Archive for April, 2011

Cold Snaps and Warm Rewards

April 20, 2011

You’ve heard the expression “cold snap.” Well, in a classic Minnesota-style April weather pattern, we experience something more like a crackle – a long, succession of snaps. Picture an obsessive person in possession of a chunk of bubble wrap. 

So-o-o-o, we may cycle from a flash of T-shirt weather to 34° and snowy within just a few days. Then it’s a bump back up to 55° for a day, followed by warnings of another 2-3 inches of snow due to hit on the Wednesday before Easter. I’m sure you can sympathize with our feeling a bit disgruntled over the whole “Is it spring, or isn’t it?” game. 

But on that one glorious 70° day last week, as the little Moon Dog and I step outside into a swaddling of warm air and a shower of sunbeams, my giddiness drives me to Spoonerisms. “Ah, yes,” say I, my voice infused with delight. “The churds are burping and the shun is signing and my sood fairly moars.” 

I actually did utter that first part, surprised by my own spontaneous burst of playfulness. But that was last week. I am jerked back to the chilly present by the announcement that we have inched our way up (pun entirely intended) to number four on the list of snowiest winters on record. Forced into cranking the ol’ furnace back on, I seek out an escape to the fantasy land of pastel Easters Past via internet searches for holiday-themed recipes. 

Such ventures tend to distract for the moment. However, even color photo images of coconut-topped cakes, warm rhubarb compote, and tangerine semifreddo with salted almond brittle can’t erase the shudder-inducing image of that recently, if fleetingly, whitened front lawn that is my Midwestern reality. As all bumpy roads seem to lead to culinary resolutions, I abandon my cares to a good old-fashioned spell of kitchen therapy. There is Easter dinner to be planned and there are jelly bean-topped cupcakes to be baked; there are leftovers in the fridge that call out for some creative recycling. And how about a roasted pear take-off on a web-inspired dessert, and that marvelous pork chop marinade that I simply must pass along? 

To back up a bit, I couldn’t believe my good luck one lunchtime as I discovered that I had leftover rice, rotisserie chicken, chicken sausage, and frozen shrimp, all on-hand at the same time. Dismay soon displaced joy, though, as I scoured my resources for a basic recipe for gumbo. “Basic recipe for dietary disaster,” I was soon mumbling to myself. The approaches I came across called for up to ¾ of a cup of oil and 1-1/2 cups of flour. Yecch squared. My version is a simple soup, not an entire week’s worth of fat and white carbs in a single bowl, and it was mighty darned good, as I am prone to saying so myself. 

All-combined, I am duly motivated to share these happy discoveries, and now present you with a random selection of warm and rewarding gustatory gifts. The Leftover Queen’s Chicken, Sausage, and Shrimp Gumbo is, as implied, an original concoction; Marinated Pork Chops Extraordinaire is an adaptation of a formula found online at Planet Tess (; Roasted Pear Halves with Figs and Queso Fresco was inspired by a more sophisticated offering at; and the decidedly decadent Peanut Butter-Filled Fudge Cupcakes I dug up from my 31-year-old copy of Better Homes and Gardens All-Time Favorite Cake and Cookie Recipes. Sweet. (Pun virtually required.) (more…)

April 23, 2011 at 1:45 am Leave a comment

A Life of Service

What’s the best thing about being a centenarian? To Viola Schweikert, who celebrates her 101st birthday this July, it’s “Looking back and realizing how supremely blessed I have been, blessed beyond anything I could ever have hoped for.” To observers, one of the best things about Viola Schweikert is that very attitude of unqualified appreciation amidst the trials of life on earth. 

As the first of four children born into a modest household, Viola’s personal pilgrimage began in 1910 in Glencoe, Minnesota, just 46 miles west of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul. Decades later, French filmmaker Louis Malle was moved to document living conditions in this small rural community in his 1985 film, God’s Country. 

“We were poor,” she says, recalling the tiny two-story home she grew up in: three bedrooms upstairs; on the lower level, a kitchen, a dining room, and a parlor that served as her grandmother’s bedroom. Heat from the wood-burning stove didn’t rise to the upper level, “So in the winter time, we children would run as fast as we could up the stairs to get under the covers.” Bed-sharing among the siblings was a practical necessity, and it had its benefits during the cold months. “Viola, you’re like a furnace,” little sister Loretta would exclaim. 

