and go sledding on the empty lot next to us.  Holding my newborn, I watched from the dining room window, again fearful, but now that my son would break an arm or leg.

Since I’ve started reminiscing, I might as well go on. About twelve years ago we had an ice storm that made average winter tree skeletons into the most breathtaking crystalline sculptures.  The roads were a nightmare of course, and for a couple of days no one I knew attempted to drive anywhere as every street major or minor, was enveloped in ice.  Certainly, we’ve had ice storms like this before or since, but I remember this because it was the winter before I got married, the last winter in my parents’ home.  The electricity went out, and we brought out the candles and the board games and we played into the night with my brothers and other friends who had come in the meantime, joining.

My sister and I had walked to the store earlier this evening because we had craved chocolate.  The store isn’t far, but it was dark and chilly, and as usual I had miscalculated how cold I’d be.  As the wind took our breath away and froze our noses and foreheads we couldn’t talk much, but with the snow crunching underneath the soles of our fleece lined boots we both fondly recalled our ritual yearly sledding on the hilly golf course near our parents’ house.  We had been carefree then, our only worries were how to best enjoy ourselves. Everything was accomplished while laughing until our sides hurt.

Our dad used to pull us after his running figure on a sled down the street every winter of our childhood. He used to like dumping us in snow banks at the edges of driveways and he’d throw snowballs at us, probably having more fun than we did. He sure knew how to pack the snow, and it sure hurt.  But it didn’t really matter because we loved our dad and his playful ways.

Earlier in the day my husband took both kids out, but this time, after my sister assured me that my daughter’s bones aren’t as prone to fracture as I’d worried, I just watched out the window and once more was glad that it is winter and it is snowing and yes, even that the wind is blowing.  They played in the snow, made snowballs, even attempted to make a snowman and came into the house with their cheeks red, their noses runny, and all giggly about how much fun they had.

My wish is for my children to experience winter and all it’s splendors just as I had growing up and as I have now growing older with them by my side.

Our last visit to Sighisoara was in sunny July of 2006.  It was a few weeks shy of the annual art festival, yet the interior courtyard of this medieval walled city with its secret passageways and lookout towers was bursting at its decaying seams with tourists.  We hadn’t made any reservations as my hubby, in charge of making lodging arrangements, had assured me that we’d have no difficulty getting a room at one of the city’s many inns (he had been there just weeks before and hadn’t encountered any problem).  As we drove through the hilltop citadel’s gates, a growing sense of apprehension gripped me as I observed the narrow alley streets packed with parked cars.

We had been driving all day, our baby daughter fussing as the hot wind whipped through the open windows of the non air-conditioned car, possibly disturbing her sensitive ears.  Our son wanted to get out and run, as evidenced through his relentless kicking of my seat, and I just wanted assurance that we wouldn’t spend the night in the automobile.  We tried one inn and then another, and nothing. We made our way down the list, but there wasn’t even the smallest room available. Although I can’t remember now, I’m sure I let my husband know my of my displeasure with the situation.  

We had parked and walked along hoping to find a local willing to let a room out to a family of four that included a cranky baby and a six year old boy full of energy.  Not an easy task.  It is nerve wracking for both the homeowner and the paying occupants as the best rooms are usually presented, rooms filled to capacity with sentimental ornamentation of the fragile variety.  Luckily, we didn’t venture too long.  An elderly lady figured out right away what we were in need of and offered to take us to a someone who was in need of making some quick cash.  

Just a block away from the main square, she said, and beckoned us to follow her as she hurried along the cobblestone street and turned left unto another.  The house was out of a storybook, a pretty pastel blue, with red geraniums spilling from the window boxes and a red arched door leading into a courtyard filled with fragrant rose bushes in every shade of crimson.  Although the owners didn’t know we were coming, they didn’t seem surprised to see us, and once we had paid, ushered us in, exclaiming over how beautiful our children were.  They were an elder couple and much to the delight of our boy, they had two kittens.

After letting our son play with the kittens for a while, and making small talk with the gentleman (his wife was in the next room making the bed up in her best, embroidered linen, no doubt), we left for the main square and its restaurants.  I was ready for a real dinner.  I wanted traditional and comforting, despite the heat, maybe sauerkraut with homemade sausage or schnitzel, and homemade bread.  We weren’t disappointed.  The food was sublime (and very fattening, I’m sure).  We sat back and chatted with the people at the table next to us.  They were visiting from England and they were on their way to the little village of Viscri, looking to buy a house to restore in that newly abandoned Saxon hamlet.

