Every family has one. The person who knows everything. Which, as my grandmother used to say, is very annoying to those of us who actually do. Hey, I've told you before, she had a saying about almost everything. Tonight I am going to talk about one of those from the family in which I was raised. In the interests of respect I will refer to her as Aunt Jo. I loved Aunt Jo very deeply, but that doesn't mean I was blind to her faults. We humans are frail and imperfect beings, which is part of what makes life such an adventure.
In this family, it was traditional for the females to live with their family until they got married. I have spoken with my cousin Carole about this; we both think it was a great disservice to the women of our generation. Perhaps if they had been encouraged to find their way in the world and become the people they were meant to be, they might have thought more seriously about important life decisions. I am the only female of this generation whose first marriage did not end in divorce. But then again, I didn't get married until I was forty years old. I don't think any of these women made poor choices (although maybe some of them did), it was simply a matter for many of marrying so they could be out on their own, and then finding out later that they were not the same person who walked down the aisle in the white dress and veil.
Luckily for me, I was the least pretty of the group, and probably the most outspoken, so I seemed destined to stay single forever. This meant that after Gram raised me, I was able to help her as she got older. Gram was a hugely important part of my life; she represented home and was my only parental figure. When I was about nineteen years old, Aunt Jo said to me, "Gram looks terrible. She isn't going to last much longer." I was shocked and scared. I slept more lightly, always wanting to be able to hear if Gram fell or called out for any help. I still can't sleep properly. Gram lasted another eighteen years, incidentally, but if you keep predicting someone's death at least once a week, eventually your prediction will come true. As in the old saying, even a broken clock is right twice a day.
If you have read some of my older posts, you will know that at the age of twenty-nine I became very ill, and was diagnosed with systemic lupus. Very briefly, systemic lupus is a non-contagious autoimmune disorder. When the immune system switches on, it may run amok and attack any and all systems of the body rather than just germs and such. In my case, my immune system was attacking my kidneys, which were starting to fail as a result. Luckily for me, I had always been in fairly good health, so I had no idea what some of my test results really meant. For example, when I was released from the hospital, my blood pressure had come down to the level of danger of having a stroke. I had no clue! All I knew was that I was furious at being sick, and my doctor said that attitude would help me get better. Imagine my surprise several months later when I heard Gram tell someone that when I was in the hospital, she could see death in my face. I was stunned. Gram had seen numerous people come and go, and been at the side of many death beds. As I said, it was good I didn't know this at the time, or I may not have had the stubbornness to forge ahead.
Some months after I got out of the hospital and was continuing my struggle with lupus, Gram asked me one day if anyone knew what caused lupus. I told her that from what I had read, and what the doctors told me (hey, we didn't have home computers in those days, kiddos) nobody really knew. It was thought that there might be a genetic link, but there was no definite cause. I asked her what had made her ask that question. She told me that when I was still in the hospital, Aunt Jo had called her and said, "I've looked into this lupus thing. You get it from not washing your face properly."
I didn't know whether to laugh or to scream in disgust and anger. I am sure that there are places in the world where you could get internal illnesses as a result of using impure water to wash your face. To say nothing of the fact that I did, and do, know how to wash my face! I assured Gram that the near-failure of my kidneys had nothing to do with what I used to clean my face, and that I had not done anything at all that caused me to be so sick. We got a good chuckle out of the whole situation. Every so often, though, when my constant companion lupus has me feeling less than fabulous, I laugh and say, "Dang. I should have washed my face!"
Monday, November 5, 2012
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Jedi Mind Tricks
Once again I am dogsitting Bowie, a canine who is very loveable. Bowie could be fodder for a few stories, but tonight I am just going to talk about a couple of things. Bowie has been described by his human parents as a dog for whom there is no such thing as a stranger. Although he is willing to give his affection to anyone (by the way, Halloween was so much fun for him!), he has developed a special bond with me and Trent. It really can make you feel special when a dog actually scampers through the house when you arrive. There is a ritual that has developed over the years any time I come over to visit.
The first part of the ritual, obviously, is the scampering. This is accompanied by delighted greetings and head pats. Bowie then heads toward the kitchen, looking over his shoulder to see if I am following. He goes to the back door and I let him go outside. If the weather is warm and dry, I go out with him. He proceeds to the grass and sits down facing away from me so that petting him will be more convenient. This progresses to tummy rubs before we go back inside. No matter what the weather, when Bowie comes inside he will present me with his backside because he knows that I will scratch the spot above his tail that seems to put all dogs into a state of joy.
