Chili and Football go together like hotdogs and baseball

We had a few days of cooler weather here in sunny F-L-A, causing me to crave chili; not just any chili, but what I like to say was my dad's "favorite."
Okay, in the interest of true disclosure - it really wasn't his favorite. Truth be told, my father was like Mikey on the old Life cereal commercials; he'd eat anything. And, although he did eat my chili with all the fervor of someone who had been starved for months, he also sat down to every meal with that same penchant for eating. He loved my mother's cooking and looked forward to every meal (especially dessert), often saying he taught her how to cook. Somehow, I can't see that as being true, either, but who knows? Mom was right out of high school when they got married, and I can't remember her ever denying Dad's claims.

Every year, for more than 30 years, a local civic organization of which my husband is a member, has hosted a chili cookoff, with funds raised going to children's charities. BH (meaning before the hurricane season of 2004) members had reached a peak of raising more than $200,000 at the annual event, but unfortunately the back-to-back hurricanes Frances and Jeanne caused much damage to the area, and the chili cookoff faced major setbacks. That's okay, though, because those same members have continued their efforts, rebuilding the kitty and the attendance.

The cookoff is a sanctioned chili competition, meaning that many rules must be followed. One of those rules is that the chili cannot have any beans in it, and another is that it cannot be served with rice or pasta. It can be made using any meat, or no meat at all, but it must stand on its own merit without beans, rice or pasta. And that's how I definitely know it was not my father's favorite. Although he ate my chili and enjoyed it, he preferred beans in his chili and he preferred that it be served over rice, like my mother made it. But I don't. And since I'm the cook with the copy of the recipe, there are no beans and no rice.

My dad did love sports! Give him a team from Anywhere, Illinois, and he'd watch for hours. He was particularly a baseball fan and a football fan. Even after being placed in nursing home care because of Alzheimer's disease, he could watch Cubs baseball and Dolphin football for hours.  He also loved going to the chili cookoff, so what better way to honor my dad than with making a pot of chili for the "big game?"

I have several chili recipes that have come from winning cooks over the years, and the one I'm sharing with you just in time for the super football game is definitely one of  my favorites. It's what I'd take with me to my parents' house for our little game-watching parties.
It's not too spicy, so if you have a hankerin' for smokin' hot chili, this won't be the recipe for you. It's also not thick, but has something more of a soupy consistency. In my opinion, this chili stands proudly on its own, enabling you to savor the flavor of each ingredient. It won one of the cookoffs back in the late 1980s.

Here's the recipe:
4-lbs. ground beef                                  1-lb. sausage
2 stalks celery, chopped                         1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 small hot green pepper, chopped (optional)
4 medium onions, chopped                    15 oz. tomato sauce
24 oz V-8 vegetable juice                      five 16 oz. cans of stewed tomatoes, well chopped
1 1/2 tsp. onion salt                                3 tsp. garlic powder
3/4 tsp. basil                                           4 tsp. cumin (go lighter if it's too spicy for you)
6 tsp. chili powder (go  lighter if it's too spicy for you)
1 tsp. oregano
1 tsp. brown sugar
salt and pepper to taste

In a large skillet, brown the beef and sausage. Drain and set aside.

 In a large soup pot, saute' the celery, peppers and onions.

When complete, pour meat into pot and add the tomato sauce and V-8 juice. Stir well.
Add the finely chopped stewed tomatoes. Stir well.
Add all of the spices and the brown sugar, stirring until well blended.
Simmer slowly - at least two hours - stirring often.

I actually halved the recipe. This photo was taken before it had simmered for several hours.

Dad liked to have lots and lots of saltines with his chili, but I've taken it up just a notch with these cheese crackers made from a combination of grated asiago, Romano, Parmesan and provolone cheeses.
And you make them like this:
You can buy the four cheeses already combined or you can grate the cheeses and combine them yourself. Preheat the oven to 350-degrees. Put a piece of parchment paper on your baking sheet, and then put small handfuls of the cheese combo into stacks on the sheet. (They will look like little haystacks)

Bake at 350-degrees for about 5-10 minutes, depending upon how big you stacks of cheese are. Keep a watchful eye on them, as you don't want them to scorch.
Here's what they'll look like when you pull them out of the oven.

And here's a bowl of chili and some cheese crackers just for you.

Enjoy the game and "Go Noles!"
Oops, wrong game.