(Apparently, the Saxon population of Romania is on the decline.  Out of thousands, only a handful remain, and their houses stand silent and empty, slowly deteriorating.  With the newly opened gates to the West in the early ’90’s, the Saxons, who had been in the Transylvanian region of Romania since the 1100’s, fled for a better life in the country from which their ancestors originated.  With time, and due to a difficulty integrating themselves in a culture they were unaccustomed to, some returned and, to make a long story short, set up a trust -The Mihai Eminescu Trust whose primary benefactor is Prince Charles (he has bought a house in Viscri as well and has since restored it)- to restore ancient Saxon houses in the Saxon villages by using traditional methods of restoration in keeping with the timeframe the structures were built in.)

As darkness fell and we made our way through the dimly lit, yet still busy market square and back to our lodging, we discussed how traveling makes strangers so willing to share personal information they wouldn’t imagine to otherwise, as though there’s a need to create a favorable impression for the recipient’s future memories.

Back in our pastel colored shelter we sat awhile and listened to our hosts lamenting their diminishing health and The Mihai Eminescu Trust (MET) for not approving a major entertaining park to be built on the outer outskirts of the town.  We nodded our heads and empathized over their health concerns, but, seeing how hospitable they had been, didn’t acknowledge that we were on the side of the MET .

As they retreated to their summer kitchen out in the courtyard (where they had two twin beds), insisting that they wanted us to have the freedom and comfort of their entire house for the night, we tucked the kids in and opening the widow set in a wall two feet thick we listened to the crickets and to the distant sound of merrymakers and we were, as Andre Dubus says in one of his short stories, “seeing something in our mind’s eye that was nowhere in the room,” the bygone days those same walls we were gazing at had seen.

Apparently so.  At least in our house.  It is very late and I should be asleep, yet here I am typing away because I just had to finish my book, so I drank lots and lots of coffee to keep me awake long enough, and now I’m too jittery and wide awake to do anything about it but suffer.  The suffering is worth it, I think, I really enjoyed the book and I absolutely love the author, so no hard feelings towards the guy and his creation.  And, really, how often is the house this quiet?  True, I can’t make much noise, but so what?  And no, I will not start reading a new book until tomorrow.

I make a vow to myself every morning after a night like this that I’ll never do it again, and at my age, and with two kids, I should take myself seriously if I expect others to.  Maybe my dad is right: I will never grow up.  Be that as it may, I have one life to live and I’m busy enjoying it (even if it is vicariously through my books)!  Wait! I think I read that last bit somewhere…, nonetheless, very true in my case as well. 

I was going to write something about food, but have just decided against it.  Not too smart an idea; it’s been too long since dinner and I’m starving!  Talking about dinner… we had a friend over and the friend commented on how great my hair looked shoulder length, when both my husband and son jumped in and said no, that my hair is best long.  You’d think it was suggested that I go bald! So I guess, there’s the answer to any question I may have had regarding a haircut.  I don’t have permission from the two most important men in my life!  Frankly, I don’t want to cut my hair either.  Although it is fun torturing them with it.

All right, all right, I’ll get off, I know I’m writing a bunch of nonsense. I promise next one will leave you all speechless.  Sweet dreams…

Since we gave up our television set a little more than a year ago, we have been doing a lot of reading.  In the beginning it was a bit hard to get used to the seemingly empty evening hours and I confess I was anxious to fill the time with anything that would make the hours pass.  After a few nights of going online to get the news and chat with friends, we realized that our decision to kick the TV out had been in fact a desire to create a bond between us, and not just to prove our superiority to our family and friends.  

So we brought out the cookbooks and cooked up elaborate meals with the kids participating, stocked up on board games and delegated Sunday night ‘family game night,’ and went to the public library and made library cards for each one of us.  (As I am writing this, I am looking out the window at an elderly woman walking along and reading a paperback.  I see her everyday at about this time and sometimes she stops and reads, flipping the page, as though wondering what she missed.  I want to ask her what she’s reading so intently that she can’t wait until she gets home or to the bus stop.  It must be good if she’s willing to risk falling or tripping and breaking an ankle!  I have done that a few times, dragging myself off the couch and walking around the house in an attempt to get some exercise in besides my reading.  I have ended up either stubbing my toes or bumping my head on a wall that suddenly came up. Consequently, I have determined that I much rather work out my brain.)

