A Miraculous Day

Our mittis are off to a good start.  Note Peggy's special note-to-self, a useful hint when knitting.

Peggy was coming to brunch and a knitalong, and I was excited about fixing a biggish breakfast, getting together, starting our mittis, and just having a pleasant morning of food,  knitting and chatter.  The evening before, I had debated about whether to cast on the first mitti, or to wait and do it in the morning when Peggy  was there, working on hers.  This was a real decision, because on one hand, I was enmeshed in knitting a little scarf, and wanted to continue with that, but on the other hand, starting a new knitting project is sometimes both traumatic and humiliating – requiring several do-overs and a certain amount of bad language.  I decided to work on the scarf and be humble the next morning, publicly starting my mitti.  Minutes later, I came to the end of the scarf’s first ball of yarn, and looked in my knitting bag for the second.  Nothing!  It must have fallen out and be lurking somewhere in my bed, I thought.  But after taking the bed linen apart, I sadly concluded that it was not there.  I looked under the bed and sadly concluded that I had better do a much more thorough job next time I vacuumed my bedroom.  I looked in all my other knitting bags.  No yarn.  I prayed to St. Anthony, but to no avail.  So, grumbling,  I cast on the mittis and worked on them a bit to get them going, and then switched to another Long Abandoned Project. (Some good came of this, as my enthusiasm for the LAP was rekindled, and I can actually foresee finishing it in the not terribly far future.) 

In the morning, Peggy and I had a nice brunch, had fun knitting, and said some more prayers to St. Anthony.  Peggy is a particularly good pray-er, so I was confident that when she left and I went upstairs and looked again for my ball of yarn, I would find it.  But such was not the case.

Nero Wolfe biscuits

The next morning, her husband John, a fellow choir member, came up to me after practice and asked if I had lost a ball of yarn in the choir room.  There was one in the little storage shelf under his choir desk!  Well, a few days before, I had knitted there a minute or two while waiting for my pal Barbara so we could work on the choir notebooks.  It must have dropped out of my bag then.  But what a miracle – that just John would have ben assigned that choir desk, and would notice the yarn, and would think it might be mine.  Three miracle-lets! The ball had been there for days, and we had already had a practice session without anyone noticing my yarn, let alone knowing that it would be mine.  Saint Anthony has performed yet another of his many miraculous miracles.  And once again, I am ever so grateful to him.  

Becca-made jam

Baking Day

Glenda's Super Delicious Sugar Cookies

Faithful readers will recall that I have mentioned choir treats several times – both the yumminess when other people bring them, and the psychological trauma involved when I bring them.  They can be a delight on the one hand, and an ordeal on the other.  On Sunday mornings during our first years in the choir, Rebecca and I would get up and check the treats calendar, and then decide whether we needed to eat a good breakfast or if we could depend on the treat provider of the day to provide well.  Once, I told Rebecca that it was ***** bringing the treats, and so we had better eat a good breakfast.  “She'll probably bring a packet of Lorna Doones,” I said.  Now, I love Lorna Doone cookies, but one packet will not feed a sixty person choir.  When we got there, we were convulsed with laughter.  She had actually brought a packet of Lorna Doones.  And nothing else.  I recall that that year, my friend Glenda had brought, among other things, a big plate of home-made sugar cookies and some sliced cucumbers spears.  I thought that these were odd things to bring for breakfast, but the sugar cookies were the best I had ever eaten.  I am sure that I made a real piggy of myself.  And the cucumbers (the odder part,) were the perfect thing for throats needing solace from an hour of hearty singing.  They were divinely delicious.  Ever since, on my treat day, I have included cucumber spears.  And I always think of Glenda as I prepare them.  After choir that Sunday, I was going on and on about Glenda’s sugar cookies, and Rebecca looked a little crestfallen.  I asked what the matter was, and she said that she thought I didn’t like that sort of cookie, and so had never made them, although they were a fave of hers too.

