DREAMS

At first I blamed the late night dinners. Then the tropical climate. Next I targeted the hotel pillows. Or could it be the street lights? Sirens? Finally, I toyed with the thought that maybe becoming a grandmother again had me in a state of mental flux...

I'm still not sure how to pinpoint the cause of my crazy dreams for the past 2 months but, night after night, I spun one after the other and awoke feeling overwhelmed, amazed, confused, disturbed, enchanted.

My dreams usually involved much family, both dead and alive, and there was never a moment when it was carefree or relaxing. No, instead each escapade was fraught with turmoil, exhausting labor, conundrum after conundrum to solve and never solid solutions to any of them.My parents starred in almost every one, my long deceased brother Dan paid a call at least once or twice, my husband, my children and even my pets. Oddly, my two grandchildren, upon which I was consumed the entire time I was visiting Miami, never entered my dreams at all.

The most memorable dream for me began at the farm where I grew up. It was approaching dusk and it appeared a storm was on the horizon. I was standing in a plowed field east of the house and near the old red granary which had been torn down decades ago. My Dad was driving a tractor towards the yard. My Mom appeared in the kitchen window and I was suddenly transported to the lawn as the ground began heaving and cracking. Suddenly, the walls of the house were laid flat, I saw my brothers, even long gone Dan, surround my Mom. Dad and I were attempting to make it it the house. We were separated by islands of land suspended in sky. Somehow we made it, Dad and I and the rest of my family clutched at each other around the old dining room table. When I looked at the floor, I was struck by the carpet. It was the very first wall to wall carpeting my parents had installed in the late 1960's when braided rugs over hardwood maple floors seemed way behind the times.


I'm not sure if I woke up then and rolled over for more adventure or if this was a seamless segue, but my next episode found me at my farm at Cricket Meadow. I was walking through the house with my cousin Cindy and her husband Greg. They were caretakers for me at the farm while I was away and were were trying to solve the dilemma of a foot of water standing in each room. Cindy was wearing a long black wool coat, adorned with a rhinestone pin and had her makeup all in place, including glossy pink lips. Greg was decked in a navy suit and tie. I have no idea what I was wearing, but I was deeply concerned about their feet getting wet. As we pondered the water issue, we bumped into my Mom in the kitchen. She was trying hard to make a stack of antique plates stand propped against the wall of my counter, but they kept crashing and clattering out of place. At that moment, my eye was drawn to a life-sized ceramic figurine of a Victorian lady being moved across the room, by whom and to where, I'm not sure. Finally, we made our way upstairs to the master bedroom and bath but it looked nothing like what I remembered. While I was trying to get my bearings, all of a sudden, my foot was bleeding and two of Cindy and Greg's grown sons, Graham and Colin, rushed to my aid. But blood was leaving my body so fast, we soaked towel after towel in an attempt to staunch the flow. And then I woke up.

Night after night, I was on one Alice in Wonderland adventure after another. It left me scratching my head each morning and trying to make some sense of the collection of images floating through my mind as I remembered them.

I have been home for almost a week now and haven't had or remembered a dream since.

MY PERSONAL NATIVITY

In the predawn light of a frosty mid-Minnesota morning, stepping out into the frigid darkness to “do the chores,” I marveled at the moon’s glow in the western sky, the starlit expanse and, except for the crunch of snow underfoot, the quietness all around me. Replenishing the goats with a slice of hay and a scoop of grain, I was nudged and appreciated, and I gave them each a head rub before leaving their earthy-smelling pen.

 I was reminded of the winter I was 7, young but impressionable, and I’ve never forgotten standing in the middle of the barnyard on a moonlit night, staring up at the “Christmas stars” while the cattle’s moist, warm breath covered me as, one by one, they curiously came to sniff the living statue. I remember climbing into a feed bunk in the straw shed, a primitive-looking shelter made of logs and straw chaff leftover from threshing. Later, I listened intently as the Mennonite neighbors caroled at our doorstep. My mom had a baby that night, the night before Christmas, 50 years ago. The birth of my brother was a magnificent present. The stable, the animals, the “angels” singing, a baby’s birth. It was all part of my world that year, making the blessed Christmas story live for me.

May the story be real for you this year, and every year, and may the blessings of the season be yours.  Merry Christmas! 

CHRISTMAS COCOA

1/4 cup cocoa

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 cup boiling water

Dash cloves and nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

3 cups milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

Whipped cream

Cinnamon sticks

In a medium saucepan, combine cocoa and sugar. Stir in water. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and cook 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Add spices and milk. Simmer 5 minutes, without boiling. Stir in vanilla. Pour cocoa into 4 cups and top with whipped cream. Use cinnamon stick for stirring.