With her father rising at 4:30 a.m. to empty the parlor heater of ash and putting in long days as a painter and a paper-hanger, and her mother efficiently operating a non-mechanized household of seven, Viola’s personal work ethic was molded by her parents’ examples of uncomplaining hard work and a desire to usher their children toward a better standard of living. 

Poor or not, their simple lifestyle with a family cow providing milk must have seemed downright luxurious, compared to the experiences of their ancestors. “My father’s father was living in Germany when he heard about the Homestead Act,” which allowed anyone who had never taken up arms against the United States government to submit an application for a freehold title to up to 160 acres of undeveloped federal land west of the Mississippi. In order to complete the contract, the approved applicant then had to improve the land and file for a deed. 

Viola’s grandfather booked unpaid passage to the United States on a cargo ship, and worked at the New York Harbor docks until his transport was paid for. Steered by his brother to “some real good land” in Minnesota, he got off the train in Paynesville and hiked for four hours until he saw “nice, loamy soil” underfoot, declaring that he would settle and make his living on that spot. 

But free land was not a free ride.  Viola’s grandfather then labored for local farmers to earn cash to buy tools to erect the permanent structures required by his Homestead Act agreement. Meanwhile, the enterprising immigrant often sought shelter from harsh winter winds behind a snowbank as he developed his own claimed property. His children would later recount how they “slept in the loft of a log cabin chinked with moss,” and had to shake the snow from their covers on frigid February mornings. 

Viola retains a razor-sharp recollection of long-past events, and a sincere respect for the tribulations endured by her father’s generation. Based on a century of life experience and a unique historical perspective, she confirms with authority the often-heard observation that today’s young people have no conception of what hardship is.When my father was growing up, sugar was a luxury item. During the Christmas season, his mother would send him to the store with a quarter, and he would buy a small bag of it so she could make kuchen, a cinnamon coffee cake – a once a year treat which the family deeply appreciated.” 

In Viola’s own childhood home, her mother stretched the food budget by making potato dumplings. “They were very heavy, so I would try to get away with serving myself only a bite or two.” But homemakers proudly defended and protected their recipes in those days, and her mother resisted adopting a neighbor’s approach to feather-light dumplings made from the Calumet Baking Powder Cookbook. 

Stomach-ladening dumplings aside, country living was healthy living, with plenty of outdoor activities, a long walk to school in the fresh air, home-grown vegetables from the garden, and plenty of chores to help the children learn how to contribute and accept responsibility. 

As the oldest, Viola rose early to gather potatoes from the root cellar and prepare them for use at the noon meal. “They weren’t like you get from the store,” she remembers. “They were crusted with soil and my hands got too dirty to scrub clean. I was self-conscious about this, so I would try to hide them once I got to school, where all the other kids had nice, clean hands.” Still, school was one of her favorite places to be, especially reading class, and Viola ended up being the only one in her family to complete twelfth grade. 

“Most confirmation-age girls got sent out to work on neighboring farms from 6 a.m. until 9 p.m., and ended up marrying the farmers’ sons and being tied to the land,” she recalls, “so I was very fortunate.” She was also fortunate to be raised in a family that attended German evangelical Lutheran church services regularly, and she remembers giving thanks before each meal.

Viola’s vivid mental photo album retains a picture of a tall, stately pine tree placed at the front of the sanctuary each Christmas, decorated with the glow of many five inch candles. It illuminated the altar area so enchantingly that it captivated her childhood attention – and left her severely disappointed when the candles were too-soon doused by safety-conscious ushers wielding wet sponges attached to long poles. 

When she was 15, the town jeweler and his wife sought out Viola as a babysitter for their daughter. “My job was to feed [my charge], Holly, bathe her, put her to bed, and read her stories until she fell asleep.” Viola would then spend the night, and get up the next morning to make breakfast for the family and clean the house – a child-tender with a heavy load of household duties. Soon her reputation for diligence – learned from striving to satisfy a hard-to-please mother – led to a succession of domestic positions. 