I have jokingly said that to Bowie I am not merely Katrina; his name for me is MyKatrina. I think this was proven to be correct when I came over and Thayne's son, Scott, was complaining of backache. I told him to sit on the floor in front of the sofa and I would massage his back a bit. Well, let me tell you, Bowie was not having it! He came over and started to nose my arm. When that didn't make me stop, he pulled my hand away from Scott with his paw. I could almost hear him saying, "Hey, back off, she's MY MyKatrina, not yours!"
Something that is as important to Bowie as love is food. I am proud to say that I am one of just a handful of humans whose arrival can make Bowie abandon his food dish. When I dogsit Bowie, he will try various tricks to convince me that no matter what the clock says, it is time for him to dine. There are various forms of showing off, and most of them include some form of happy barking. Lately, his routine has been to run off quickly and bring back a tennis ball, which he drops next to me a couple of times. He can only do it a couple of times; after all, he is dying of hunger.
This evening I mixed up a dish that included two kinds of kibble as well as some canned food. It was thoroughly enjoyed and the bowl was licked out many times. After he went out for some fresh air, I settled down to watch tv. Suddenly, Bowie jumped up and dashed around the house looking for his ball. As he tossed it next to me, I heard him saying, "This is not the Bowie you prepared dinner for." I looked him in the eye and said, "Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me," and he immediately gave up and curled up for a nap. What a hoot! Bowie isn't the first dog to try Jedi mind tricks on me (Paris was a Jedi master!) and I am sure he won't be the last. But as long as the force remains strong in me, I think I'll be all right!
The first part of the ritual, obviously, is the scampering. This is accompanied by delighted greetings and head pats. Bowie then heads toward the kitchen, looking over his shoulder to see if I am following. He goes to the back door and I let him go outside. If the weather is warm and dry, I go out with him. He proceeds to the grass and sits down facing away from me so that petting him will be more convenient. This progresses to tummy rubs before we go back inside. No matter what the weather, when Bowie comes inside he will present me with his backside because he knows that I will scratch the spot above his tail that seems to put all dogs into a state of joy.
I have jokingly said that to Bowie I am not merely Katrina; his name for me is MyKatrina. I think this was proven to be correct when I came over and Thayne's son, Scott, was complaining of backache. I told him to sit on the floor in front of the sofa and I would massage his back a bit. Well, let me tell you, Bowie was not having it! He came over and started to nose my arm. When that didn't make me stop, he pulled my hand away from Scott with his paw. I could almost hear him saying, "Hey, back off, she's MY MyKatrina, not yours!"
Something that is as important to Bowie as love is food. I am proud to say that I am one of just a handful of humans whose arrival can make Bowie abandon his food dish. When I dogsit Bowie, he will try various tricks to convince me that no matter what the clock says, it is time for him to dine. There are various forms of showing off, and most of them include some form of happy barking. Lately, his routine has been to run off quickly and bring back a tennis ball, which he drops next to me a couple of times. He can only do it a couple of times; after all, he is dying of hunger.
This evening I mixed up a dish that included two kinds of kibble as well as some canned food. It was thoroughly enjoyed and the bowl was licked out many times. After he went out for some fresh air, I settled down to watch tv. Suddenly, Bowie jumped up and dashed around the house looking for his ball. As he tossed it next to me, I heard him saying, "This is not the Bowie you prepared dinner for." I looked him in the eye and said, "Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me," and he immediately gave up and curled up for a nap. What a hoot! Bowie isn't the first dog to try Jedi mind tricks on me (Paris was a Jedi master!) and I am sure he won't be the last. But as long as the force remains strong in me, I think I'll be all right!
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Memories of September 2001
In early September of this year, I got a lovely message from my cousin Viki, who lives in western Hungary. At the time I received it, I was in a delicate emotional state. After several months of surgeries and complications for Trent, as well as having our car break down to the point of no repair, we had one final, heartbreaking blow. We had to make the decision to have our darling little dog, Paris, put down. She had been our Babygirl for twelve and a half years, so it was devastating. When the news stories and memorials started to come on the television and internet right around our wedding anniversary, September ninth, we felt it even more deeply since our emotions were so raw.
I received a message from Viki telling me her September 11, 2001 experience. At the time these things happened, we had not yet met each other, and I had not met any of my Hungarian relatives, which makes the story even more precious to me.