WISEMEN’S FRUITCAKE

1-1/2 cups applesauce

1/2 cup butter

1 cup sugar

2 cups flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

1-1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon cloves

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 pound each: dried cherries, dried cranberries, chopped dates and currants

1/2 cup chopped nuts

In a medium saucepan, boil applesauce, butter and sugar for 5 minutes. Cool. In a mixing bowl, combine 1/2 cup flour with spices and dredge the fruit and nuts in this mixture. Combine applesauce mixture and fruit and nuts. Stir in remaining flour. Pour into 4 small greased loaf pans and bake at 325 degrees for 35 minutes. Before baking, place a pan of water on oven rack below fruitcake to keep moist.

CHRISTMAS MORNING CRANBERRY LOAF

2 cups flour

1 cup sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/3 cup orange juice

1/2 cup water

1 egg, beaten

2 tablespoons melted butter

1 cup chopped walnuts

1 cup raw, halved cranberries

In a large mixing bowl, stir together all ingredients. Pour batter into1 large or 4 mini greased loaf pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 to 50 minutes for large loaf, 15 to 20 minutes for mini loaves.

SWEDISH CARDAMOM BRAID

1 cup milk

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon salt

2 packets dry yeast

1 teaspoon sugar

1/2 cup very warm water

1 egg

1/4 cup butter

2 teaspoons ground cardamom

4 to 5 cups flour

Heat milk and sugar in a medium saucepan. Stir in salt and yeast that has been soaked in water with 1 teaspoon sugar. Stir in egg, butter and cardamom. Add flour, one cup at a time. Knead till smooth and elastic. Cover and let rise till doubled. Punch down and divide dough into thirds. On a cookie sheet, form dough into braid. Let rise again. Brush with butter, sprinkle with coarse sugar and bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes.

FOOD AND FIREARMS

In 1971, when I was 15, I learned two things: I loved the restaurant business and having a gun in my possession empowered me. I remembered that as I prepared a salad for dinner last night and was reminded of my first official, go-to-work, get-a-check job. I was hired at the Westwood Inn on Green Lake to work in the kitchen as a “salad girl.”

The salad bar concept was making its debut out this way in the early 70’s. Our salad bar at Westwood was a long table covered with a white linen cloth in the corner of the dining room. No sneeze guard, no ice compartments. It was laden with lettuce and all the fixings, salad dressings and soups and other accompaniments like cole slaw, potato saladin larger ice-filled bowls, and mountains of freshly baked popovers under a heat lamp.

My job was to prep dozens of heads of iceberg lettuce, the only choice of greens back then, by peeling the outer leaves, knocking the stem out of the bottom with one swift blow on a hard surface which left the core on the counter, and placing the heads in tubs covered with damp dish towels. On a Saturday night, we could go through at least a dozen or two heads. I also made up the dressings, exotic French, bleu cheese and Italian, and cruets of oil and vinegar available for the calorie conscious. I diligently patrolled the table, replenishing the bowls and keeping it tidy.

I loved my job and worked my way up to other positions: hostessing, waiting tables in the restaurant and serving and bartending in the cocktail lounge. Burt Lundberg played the organ on weekend nights and couples danced on the lower level glassed-in patio as the moon rose over Green Lake. Pretty romantic. It was a beautiful place to learn the ins and outs of food, which I never stopped being passionate about. 

On weekends, I didn’t get out of the kitchen very early and, after breaking down the salad bar and cleaning up my station, I would have to walk across the dark parking lot, lit only by tiki torches, across the road and into a gravel lot next to a wooded area to get into my car. My mother, always safety-conscious, made me carry a gun in the car. That was to protect me if I went in the ditch or had a flat tire on the way home and encountered a thug on a lonely country road. Where I really should have had the gun was on my walk to the car. For weeks, I was stalked by one of the creepiest men I have ever seen, with wild hair, a cock-eye and one black glove. But that’s another story. He disappeared in a night, never to surface again. Much like the old Westwood Inn itself. It burned to the ground on December 7, 1974. I, along with most of the staff, stood shivering in the snow, tears of sadness sliding down our frozen cheeks as we said goodbye to our dear friend.

I often relive my years at that lovely place and remember the fun we all had and the bonds that were forged. I think it is safe to say, most of us, if things were different, would be working there still.  