As an older teenager, Viola took a job at the local drug store for $10.00 per week of nine-hour work days. Her predecessor, Leo, had lost favor with the boss when he broke eight glasses in one month. Conscientious Viola was soon making a full $12.00 a week, having completed three months of employment without smashing a single piece of fountain ware. From time to time her drugstore coworkers invited Viola to go out with them at the end of their shift, but she wasn’t interested. Her character-revealing response? “What I want in life, I am not going to find in a dance hall.” 

What she did want in life was an education. After she had helped her sister pay tuition for beauty school using money she earned as church organist, Viola enrolled at Stevens Seminary – a private, liberal arts college founded by a gentleman who believed that women should be as well-educated as men. 

The rest of what she wanted in life was gradually defined for her by a persistent young pre-seminary student named George who visited his sister, Viola’s neighbor, during his “last free summer” before going off to college in Springfield, Illinois. He was interested in Viola, but she thought she was too young for him. “Get lost,” she responded plainly when he wrote to her following his summer visit. “But he didn’t hear me,” she adds all these years later.  (more…)

April 15, 2011 at 4:18 am Leave a comment

Paving the Way for Welcome Surprises

My stepchildren in Texas tell me they are enjoying a summer-like 82 degrees this last week of March. Up north, the pup and I walk streets bordered with an almost sculptural, frothy meringue of slowly receding snow accumulation, and at 28 during a pre-breakfast trot, our temperature is reversed. But the natural artistry of that crystallized curb-cover enchants me. “What a welcome surprise,” I observe to my unimpressed furry companion, “wrapping up a prolonged arctic season of not-so-welcome-surprises.” 

Life is like that, too. In varying degrees, our paths may be strewn with unanticipated unpleasantries. Perhaps that’s why the joy of an unforeseen gift has such a glitter about it. In my own experience, the real tragedies have been things I brought upon myself – natural consequences of accepting the group-think mentality of the popular culture. (“PC” stands for “politically correct” in most circles; to me it stands for “practically comatose,” as in, don’t bother applying critical thinking, just float along on the stream of conventional wisdom.) 

I am perpetually thankful to have those mindless days behind me. But in the course of doing a bit of moving around and a lot of floundering as a young adult, I ended up in my late-thirties with a wonderful husband, a fresh start, and trunk loads of regret over having lost touch with important people in my life. One day about fifteen years ago, said wonderful husband – who is also patient and eminently rational – responded to my moanings on this subject with a suggestion: Maybe I could locate one of the parents of my two dearest fourth-through-ninth grade girl friends, whose friendship I desperately missed.  

A decade and a half later, I have reconnected with, corresponded with, visited and been visited by, and now communicate regularly with both – two gems from the past, unearthed and treasured. What an astonishing turn of events, to be accepted back into their lives unconditionally, after decades of separation.  As a bonus, the sibling of one of them has joined the group, making us a jolly “sistahood” of four. Precious stuff. 

Emboldened by this discovery, I reached out to others: a former mother-in-law whom I adored, which led to visits with an admired former sister-in-law as well; a long-lost cousin with whom I share bonds of common interests and faith that I would never have imagined; another like-minded cousin discovered by accident on Facebook just last year; my best friend from high school, whose brother I tracked down and took to lunch one day, the ripples of re-acquaintance spreading from there; former neighbors and high school chums.

When my father became seriously ill five years ago, I also contacted people from our shared past. In particular two very dear men, one my father’s best friend from graduate school whose memory and influence have never left me, and who kindly emailed me daily when Dad’s health crisis was at a climax. The second, one of my dad’s navy buddies, another very dear man whose delightful caretaker son – whom I last saw when he was still a mischievous tween – turns out to be a spiritual “brother” whom I now count as a trusted friend and confidante. 

Each of these “reconnectings” has been a blessing in my life. Welcome and unexpected gifts, cautiously rewoven from the remnants of important ties once eroded through neglect and self-consciousness. Little surprise packages dropped on my doorstep by a loving Heavenly Father. 

Bringing about unexpected moments of wonder is, of course, much simpler when it comes to the culinary realm. Let’s explore a few possibilities together, and then invite an old friend over for an interestingly unpredictable menu of, say, Arabic stuffed zucchini known as Kusa Mashi, a Salad of Marinated Vegetables, and Mango Coconut Bread Pudding for dessert. Non-foodies, feel free to jump to the last paragraph. (more…)

April 4, 2011 at 1:36 pm Leave a comment

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