In September 2001, Viki was a new University student. Until the new students go through a special ceremony, they are considered to be merely a visitor to the school. After the ceremony, which was to include shaking hands with President Mádl Ferenc (while wearing white gloves), she would officially join in the University society. During the program, someone came up to President Mádl and whispered something in his ear, and then they both left. The Vice Chancellor of the University told them that the President had to go to Budapest because of an international affair. There were no handshakes, so they all felt let down, but they were official members of the University now.
When they arrived back at the school, all five hundred of the older students were sitting silently watching the television. Nobody said anything, just sat there mutely, as my cousin says. They found out that there was a terrorist attack on the USA. All of the day's classes were cancelled, and they spent the entire day watching the events unfolding on tv. Viki says in her message, "Katrina, I didn’t know you then, but I think we felt commiseration with America. I saw more documentary films about 9/11 this week, and I decided to tell you, that we feared for American people." I think many of us did not realize how great an impact the events of that day had all over the world. It touched my heart very deeply to know that people everywhere were sharing our grief and shock.
And now, for my dear cousin, I will share my experience of that day.
Trent was driving the both of us to work in downtown Denver that morning. We both worked in the telephone customer service center of a large bank. Trent was a telephone banker, and I was a trainer. We had the radio on in the car, and they said something about a plane crashing into the WTC. What? Then they said something about the WTC being on fire. I remember being really irritated. Why couldn't they get their story straight, was it a plane crash or a fire? When we got in to work, my coworker Jeff was on the phone with his wife, who was filling him in on what was coming across on the television news. I learned that a plane had crashed into the WTC.
Suddenly Jeff went pale and told the coworkers gathered around that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon complex. My blood ran cold, and I was in complete shock. An attack on US soil? My friend Danielle and I burst into tears and ran down to the employee breakroom to watch some of the news coverage. That week, I was training a small class that was advancing to more complex servicing of accounts. Needless to say, we accomplished almost nothing that day. No one could focus. We were talking about the towers being hit, how it was done, and by whom. We got updates in the training room from Danielle about the towers collapsing and the flight where the passengers re-took their plane and crashed it to save other people's lives. Some of my current and former trainees came to tell me that they were going to have to write wills and get their affairs in order, because they might be shipping off to go to combat.
We were living in a world that we did not recognize that day. I remember doing a lot of weeping. I also remember asking my boss if she would go in to an empty office with me to say a prayer. Soon the country's shock and sadness began to give way to anger and most of all a desire to be of help. I do believe that this time will go down in the annals of US history as being one of our darkest moments, but also one of our finest.
Something that made me feel strange is something that I have shared with very few people before today. I have been to New York City twice, in 1987 and again in 1992. Both times I saw many wonderful sights and enjoyed so much about this amazing city. But I never got around to seeing the World Trade Center. On both trips, I neglected to make the time to go there. I remember saying to my fellow travelers on both trips, "Well, I can see it the next time I come here, it's not going anywhere." Those words still haunt me, because we never know what will be there the next day, or whether we will even be around on the next day. As a result, I try to remember to enjoy life and beauty and adventures when I have the opportunity. We may never pass this way again.
Note: I have written the Hungarian President's name in the traditional Hungarian manner, which is last name first.
I received a message from Viki telling me her September 11, 2001 experience. At the time these things happened, we had not yet met each other, and I had not met any of my Hungarian relatives, which makes the story even more precious to me.
In September 2001, Viki was a new University student. Until the new students go through a special ceremony, they are considered to be merely a visitor to the school. After the ceremony, which was to include shaking hands with President Mádl Ferenc (while wearing white gloves), she would officially join in the University society. During the program, someone came up to President Mádl and whispered something in his ear, and then they both left. The Vice Chancellor of the University told them that the President had to go to Budapest because of an international affair. There were no handshakes, so they all felt let down, but they were official members of the University now.
When they arrived back at the school, all five hundred of the older students were sitting silently watching the television. Nobody said anything, just sat there mutely, as my cousin says. They found out that there was a terrorist attack on the USA. All of the day's classes were cancelled, and they spent the entire day watching the events unfolding on tv. Viki says in her message, "Katrina, I didn’t know you then, but I think we felt commiseration with America. I saw more documentary films about 9/11 this week, and I decided to tell you, that we feared for American people." I think many of us did not realize how great an impact the events of that day had all over the world. It touched my heart very deeply to know that people everywhere were sharing our grief and shock.