WESTWOOD WEDGE

1 head iceberg lettuce, cut into 4 wedges

Cherry tomatoes, halved

Bacon, fried crisp and crumbled (reserve 4 slices for garnish)

Bleu cheese

Bleu cheese dressing

Fresh cracked pepper

Place iceberg wedges on 4 plates. Top and surround with tomatoes. Drizzle bleu cheese dressing over lettuce. Sprinkle bacon and bleu cheese crumbles over top. Add fresh cracked pepper. Place 1 slice crisp bacon on top for garnish. 

SALAD BAR POPOVERS

1-1/2 tablespoons butter, melted

1-1/2 cups flour

3/4 teaspoon salt

3 large eggs, room temperature

1-1/2 cups milk, room temperature

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Generously grease popover pan or glass custard cups with softened butter. Place pans in oven for 2 minutes to preheat. Meanwhile, whisk together flour, salt, eggs, milk and melted butter until smooth. Batter will be thin. Fill popover pan or cups less than half full and bake for 30 minutes. Don’t open oven while baking. Remove and serve immediately with honey butter.

ARMED AND DANGEROUS BUCKSHOT BROWNIES

1/2 cup butter

1 cup sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/3 cup cocoa

1/2 cup flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 cup toffee bits

Powdered sugar

In a mixing bowl, combine butter and sugar. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Stir in cocoa, flour, salt and baking powder. When totally combined, blend in toffee bits. Spread in a greased 8 inch square pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes. Sprinkle powdered sugar over top. Cool and cut into squares.  

THE THREE R's

It’s getting to be that time of year when we batten down the hatches and make ready for Old Man Winter. I have been doing just that this past month by putting things away in the potting shed, where I store my garden tools, hoses, pots and watering cans. The shed also holds a fair share of non-gardening items, like Christmas lights, sunflower seed and suet for the birds, burlap potato sacks, picnic baskets, even my old loom which ceased to live in the house after my frustrating weaving experiences. So much for becoming a hippie.

I had completely forgotten an old milk can that was also among the bric-a-brac, covered as it was by a mountain of clay pots. There it was, my Home Ec. project from high school. For a home improvement unit, we were to Reclaim and Recondition an item to Reuse. The three R’s. I confiscated the can from my Dad’s pile of stuff in the machine shed and decided it would be fun to paint and fashion it into an ashtray, since most people I knew back then were smokers. I personally preferred to get my smoke quota by burning incense in my room. My favorite scent was “Campfire.”

To complete my school project, after thoroughly cleaning the can, I painted it blue with an “antiquing” overlay, all the rage in the 70’s. I then cut and pasted flowers out of wallpaper leftover from what I had on the walls in my room. Lastly, I sealed it with a protective coating and placed a dish in the cover for incense ash. It was well received at school by all who saw it but garnered an “F” from my teacher. She wasn’t fond of me, I guess. I protested and won. The grade was changed to an “A,” but she contended that my attitude was questionable and therefore felt I deserved what I got the first time around. All that creative energy, passion and ambition. Sprinkled with just a touch of rebellion, I guess.

I used and enjoyed that handy-dandy household item throughout high school and college and must have liked it well enough to keep it around for 40 odd years. As I remembered where that milk can/ashtray sat at different times in my old bedroom, I pictured my dresser, matched by my skilled paintbrush with the same blue antiquing, the mule deer mount above my bed, the birch branch with the bird’s nest in the corner, the steamer trunk upon which sat my stereo blaring my favorites, Carole King, Boz Skaggs and Neil Young, along with some occasional Gypsy. On one wall was a portrait of an Indian Chief I painted in art class and, above my dresser, my mirror was draped with hippie beads, headbands and feathers.  Just above that, hung a slab of wood (we were all about something from nothing back then) upon which I mounted the railroad spike I put in the tire of Dad’s ’69 Dodge truck. I still have that, too. It was a symbol to me of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, what that meant to me and what He’s done in my life: Reclaim, Recondition, Reuse.

POTTING SHED SUNFLOWER SEED COOKIES

1-1/2 cups butter

1-1/2 cups sugar

1 tablespoon baking soda

1 tablespoon baking powder

3 cups flour

1 cup coconut

1 cup sunflower seeds

In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add baking soda, baking powder and flour. Mix well. Stir in coconut and sunflower seeds. Shape into 1 inch balls and bake on ungreased cookie sheets at 350 degrees for 15 minutes, or until lightly browned.

HOME EC BAKED POTATO SOUP

2 tablespoons butter

1 onion, chopped

2 stalks celery, diced

1/2 cup flour

5 cups milk (can use half chicken broth)

7 pounds baked potatoes, peeled and cut up

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

4 ounces cheddar cheese

4-6 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled (save a little for garnish)

1 cup sour cream

Fresh parsley

In a stock pot, melt butter. Stir in onions and celery. Saute. Sprinkle in half the flour and stir well with a whisk. Gradually whisk in milk and the rest of the flour. Bring to a simmer, stirring occasionally. Stir in potatoes, then add salt and pepper, cheese and bacon. Once heated through, stir in sour cream, stir and serve. Garnish each bowl with a sprig of fresh parsley, a sprinkle of grated cheddar cheese and a few bacon crumbles.