Well, a week or two ago, I was thrilled to see that Glenda had brought her sugar cookies again, although no cucumbers.  I ate the lioness’s share and was thrilled to get the recipe, which Glenda has said I may share with you.  Triple Yum!

Glenda and I chose the same color one Sunday.

Glenda’s Sugar Cookies    (updated per Glenda Nov 29)

2 cups flour  (256 g)

½ tsp soda

½ tsp salt

½ tsp cream of tartar

½ tsp vanilla

1 cup sugar (200 g)

1 cup shortening  (226 g) – Glenda used butter flavored – I used half Crisco and half butter

2 eggs

Preheat the oven to 350°

Whisk the dry ingredients together.  Beat the sugar and shortening (or butter) till fluffy, and then beat in the eggs and vanilla.  Mix in the dry ingredients, and then form teaspoon fulls of dough into little balls and place on an ungreased or silpatted cookie sheet.  Flatten the cookie dough balls with the bottom of a glass dipped in sugar, and bake for 12 minutes, or until the edges begin to brown.  Put the finished product on a rack to cool, and then eat up! 

This recipe seems like it would lend itself to many flavor options - a bit of lemon extract, orange extract, or even peppermint extract.  I would definitely skip the peppermint, but there are many who might like it.

A Sparkling Day

Poet Christina Rosetti, apparently not an early riser, mentioned several time that she had never seen a sunrise.  Eventually, her friend and fellow poet Theodore Watts-Dunton convinced her that the effort involved in pre-dawn shaking off of the cobwebs of sleep,  would be well repaid by the beauty of the phenomenon.  Christina agreed that the morning beauty of the lilac, pink, and gold sunbeams pouring through the glittering lacework of dewy leaves far surpassed any sunset she had seen.  But nonetheless, she said, she probably would not be getting up to see another.

When she was little, Rebecca often went on about the splendor of the sunrise, while I seldom saw one.  She was always, and still is, an early bird, and I was always, and still am, a slugabed.  Also, her bedroom faced east, and mine west.  This morning, however, Margaret decided to be an early bird, so I staggered about to take her out, I peeked through Rebecca’s bedroom window, and was amazed.  It did indeed surpass the sunset.

Later, the day, on which rain was foretold, continued sparkling.  It was a wonderful day to not be working! 

Reading Days

Did you have a favorite obscure book when you were a youngster?  I don't mean something like "Anne of Green Gables," which was everyone's favorite.  No, I mean one that almost no one but you read?  One that you found on the library shelf and checked perhaps out because you liked the cover, or its intriguing title?  Or maybe it was in the “Dog” or “Horse” section?  I don’t think that there are “Dog” and “Horse” sections in the libraries these days, but those were the first place I headed in my beloved Carnegie (i.e., beautiful and cozy) library’s basement where the children’s books section was.   It was a wonderful room, gloomy in a delightful way,  and to prove what an antique I am, I will mention that there was even an corner with a number of stereoscopes and boxes and boxes of the appropriate postcards.  The books were sorted in the usual Dewey manner, as well as special sections, like “Dog” or “Horse.”   There was also a “Science Fiction” section, but I steered clear of that one, and have continued steering clear as a lifelong practice.  I don’t know why, but I really hate science fiction.  Odd, given that everyone else in my family loves it. Well, not quite true.  My parents didn’t, I’m sure, as I never saw them reading such a thing, and my aunts definitely do not, but husband and children?  Yes indeed. 