And now, for my dear cousin, I will share my experience of that day.
Trent was driving the both of us to work in downtown Denver that morning. We both worked in the telephone customer service center of a large bank. Trent was a telephone banker, and I was a trainer. We had the radio on in the car, and they said something about a plane crashing into the WTC. What? Then they said something about the WTC being on fire. I remember being really irritated. Why couldn't they get their story straight, was it a plane crash or a fire? When we got in to work, my coworker Jeff was on the phone with his wife, who was filling him in on what was coming across on the television news. I learned that a plane had crashed into the WTC.
Suddenly Jeff went pale and told the coworkers gathered around that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon complex. My blood ran cold, and I was in complete shock. An attack on US soil? My friend Danielle and I burst into tears and ran down to the employee breakroom to watch some of the news coverage. That week, I was training a small class that was advancing to more complex servicing of accounts. Needless to say, we accomplished almost nothing that day. No one could focus. We were talking about the towers being hit, how it was done, and by whom. We got updates in the training room from Danielle about the towers collapsing and the flight where the passengers re-took their plane and crashed it to save other people's lives. Some of my current and former trainees came to tell me that they were going to have to write wills and get their affairs in order, because they might be shipping off to go to combat.
We were living in a world that we did not recognize that day. I remember doing a lot of weeping. I also remember asking my boss if she would go in to an empty office with me to say a prayer. Soon the country's shock and sadness began to give way to anger and most of all a desire to be of help. I do believe that this time will go down in the annals of US history as being one of our darkest moments, but also one of our finest.
Something that made me feel strange is something that I have shared with very few people before today. I have been to New York City twice, in 1987 and again in 1992. Both times I saw many wonderful sights and enjoyed so much about this amazing city. But I never got around to seeing the World Trade Center. On both trips, I neglected to make the time to go there. I remember saying to my fellow travelers on both trips, "Well, I can see it the next time I come here, it's not going anywhere." Those words still haunt me, because we never know what will be there the next day, or whether we will even be around on the next day. As a result, I try to remember to enjoy life and beauty and adventures when I have the opportunity. We may never pass this way again.
Note: I have written the Hungarian President's name in the traditional Hungarian manner, which is last name first.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Snack Attack
Believe it or not, when I was a youngster, I was so skinny that my little Grammie used to say that I needed to turn around twice to make a shadow. As you can tell from my profile photo, I am no longer a little-bitty mere slip of a girl. I am a woman of substance. I'd like to be slimmer, and have lost and regained weight just like a lot of other people. I often have the best of intentions and am then derailed by a dirty-fighting nastybeast. It is called the Snack Attack. I don't know about any of you, but my Snack Attack is particularly evil.
Do you find yourself just relaxing, and then craving some low-fat, low-carbohydrate, high-fiber, low-sodium treat? Not me. I can be watching a gruesome scene in a horror movie and find myself thinking I really wish I had some potato chips right about now. Or chocolate cake. Or buttery popcorn. (And not the airpopped stuff, either. I am not a goat, and therefore have no desire to eat packing material.) And freshly-baked bread with a nice chewy crust...please excuse me for a moment while I get a napkin and blot my lips in a very ladylike fashion.
Knowing that I love food, if I see a headline online about healthier snack choices, I am always willing to take a look. I realize that there are people who are wiser than I am about how food affects the body, and what things you can eat to make yourself feel full longer. I have decided that all of the people who write these bits of advice are not normal. I think they are all teeny-tiny women who are so skinny that they can buy their clothes in the toddlers department, but only if it is a fashion-forward toddlers department, of course. These are the grownup versions of those girls you knew in high school and college - the ones who eat one lettuce leaf and a glass of water and say, "Oh, I am so full! I shouldn't have eaten so much!"
But Katrina, you are thinking, why do you say this? Well, maybe you haven't read some of these articles I have seen lately. Some examples of the madness: a good breakfast that will keep you full and satisfied until lunch is one piece of toast slathered (!) with one teaspoon of peanut butter. Are you kidding me? That sounds more like a breakfast appetizer! Can you throw in a glass of milk and a banana? But that isn't even the worst. "When I find myself really hungry in the afternoon (what, the four-ounce endive and tofu salad wasn't enough to satisfy you?), I just eat eight almonds. Then I am totally satisfied and full until dinner." See, I probably would have put the almonds on the endive salad, along with some chicken and mixed berries. Then my lunch wouldn't have left me hanging an hour after I ate it.