HIPPIE BARS

1 cup butter

1 cup sugar

2 cups brown sugar

3 cups peanut butter

1 teaspoon baking soda

6 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

2-1/2 cups oatmeal

1/2 cup pumpkin seeds

1/2 cup coconut

1/8 cup sesame seeds

1/2 cup dried cranberries

1 cup walnuts, lightly chopped

1 cup pistachios, lightly chopped

1 cup almonds, lightly chopped

1 cup chocolate chips

In a large mixing bowl, cream butter and sugars. Blend in peanut butter. Stir in baking soda. Beat in eggs. Add vanilla. Stir well. Mix in all other ingredients. Press into a sheet pan. Chill for 1 hour. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes, until golden brown. Cut into bar

A STITCH IN TIME

Back in the fall of 1968, when I was in 7^th grade at Grove City High School, (7^th-12^thgrades were all lumped together back then), I wore a skirt to school for Homecoming and the reason I remember this is that skirt landed me in the Principal’s office. I must have grown over the summer, because the lovely eggplant velveteen skirt from the winter before, didn’t meet the school code length requirement.

That morning, when our family of 6 had whirled around the house doing chores, making breakfast, cleaning up and dashing to the bus, nobody was really policing the other’s clothing choices. I still remember my outfit: a loden green sweater, tights and the oh-so-fashionable chunk heeled shoes. And I remember thinking that I looked just fine in the mirror that morning. My body tended toward lean and leggy back then (in no way sexy) but, boy oh boy, you’d think my appearance would cause a major distraction with the way I was heralded to the front of the class and herded to the principal’s office. The principal, never a fan of mine or vice versa, smugly measured my skirt with me in a kneeling position and pointed to the Home Ec room where I was given the task of taking down the hem on my skirt and re-hemming it to the desired length. Well, I couldn’t even sew a button on back then. I was almost in tears as I rummaged in the sewing box dear, sweet Mrs. Minke handed to me. She sympathized with me but supported the rules and suggested a seam ripper when I reached for the pinking shears. I think I toyed with the idea of cutting it into a miniskirt. She then found me some matching thread. Are you kidding? She hadn’t had me in Home Ec class yet, so she overestimated my abilities.

The hem came down fast enough with only a few piercings in the delicate fabric. Once I got the needle threaded, I struggled to neatly tuck the bottom of the skirt to the desired length, measuring and taping as best I could. A simple baste was suggested. Okay. Yup. Got it.  NOT! I really didn’t mind missing math or science. But, instead of looking like an even bigger loser, I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t possibly complete this project before the end of the day. So, I simply stopped mid-stream and taped it the rest of the way before hightailing it out of the room and into the 3^rd hour class.

When I got home and recounted the tale of woe to my Mom, she threw her arms around me assuring me that, yes, we needed to respect the rules and then move on. Her motto was always to pick your battles. There were better hills to die on, bigger fish to fry. And respect authority, no matter how illogical it seems. She just felt badly that she hadn’t paid more attention to me that morning.

I may be a bit scarred by this event, seeing that I still remember every detail. I just wish that Mrs. Minke (and maybe the principal) could see the domestic goddess that I’ve become, the handiwork that I have completed. Some pretty fine stitches. I wish they could know that. And that I never even became a hooker in a short skirt.  

SKIRT STEAK

1 pound skirt steak

Extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

Salt and freshly ground pepper

In a shallow baking dish, season steak with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with olive oil and toss with vinegar to coat. Set aside for 30 minutes. Grill over medium high heat 2 to 3 minutes per side for medium rare, 3 to 5 minutes for medium. Slice steak thin on the bias and serve immediately.

SCHOOL RULES HOTDISH

8 ounces egg noodles, cooked and drained

1 pound ground beef

1 onion, chopped

1 cup celery, chopped

Salt and pepper to taste

1 box mushrooms, sliced

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 can milk

Cheddar cheese, shredded

Cook noodles according to package directions. In a large skillet, brown beef with onion and celery. Add salt and pepper to taste. When meat is browned and onion and celery are tender, add mushrooms and cook until tender. In a small bowl combine soup and milk measured in empty soup can. Combine all ingredients in a greased 1-1/2 or 2 quart baking dish. Sprinkle shredded cheese over top and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.