Anyway, back to the favorite book!  “Josie and Joe” was probably not really my favorite book, but certainly my favorite book that no one else had ever read.  And it was the one book in my child-life that I ever dropped while reading in the bathtub.  Imagine my horror!  Somehow my mother made it all okay, and we managed, by careful drying, to get it back to a semblance of its original self.  The plot was simple – Josie was a girl and wanted to do all the things her twin brother Joe did, but being a girl, (in the 1930’s when the book was written) was not allowed to.  At the start, Joe, the star of his Little League team was sick on the day of the big game.  Josie, who was as good an athlete as Joe, cut her hair, pretended (in the Shakespearian manner) to be her brother, and saved the day.  Of course, she still was not allowed to be on the team. Ultimately, she joined 4-H and became a master canner.  How can canning fruits and vegetables make for an exciting story?  You would be surprised.  It really was thrilling.  She also took up 4-H sewing, comforting herself that running a sewing machine was much like running a jigsaw, which boys did, and was therefore, okay.  The message of the book was a bit chauvinist, but I was unaware of these things when I was eight or nine.

When Rebecca was little, I found a copy at the University of Washington’s rare children’s book section, and so she was able to read it.  It became a mutual favorite, which we referred to as “the canning novel.”  Rachael read and liked it too, so it has been a family tradition.  On a recent present giving occasion, Rebecca found the sequel as a gift for me, and this inspired me to seek out the real thing.  The copy I found was obviously loved quite a bit by its previous owner, but so what!  The thrill of canning is still to be found on its raggedy pages, and I am looking forward to revisiting Josie and her tomboy sorrows very, very soon.  In fact as soon as I finish the sequel, which is my current bathroom reading.  I must be careful when reading in the bath tub.

A Perfect Day

Colleen Dorian, mother of Roseanne, and grandmother of Ana

I had the most wonderful day yesterday!  Who would have thought?  The weather had been gloomy and chill recently, and I had to wake up early to go to a funeral.  Not such a great outlook for the day, I thought.  I decided to cycle, and once I got on my way, I realized that the day was October-perfect!  The sun was aglitter and the trees were aglow.  The air was crispy and a tiny bit crunchy. My favorite weather in my favorite month of the year, and I was able to breezily roll along in its perfection.

The perfect Seattle day

  I arrived at the church and looked around.  There was no one I knew, other than the family, and they were doing whatever families have to before funerals, part of which is not paying attention to the likes of me.  That comes afterwards.  I tried to fade from notice and seemed to be succeeding, when I saw the director from a choir I (and most of Coleen’s family) had sung in many years before, and whom I hadn’t been able to chat with for well over a decade.  He looked to be in the same situation as I – a little uncomfortable and not knowing most of the people there.  We made a bee line for one another.  “You can be my date for the day,” I said.  He readily agreed.  Soon others from our old choir arrived. I was so happy to see them.  It was as though no time had elapsed at all, and I felt wrapped in the warmth of their good feeling.  It is such a wonderful thing to meet old friends, not seen for years, and to be able to pick up where you left off as though no decade had intervened.

Coleen, the mother of my friend Roseanne, and grandmother of Ana, whom my faithful readers have met, if not in real life, at least virtually here in blogland, died last week after a long and rough illness.  Her funeral was one of the most moving I have been to, with her family’s love for her apparent in every nuance.  The service was perfect, the music was wonderful.  It included songs that Roseanne (an amazing soprano) and I had often done together in the past.  They had special meaning for both of us, and later, Roseanne said that she had thought of me when selecting the music.  I had been certain that this would have been the case, and had warm rushes when I heard the songs that had so bound us years ago.

Wonderful old friends

I am embarrassed to be sounding like the funeral was all about me, which of course it was not at all.  But the whole thing was such a wonderful experience for me – being with such kind and generous people from whom I had drifted away – and being with Roseanne and her family also, made this one of the best days in a long time. 