Maybe I am just doomed. Instead of Jekyll and Hyde, it's Katrina and the Snack Attack, a horror story in five chapters. And I don't want you to think I scoff at good nutrition. I love vegetables and lots of other healthy stuff like nonfat Greek yogurt. I had a salad for dinner. But I still want some chocolate. Doomed, I tell you, doomed.
Do you find yourself just relaxing, and then craving some low-fat, low-carbohydrate, high-fiber, low-sodium treat? Not me. I can be watching a gruesome scene in a horror movie and find myself thinking I really wish I had some potato chips right about now. Or chocolate cake. Or buttery popcorn. (And not the airpopped stuff, either. I am not a goat, and therefore have no desire to eat packing material.) And freshly-baked bread with a nice chewy crust...please excuse me for a moment while I get a napkin and blot my lips in a very ladylike fashion.
Knowing that I love food, if I see a headline online about healthier snack choices, I am always willing to take a look. I realize that there are people who are wiser than I am about how food affects the body, and what things you can eat to make yourself feel full longer. I have decided that all of the people who write these bits of advice are not normal. I think they are all teeny-tiny women who are so skinny that they can buy their clothes in the toddlers department, but only if it is a fashion-forward toddlers department, of course. These are the grownup versions of those girls you knew in high school and college - the ones who eat one lettuce leaf and a glass of water and say, "Oh, I am so full! I shouldn't have eaten so much!"
But Katrina, you are thinking, why do you say this? Well, maybe you haven't read some of these articles I have seen lately. Some examples of the madness: a good breakfast that will keep you full and satisfied until lunch is one piece of toast slathered (!) with one teaspoon of peanut butter. Are you kidding me? That sounds more like a breakfast appetizer! Can you throw in a glass of milk and a banana? But that isn't even the worst. "When I find myself really hungry in the afternoon (what, the four-ounce endive and tofu salad wasn't enough to satisfy you?), I just eat eight almonds. Then I am totally satisfied and full until dinner." See, I probably would have put the almonds on the endive salad, along with some chicken and mixed berries. Then my lunch wouldn't have left me hanging an hour after I ate it.
Maybe I am just doomed. Instead of Jekyll and Hyde, it's Katrina and the Snack Attack, a horror story in five chapters. And I don't want you to think I scoff at good nutrition. I love vegetables and lots of other healthy stuff like nonfat Greek yogurt. I had a salad for dinner. But I still want some chocolate. Doomed, I tell you, doomed.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Nem! Nem! Soha!
No, I haven't lost control of either my mind or my keyboard. Today's blog title is Hungarian for "No! No! Never!" This was one of the rallying cries of the Hungarian Revolution against Soviet Occupation. The Revolution began fifty-six years ago today, on October 23, 1956. It is because of this Revolution that I was born, and also that I was born in the United States of America.
At the end of World War II, Hungary, among other places, was placed under the control of the Soviet Union. Between the actions of the Soviet soldiers and the Secret Police, and other things like very poor harvests, the Hungarian people suffered greatly during this regime. Many families had to hide their daughters in pigsties and woodsheds to protect them from being raped by soldiers. Even in the small village in Western Hungary where my family lived, people suffered from great hunger. Many people had to resort to eating plants that would normally be considered decorative, or even weeds. For their own entertainment, the soldiers would make boys have fistfights for a chance to eat a piece of toast. The Secret Police were no less cruel. One of my relatives, for example,was forced to wash a floor and then drink the dirty water out of the wash bucket.
This sort of treatment, and much that was far worse, was rampant in Soviet-occupied Hungary. I have read and heard stories of people being taken away for questioning and torture. One was of a woman who was in poor health and was required to stand at attention on one foot until she collapsed. This torture was inflicted on her repeatedly for many days. I won't talk any more about the brutality of those times; I think that I have given you a good idea of the fear and pain that were a part of everyday life.