 HOMECOMING PUMPKIN CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

1 cup butter

1 cup sugar

1 cup brown sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup canned pumpkin

3 cups flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ginger

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon cloves

2 cups milk chocolate chips

In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugars together. Beat in eggs and then add vanilla and pumpkin. Stir in flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves. Mix well. Stir in chocolate chips. Drop spoonfuls of dough onto baking sheets and bake at 350 for 15 to 20 minutes until cookies are browned around the edges. 

GUN TRAINING REVISITED

Back when I was in junior high, I took a firearms safety class. Gun Training, it was called back then. As I recall, I was about the only girl in the room. But I always wanted to do what my brothers did and my older brother had taken the class the year before.

I’m not exactly sure if I thought I would become a hunter. I often observed my Dad using a gun around the farm to keep critters at bay or harvest a pheasant for dinner.  What got me most excited about taking the class was the prospect of being a part of his hunting trips. When I was young, he would head to the north woods for deer in the fall. But what really intrigued me, was the annual trip planning sessions he had with his friend, Gust Johnson. Gust would usually come over to our house for 2 or 3 nights prior to the hunt for antelope or mule deer out west, often to Wyoming or Montana. Spread out over the dining room table, would be maps, addresses and plans for when and where exactly they would go. And then out came the cigars, smoked in contentment as plans were finalized. I was largely ignored but politely addressed as I served snacks Mom put together in the kitchen. Sandwiches and fruit, cocoa and popcorn or cake and coffee were set before the men and I vicariously lived their adventures through my eavesdropping.

It all sounded so exciting, the road trip through the Dakota prairies and on to the majestic mountains of the West. I wasn’t surprised that I wasn’t included. Mom never was and never cared. She welcomed a vacation of her own, to Women’s Retreat at Trout Lake, or a visit to a friend, or just a chance to catch up on projects or hobbies put aside for the busy schedules on a farm.

When Dad encouraged me to sign up for Gun Training, believing everyone should have the ability to use a weapon, I was eager to comply. Did I really think he would take me out West? I’m sure I did. But it just wasn’t in the cards for me to become a hunter. That following winter, Dad’s hunting buddy passed away and he pretty much gave up hunting. Shortly after that, my cousin committed suicide with a shotgun and I simply dismissed guns from my life. Ironically, my father’s life ended the same way twenty years later. I distanced myself from guns even more.

A few years ago, I decided to stop fearing the weapon and embrace the hobby of owning and shooting guns. I am happy to report that, though I may never kill an animal and really have no interest in hunting anymore, I am crazy about shooting at targets and have found it to be as interesting as any hobby I’ve ever had.

I recently came across my copy of Sportman’s Hunting Digest, the manual we students had to study way back in that Gun Training class. Upon completion of the course, I earned a badge (which I also still have) certifying my skill in safely handling a firearm. But the mule deer mount Dad gave me after one of his trips (did he know how much I wanted to share his experiences?) that hung over my bed back then, somehow disappeared over the years.

But my Montana son, Haakon, now living the dream I never experienced, is providing all the meat and mounts we will ever need or want.

ROAD DITCH CHICKEN

4 small pheasants, cleaned and rinsed

1/2 pound bacon

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 cup sour cream

1 cup water

1 small onion, chopped

1 packet dry onion soup mix

1 cup sliced mushrooms

Salt and pepper to taste

Place prepared pheasants in a slow cooker. Wrap or cover the pheasants with bacon slices. In a medium bowl, whisk together all other ingredients. Pour over pheasants. Cook on low for 8 to 10 hours or on high for 5 to 7 hours. Serve with wild rice.

VENISON STEW

2 tablespoons oil

2 pounds venison

3 onions

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

1 bay leaf

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

Salt and pepper, to taste

3 cups water

7 small potatoes, peeled and quartered

1 pound carrots, peeled and sliced

1/4 cup flour

1/4 cup water

In a skillet, brown meat in oil. Add onions and garlic, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaf, oregano, salt, pepper and water. Simmer, covered, for 1-1/2 to 2 hours, or until meat is tender. Add potatoes and carrots and cook until done. Whisk together flour and water. Stir into stew. Heat thoroughly and serve.

HUNTER’S CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

2 cups shortening

2 cups sugar

2 cups brown sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

2 teaspoons baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

5 eggs

5-1/2 cups flour

2 cups chocolate chips

In a large mixing bowl, cream butter and sugars. Beat in eggs, vanilla, baking soda and salt. Beat until well blended. Add flour. Stir well. Stir in chips. Drop by spoonfuls onto cookie sheets. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 to 8 minutes. Cool on wire racks.