What Dreams May Come -or- The Healing Force of Cooking

I don't dream often. Well, let's put it this way: if I do dream, I don't remember them when I awaken.
In the quiet of my mother's bedroom, when I first come home from work, I plead for a visit from her in my dreams...so I can see her, hug her, talk to her and know that she's okay and the right decision was made.
It hasn't happened, but something else did and I was ecstatic.

Since my father's passing more than 11-years ago, I can only recall seeing him in one dream, but on the eve of it being four months since my mother passed away, my father came to me in a dream, and it went like this:
Although I did not actually see my mother in the dream, my memory of the dream begins with my husband, Mom and me having breakfast. Mother soon got up from the table (again, I never actually saw her in the dream). She was gone for quite some time and I went looking for her. I couldn't find her anywhere, and after looking in her bedroom and her living room, I came out into the hallway and there was Daddy at the end of the hall. He had the biggest smile on his face. (My dad was always laughing, joking and smiling.) I ran to him and hugged him and he hugged me.
I asked, "What are you doing here, Dad?"
(Even though it was a dream, I was still fully aware that my father had been placed in a nursing home because of his need to wander and that was because of Alzheimer's disease. I knew he should be in the nursing home.)
His reply, "They're all busy there."
(No clue what that meant)
We hugged some more and I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt, those hugs were real. To this minute, I still feel his strong arms around me and I still see his comforting smile, assuring me he's fine. I can't even begin to explain how much that means to me. There simply are no words.
We let go of each other and I remember thinking that as soon as I found Mom, I'd see him, again. But I never found my mother, and when I went back to the end of the hallway where Dad had been standing, he was gone.
That was the end of my dream as I remember it.
I awoke.
The dream had played out to such reality that I needed to get out of bed and look around the house. Of course, no one was there.

That was the single most "realistic-feeling" dream I've ever had, and it left a lasting effect on me. Throughout yesterday, I was filled with discontent and torment as I tried to analyze the dream. Clearly filled with joy at seeing Dad, why couldn't I be content with that? Instead, I was also disappointed that I hadn't actually seen my mother's face, and that I hadn't been able to speak to her.

I'm working hard at trying to face my feelings and cope with them. I've learned the importance of allowing my emotions their freedom and the importance of working through my personal pain caused by the loss...usually reaching for a project to work on as I deal with things, and always a project that was taught to me by my mother.

So, it was time for some kitchen therapy.
After a visit to our local Saturday farmers' market, I came home ready to make Heirloom tomato soup, some fresh tomato sauce and some chili.

This is a very, very simple recipe for tomato sauce my mother taught me -- keep in mind, we are the farthest thing from being Italian, so her recipe is likely very different from others. But, it's also very light.

All you need is:
12 plum tomatoes, quartered
4 cloves of garlic
1 large onion, chopped into chunks
Fresh basil
oregano
salt and pepper
olive oil
(Optional -- bell peppers)

Preheat oven to 350-degrees.
Cut the tomatoes and onion into chunks and spread out on a large baking sheet. If you are including peppers in your sauce, cut them into chunks and also place on the baking sheet. Dice or press the garlic cloves and sprinkle across the top. You can use fresh basil and oregano and place the leaves on top, or you can sprinkle your spices over the top. Add salt and pepper to taste, and sprinkle with a light coating of olive oil (I used Organic Blood Orange Olive Oil I bought at the farmer's market).

Pop the baking sheet into the oven for about an hour. It's done when a fork can easily go through the onion. Your house will spell like the inside of an Italian restaurant! Delicioso!

When it comes out of the oven, remove the leaves, then put the roasted veggies into your food-processor. (Back in the day, my mother would use a little chopper she had, since she didn't have a food-processor) Let the whole amount cool to room temperature before storing in the refrigerator. But you can bag this up in zip-locks and freeze it, also.

Here's my sauce -- all fresh and this time, it's all organic, too. Much better than buying it in a jar and it takes no time at all to make.

I'm calling it my Healing Sauce, because that time in the kitchen helped to clear my head and my heart; it took me back to a time when my younger sister and I would stand on the seat of the dining room chairs that Mom had pulled up to the kitchen counter so we could watch her bake; it also enabled me to continue functioning. Ya' gotta' love that.

Rags to Riches

I made a quilt!
I've never made a quilt in my life -- although I had always planned to make one from all of my son's T-shirts, and I had always planned to make one from all the fabric squares I saved from every single piece of clothing I made for me and even for my husband and son. (That surely would have been a whopper of a quilt!) Alas, those two plans never came to fruition.