When the Revolution began, the Hungarians didn't really have any weapons to speak of. University students shoved rocks into the tracks of Soviet tanks. When the tanks stopped, they climbed on and pulled out the soldiers. Some people who don't really think fully when I say this will sometimes laugh, but my heart is filled with pride and sorrow for these brave people who so wanted freedom that when no other weapons were available, they fought with rocks. The Soviets were rousted from Budapest, but only for a matter of days. On November 4, 1956, the Soviet Army came rolling into Budapest, all of Hungary, really, with numerous tanks. They shot and killed men, women, children, even those who were already wounded. To show their "superiority," they tied the bodies of dead Hungarians to their tanks and dragged them through the streets. As many as thirty thousand Hungarians were killed. To this day, if you are in Budapest and look up at the walls of the buildings, you will see the bullet holes from the tanks.
My father was a revolutionary organizer in his little town, so the Soviets had slated my father, mother, and my three siblings who ranged in age from three to six, for execution. So in the middle of a night in early November 1956, they walked out of Hungary and into Austria. I don't know how they got past the guard post and machine guns; perhaps the soldiers were busy elsewhere. But my family were part of an estimated two hundred thousand people who fled Hungary into the West. My parents were fortunate to have some relatives in the USA who sponsored them so that they could bring their family here, and here I was born.
I wanted to honor my Hungarian heritage on this, of all days. Yes, I ate some paprikas csirke (chicken paprikash), and my thoughts have been on what my family and their countrymen endured. There are also other ways in which I honor my Hungarian-American heritage. It is perhaps because of these combined heritages that my freedoms are so precious to me. I know from history how important it is to speak one's voice to preserve these freedoms. It is why I consider my ability to vote not just a right, but an almost sacred responsibility. It's also why any time I go to a baseball game, I am usually crying before the end of the National Anthem. These things remind me that both of the countries of my heritage, the USA and Hungary, are built on the sacrifices of people who were willing to die to make their world a better place, free from tyrants. It is in their honor that I say, "Nem! Nem! Soha!"
At the end of World War II, Hungary, among other places, was placed under the control of the Soviet Union. Between the actions of the Soviet soldiers and the Secret Police, and other things like very poor harvests, the Hungarian people suffered greatly during this regime. Many families had to hide their daughters in pigsties and woodsheds to protect them from being raped by soldiers. Even in the small village in Western Hungary where my family lived, people suffered from great hunger. Many people had to resort to eating plants that would normally be considered decorative, or even weeds. For their own entertainment, the soldiers would make boys have fistfights for a chance to eat a piece of toast. The Secret Police were no less cruel. One of my relatives, for example,was forced to wash a floor and then drink the dirty water out of the wash bucket.
This sort of treatment, and much that was far worse, was rampant in Soviet-occupied Hungary. I have read and heard stories of people being taken away for questioning and torture. One was of a woman who was in poor health and was required to stand at attention on one foot until she collapsed. This torture was inflicted on her repeatedly for many days. I won't talk any more about the brutality of those times; I think that I have given you a good idea of the fear and pain that were a part of everyday life.
When the Revolution began, the Hungarians didn't really have any weapons to speak of. University students shoved rocks into the tracks of Soviet tanks. When the tanks stopped, they climbed on and pulled out the soldiers. Some people who don't really think fully when I say this will sometimes laugh, but my heart is filled with pride and sorrow for these brave people who so wanted freedom that when no other weapons were available, they fought with rocks. The Soviets were rousted from Budapest, but only for a matter of days. On November 4, 1956, the Soviet Army came rolling into Budapest, all of Hungary, really, with numerous tanks. They shot and killed men, women, children, even those who were already wounded. To show their "superiority," they tied the bodies of dead Hungarians to their tanks and dragged them through the streets. As many as thirty thousand Hungarians were killed. To this day, if you are in Budapest and look up at the walls of the buildings, you will see the bullet holes from the tanks.
My father was a revolutionary organizer in his little town, so the Soviets had slated my father, mother, and my three siblings who ranged in age from three to six, for execution. So in the middle of a night in early November 1956, they walked out of Hungary and into Austria. I don't know how they got past the guard post and machine guns; perhaps the soldiers were busy elsewhere. But my family were part of an estimated two hundred thousand people who fled Hungary into the West. My parents were fortunate to have some relatives in the USA who sponsored them so that they could bring their family here, and here I was born.