I am thrilled to say that reading became our favorite pastime. Every evening (unless I go to one of my two book clubs, on a date with my husband, or to the bookstore or library with the family), following a yummy dinner where we sit and chat about our day, school, work, current events, books we’ve read, etc., we all retreat to our cozy family room lined with brimming bookshelves and depending how cold it is outside, a blazing fire, and read until time for bed.

It doesn’t take much to get us into the holiday spirit, even without a TV, or without trips to congested malls.  The kids open the respected day’s flap on the advent calendar, select a book from the overflowing holiday bookshelf, my husband and I find our places in our books, and we’re on our way.  Silent reading is the best!  Nonetheless, memories are made while reading to one another, so we try to remember to include that in our nightly ritual.  Following is our recommended holiday list.  Pick one, pick all, just sit back, sip something comforting (a little spiced apple cider?, a hot cocoa perhaps?), and enjoy making memories!

The Gift of the Magi     O. Henry

The Fir Tree     Hans Christian Andersen

A Miserable, Merry Christmas     Lincoln Steffens

The Legend of the Christmas Rose     Selma Lagerlof

The Birth Of Christ     St. Luke 2:1-16

The Three Wise Men     St. Matthew 2:1-14

A Pint of Judgment     Elizabeth Morrow

The Miraculous Staircase     Arthur Gordon 

The Story of Holly and Ivy     Rumer Godden

The Little Match Girl     Hans Christian Andersen

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe     C.S. Lewis

Toot and Puddle: I’ll Be Home for Christmas     Holly Hobbie

Christmas in the Big Woods     Laura Ingalls Wilder

Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree     Robert Barry

Eloise at Christmastime     Kay Thompson

HAPPY READINGS!!

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.-John 3:16

It is an astounding truth: God embodied Himself into one like us, so that we may comprehend His love.  

Matthew 22:38-39, Luke 6:31

(Bet you all didn’t think I had it in me, but I know my Bible!)

My earliest memories of Christmas are all involved around this delicious recipe from my mother.  She used to make platters of it, then cut it up, roll it into two inch long pieces and wrap it in crinkled paper and foil and hang it on the fresh cut Christmas tree my father had just brought in.  Also hanging on the tree were precious oranges, walnuts in their shells, prettily wrapped candy, cookies, and real candles dripping wax.  We lived in communist Romania back then and didn’t have strings of lights, electric trains circling the tree, nor ornaments weighing down the branches.  Life was much more simple, much more real.  Maybe because we lacked what we now take for granted, any unexpected treat was such a luxury and such a joy.

Eagerly we anticipated the carolers we knew were coming anytime between nightfall and the crack of dawn on that night before Christmas. We, dressed in our finest, helped set out the pastries, the cookies, and the little fancy sandwiches my mother, my aunts, and my grandmother had worked on for the last several days.  The best china was brought out, for it was a perfect opportunity to show it off.  Butter, sugar, chocolate and coffee were precious commodities hoarded throughout the year, and only used for special occasions: Christmas, New Year, Easter, birthdays, weddings, christenings, and funerals.

The house filled up with guests who reminisced all through the night, eating sausage and dainty sandwiches.  The kids got to stay up too, and usually there were so many of us that when we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore, every available surface or parent’s lap held a softly snoring child.

750 grams powdered milk

5 tablespoons good quality cocoa powder unsweetened

500 grams sugar

1 cup water

2 sticks unsalted butter cubed and at room temperature

1 tablespoon (or more) rum

1 cup roasted walnuts or hazelnuts (optional)

Coat a large cookie sheet with non-stick spray, or if you are seriously self-indulging, butter.  Have it ready and close by.

Sift the powdered milk and cocoa powder into a bowl, and combine with a whisk until well blended.  On medium heat make a syrup of sugar and water by pouring the cup of water into a deeper pan and gradually whisking in the sugar.  Don’t forget to stir!  Let it simmer a few minutes and check readiness by placing a teaspoon of it into a glass of water.  If it holds together it is ready, if not keep stirring! Add the blended powdered milk and cocoa and mix with a wooden spoon until it’s well incorporated.  If it is too thick, you can add water, but only a little at a time.  Work those muscles in your arms until it resembles a smooth chocolate frosting, otherwise you get air bubbles, or a mouthful of powder. Add the rum and the nuts, take it off the heat and stir in the cubed butter until all melted.  With the help of a spatula spread it on the prepared cookie sheet and let it cool at room temperature.  It will harden as it cools.  Enjoy it!  I guarantee it won’t last long.

By the way, I have no idea on the number of servings.