Flor - beautiful in every way

Maryanne and Bernadette haven't changed a bit

Celebratory Days

Dakki and Jackie

It’s been a busy few days!  On Saturday, Jackie O’Ryan, my something-eth cousin, something removed, and my Aunt Dakki came to lunch. They are both interested in our mutual ancient ancestors, seven Ryan siblings, who, in the 19th century, emigrated from County Tipperary, arriving in Boston, from whence they all traveled to Chicago, then Colorado, and finally ended up in Seattle in the 1880’s. One of the seven, my Great-grandfather, and his wife Sarah, arrived the day after the Great Seattle Fire, when much of the city was in ashes. Dakki is actually a fount of knowledge on the subject (and many other subjects, I might add.)  She is one of the few remaining folk who actually knew most the original seven and the resulting cousins – a group much like the vast array of Rabbit’s “friends-and-relations.”  It was a fun visit, with lots of family and ecclesiastical gossip – both of which, I adore.

The next day, Sunday was my birthday!  I celebrated by going to church, where we sang the most exquisite music with a little string orchestra.  What a lovely birthday Mass that was!  Then I came home, took a nap, got up, went to church again, came home and took another nap.  I totally missed all my congratulatory phone calls and messages, as I was either in church or sleeping the entire day.  

Today, The Twins came to lunch, and I forgot to take a picture. Then I went to Becca’s for a little birthday celebration with her, Rachael, Tommy, and dear Lillian.  A super yummy dinner (forgot to take pictures again,) and my traditional gingerbread cake.  Delish! 

On rereading this post, I realize that the info therein is the sort of thing of interest only to me.  Oh well!  I have been such a lax poster lately, that I thought I had better think of something to say, even if not up to my usual fascinating standards.

A Miraculous Day

Sr, Ann and Fr.Gallagher

About a week ago, Rebecca was feeling laid up and so we couldn’t do our morning jog.  Instead, I trotted to her house for tea, and then meant to trot home. But, alas, I had hardly gotten started on my way home, when I felt a little “whoosh” in my hip.  I know that a hip can’t really go whoosh, but that is exactly what it felt like. Immediately, my hip hurt – not terribly, but enough to slow me down and to give me a decided limp.  I hobbled home, feeling guilty for walking, as I had committed myself to Becca to jog, but it was just too uncomfortable.  I thought it was probably sciatica, but it didn’t feel exactly like that.  It was strange and unpleasant. About half of my patients have just gotten  new hips – hours before I meet them - and they are usually not terribly happy campers.  The specter of joining their ranks was haunting me. (It is a known fact that medical folk are often inclined to imagine the worst scenario for their own personal  ills.) For the week since, I have been hobbling around, achy, grumpy, and feeling like a very old thing. I even called in sick for half of a shift – although, I felt pretty yucky in other ways too, so the combination made me feel justified – sort of.  A week of shuffling about, whinging incessantly was getting discouraging. 

Today, our choir sang at the funeral of Father William Gallagher, the former pastor of the Cathedral.  He was a pretty spectacular fellow, transforming the Cathedral from a slightly shabby inner-city parish with 400 families – and one that folks were nervous about going to lest they get mugged as they approached the door – to a sparkling inne-rcity parish with 1200 families, a first-rate and nationally noted music program, and many outreach programs to assist the nearby needy. This latter included the Catholic Worker’s Family Kitchen (now the Cathedral Kitchen) where a an excellent, healthy, and free meal is served every weekday of the year.  He was loved by so many – a kind man who did not distinguish or judge.  I recall that once, when I was distress about my troubles with my mother, who could at times, be a real pill, I attended Mass at St James, and his homily, which had something to do with a jar of beans, brought me real peace of mind.  This was probably thirty years ago, but I have not forgotten the profound effect of his words.  I have tried and tried to remember what he said about the jar of beans, but that jar is the only thing of the homily that I remember.  Besides, of course, its solacing effect on me.

What does this have to do with my hip, you might ask.  Well, at the conclusion of the funeral, I was walking down the aisle, toward the exit, when my hip gave a little inner “click.”  Mirabile dictu, the pain was instantly gone!  This was perhaps Father Gallagher’s first saintly miracle!   I strode home in much better spirits than those with which I had limped to church a few hours earlier. 

Our beautiful Cathedral