I wanted to honor my Hungarian heritage on this, of all days. Yes, I ate some paprikas csirke (chicken paprikash), and my thoughts have been on what my family and their countrymen endured. There are also other ways in which I honor my Hungarian-American heritage. It is perhaps because of these combined heritages that my freedoms are so precious to me. I know from history how important it is to speak one's voice to preserve these freedoms. It is why I consider my ability to vote not just a right, but an almost sacred responsibility. It's also why any time I go to a baseball game, I am usually crying before the end of the National Anthem. These things remind me that both of the countries of my heritage, the USA and Hungary, are built on the sacrifices of people who were willing to die to make their world a better place, free from tyrants. It is in their honor that I say, "Nem! Nem! Soha!"
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Feed Me, Seymour
We had the great pleasure of serving dinner in our home to our friends Marie and Thayne this evening. We had invited them a couple of weeks in advance, but hadn't discussed the menu. When we saw Marie about a week ago, I decided to ask what they would like me to make for them. Would it be my famous casserole? Or perhaps my green chili? I was so pleased when, without a moment's hesitation, she said, "Oh, can we have paprikash?" Of course I agreed. I love any opportunity to share a bit of my Hungarian heritage, especially in the form of food. And I was thrilled that she likes it enough for me to want me to make it for her.
I think one of the dearest gifts we can give each other is to share with them the foods we love. For me, at least, when I am cooking or baking something for people I care about, it seems that the food tastes better. I have often shared my recipes for cookies and other dishes with my friends. And have been told time and time again that "they just don't taste the same." No, I am not a kitchen genius. Yes, I most definitely have my special tricks and techniques. But my knife skills are abysmal at best, and my "techniques" would likely get me laughed out of any and all culinary schools or professional kitchens.
I have come to the point where I can make my signature dishes without referring to recipes or instructions. Instead of cooking these dishes with my head, I am able to cook them with my heart. Is it possible that one's good feelings can add flavor to the food? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Maybe I am looking at the wrong end of the equation. Does knowing that the food we eat is well prepared as well as lovingly prepared improve the flavor? I'd like to think both things are true. So I will continue to share my love through the kitchen, as well as in other ways. I encourage you to do so as well. And in the words of the mean green mother from outer space, "Feed me, Seymour!"
p.s.
As a child in Chicago, I was a member of a family that sometimes made a meal for six people out of one potato, so I know how real the problem of hunger is. I would like to remind everyone reading this that there are children and adults everywhere that do not have enough food to eat. Please remember them when you see donation boxes or "spend $5 to feed a family" promotions at your local market. And when you go out to a restaurant and are asked to donate an extra dollar or two to help feed the hungry, please consider doing so. I thank you on their behalf.
I think one of the dearest gifts we can give each other is to share with them the foods we love. For me, at least, when I am cooking or baking something for people I care about, it seems that the food tastes better. I have often shared my recipes for cookies and other dishes with my friends. And have been told time and time again that "they just don't taste the same." No, I am not a kitchen genius. Yes, I most definitely have my special tricks and techniques. But my knife skills are abysmal at best, and my "techniques" would likely get me laughed out of any and all culinary schools or professional kitchens.
I have come to the point where I can make my signature dishes without referring to recipes or instructions. Instead of cooking these dishes with my head, I am able to cook them with my heart. Is it possible that one's good feelings can add flavor to the food? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Maybe I am looking at the wrong end of the equation. Does knowing that the food we eat is well prepared as well as lovingly prepared improve the flavor? I'd like to think both things are true. So I will continue to share my love through the kitchen, as well as in other ways. I encourage you to do so as well. And in the words of the mean green mother from outer space, "Feed me, Seymour!"
p.s.
As a child in Chicago, I was a member of a family that sometimes made a meal for six people out of one potato, so I know how real the problem of hunger is. I would like to remind everyone reading this that there are children and adults everywhere that do not have enough food to eat. Please remember them when you see donation boxes or "spend $5 to feed a family" promotions at your local market. And when you go out to a restaurant and are asked to donate an extra dollar or two to help feed the hungry, please consider doing so. I thank you on their behalf.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Gracious, Goodness
For some reason as I was puttering around the kitchen today, I started thinking about someone who hasn't occupied any space in my mind or my life for a number of years. She was a coworker who briefly turned into a friend. There were many things about her that I loved, as she was radically different from anyone I had ever known before. Ivy, as I am going to call her in this blog, was an incredibly outspoken person. To put it into perspective, Trent and most of my friends will tell you that I am pretty straightforward about things. But I manage to do so with consideration and gentility. Bwaaahahaha! That gentility part sounds so classy, right? Seriously, though, I think we can be upfront about things without hurting another's feelings if we engage our brain before we engage our mouth. Compared to Ivy, I am one step away from being completely closed-off.
Ivy was the kind of person who would say very intelligent things and then follow up by being completely out of order. It was things of this nature that, for me, began the ending of our relationship. We were both tellers in the drive-though of a busy bank in downtown Denver. I truly loved my job, and was able to have fun with it. I had made a conscious decision early in my banking career that I was going to have a positive and happy attitude with customers. And that philosophy worked well for me. But Ivy made me wonder why we were friends when she asked me, "Don't you think this job is degrading?" I was stunned. Where I got satisfaction from helping people with their accounts, even if it was something as simple as processing a deposit, she felt shame at having to be of service to someone else.
Being in a drive-through, we were able to listen to music while we were working. I'm a person that pays attention to what people enjoy or respond to. During a conversation about music, she mentioned that she really liked an artist whose song we had just heard on the radio. He had a distinctive voice which really appealed to her. So when Christmas time rolled around, I went to several different music stores until I found his most recent album. I was excited knowing that she was going to absolutely love my gift. When the day before Christmas rolled around, she opened her package and said, "Oh. I was excited because I thought it was going to be so-and-so's (a different artist entirely) album! Oh, well, maybe I'll like this one."
I was stunned. It wasn't just because she didn't like the gift I had put so much thought and effort into getting. It was the response. I know that like me, everyone reading this has received at least one gift that has really been a letdown or a real head-scratcher. But receiving a gift graciously is as important as the act of giving itself. Hey, I know I have been the recipient of a few gifts through the years that made me wonder if the giver knew anything about me other than my name, but I have always accepted them with pleasure that someone cared enough to give them to me. And I have never gone to the store the next day to return or exchange.
I'm not trying to say I am a perfect gift recipient. I may be sitting there thinking, "Wow, Aunt Susie does have taste. Unfortunately, it's all in her mouth!" Maybe my experience with Ivy, although hurtful at the time, was a good experience after all. I learned first-hand that an unloved gift can cause more pain and embarrassment to the giver than the receiver. So the next time your Aunt Susie excitedly gives you an atrocious scarf, be gracious. Give a gift back by thanking her and then wrapping it around your neck. I can almost guarantee that it will create a precious moment that you will both be happy to remember.
Ivy was the kind of person who would say very intelligent things and then follow up by being completely out of order. It was things of this nature that, for me, began the ending of our relationship. We were both tellers in the drive-though of a busy bank in downtown Denver. I truly loved my job, and was able to have fun with it. I had made a conscious decision early in my banking career that I was going to have a positive and happy attitude with customers. And that philosophy worked well for me. But Ivy made me wonder why we were friends when she asked me, "Don't you think this job is degrading?" I was stunned. Where I got satisfaction from helping people with their accounts, even if it was something as simple as processing a deposit, she felt shame at having to be of service to someone else.
Being in a drive-through, we were able to listen to music while we were working. I'm a person that pays attention to what people enjoy or respond to. During a conversation about music, she mentioned that she really liked an artist whose song we had just heard on the radio. He had a distinctive voice which really appealed to her. So when Christmas time rolled around, I went to several different music stores until I found his most recent album. I was excited knowing that she was going to absolutely love my gift. When the day before Christmas rolled around, she opened her package and said, "Oh. I was excited because I thought it was going to be so-and-so's (a different artist entirely) album! Oh, well, maybe I'll like this one."
I was stunned. It wasn't just because she didn't like the gift I had put so much thought and effort into getting. It was the response. I know that like me, everyone reading this has received at least one gift that has really been a letdown or a real head-scratcher. But receiving a gift graciously is as important as the act of giving itself. Hey, I know I have been the recipient of a few gifts through the years that made me wonder if the giver knew anything about me other than my name, but I have always accepted them with pleasure that someone cared enough to give them to me. And I have never gone to the store the next day to return or exchange.
I'm not trying to say I am a perfect gift recipient. I may be sitting there thinking, "Wow, Aunt Susie does have taste. Unfortunately, it's all in her mouth!" Maybe my experience with Ivy, although hurtful at the time, was a good experience after all. I learned first-hand that an unloved gift can cause more pain and embarrassment to the giver than the receiver. So the next time your Aunt Susie excitedly gives you an atrocious scarf, be gracious. Give a gift back by thanking her and then wrapping it around your neck. I can almost guarantee that it will create a precious moment that you will both be happy to remember.
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