I've been sewing since I was in the second-grade, when my mother taught me how to make little shift-dresses for my Barbie doll. Mom used to help my sister and I 'build' a big tent in our carport using sheets and cardtables. We'd spread out blankets on the concrete floor and Mom would sit in the tent with us all afternoon making hand-stitched dresses for our Barbies.

So, it's no surprise that I was sewing on her Singer by the time I was in the fifth-grade, making some of my own clothes. Mom bought that machine when she was pregnant with me and sewed on that same machine until only a few years ago when she and I made some holiday aprons together.

It's also no surprise that sewing is what I finally turned to for some of that much-needed healing spirit.

Remember the tsunami of Jan. 2 -- the day I wrote about the giant wave of pain I was feeling? It's the day I thought I was ready to pack up Mother's clothes and donate them to charity. But when I opened her closet and saw an orange striped shirt she often wore and smelled her, I couldn't do it. I couldn't move, and I also couldn't deal with the loss.

A friend of mine suggested I use some of my crafting and sewing "talents" to make something from Mom's clothes. At first I couldn't imagine not only not donating them to those less fortunate, but also cutting them up into pieces. So, for about a week, I simply ignored my friend's suggestion. But my brother, who reads my posts and my Facebook, encouraged me to do it. He also thought it would be healing for me.

Well, I finally went back into my mom's closet and was suddenly filled with excitement. When that happened, I knew making a quilt was the right thing to do.

 

I went through her closet and pulled out her everyday clothes; blouses, T-shirts, slacks, capri pants and some of her satin pajamas. Also laying on her bed is her favorite fleece blanket she used to cover up with when we would go camping or when she was sitting in her living room watching television. I decided to use that fleece blanket as the backing for my quilt. So, I measured the fleece, then from that, decided the size of each square and picked out the appropriate number of pieces of clothing.

 The first cut was the hardest. The feelings that came over me after seeing this orange and white striped top in my mother's closet on Jan. 2 are what started the tsunami of emotions

that prompted a week of depression -- until I decided to act upon this suggestion.

The collection of squares cut for the quilt bring back so many memories...

And, it's funny, my younger sister and I can recall every piece of clothing we wore as children (usually the adorable dresses made for us by Mom)

and where we were when we wore it.

All of the squares are sewn together and the quilt-top is complete!

I'm feeling so energized by this project.

 

I hand-sew buttons at every corner, attaching the quilt-top to the fleece blanket,

and then sew blanket binding around the edge.

(By the way, this is not my mother's old sewing machine.)

 

My husband and I went camping this past weekend (that's me and my new quilt in our little camping trailer), and I hand-stitched the back side of the blanket binding to the fleece as we drove to our destination. I absolutely love my new quilt and encourage all of you to do something like this.

Now I'm going to send the scraps to my younger sister so she can do the same thing.



 

Loving and caring advice can sometimes come from the least expected places. My friend who suggested that I make something from my mother's clothes isn't someone I'd have expected to hear from. And when it's great advice that you took and it worked out -- it's (as my mother would say) the cherry on top.

Mom would have considered these pieces of clothing chosen to make my special quilt just rags, but I turned her "rags" into riches for me.

Say "Yes" to the Dress

My mother had her favorites; all parents do.
They may never admit it, but they do.

In this case, though, I'm talking about Mom's nieces and nephews.
Her favorite nephew is my cousin living south of me and her favorite niece is his sister living in Indiana. We all knew she liked them best. Out of all of my mother's other six siblings, those two cousins are the two she stayed in touch with the most.

My cousin from Indiana and her husband are snow-birds, now -- living on the coast of Alabama during the winters in order to be closer to their daughter, son-in-law and the prize package - their eight-year old granddaughter.

This year, my cousin's plan was to stay in Florida for a month before going to Alabama. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with Mom, and my mother was really looking forward to it.

Unfortunately, "the best laid plans of mice and men..."
Mother passed away without seeing her favorite niece one more time. So, my cousin and her husband changed their travel plans to include only a week in sunny F-L-A.

Truth be told, she's my favorite, too.

Are there people or things in your life that make you feel closer to someone?
A friend of mine told me this week that when his dog passed away, he re-lived the loss of his wife, because the dog was his final connection to her.

I understand.
That's how it is with my Indiana cousin. She makes me feel closer to my mother...which is odd since we were already so very close. But she knew my mother in my parent's other life -- the one they had in southern Illinois before I was born. It was a life in a small town of about 3,500 people, where my parents owned and operated a restaurant (something I have trouble imagining), and where my grandmother lived (on my mother's side).

Spending time with my cousin this past weekend was such a joy and a treat, and it reminded me of a  red organza dress I once wore to church and then to my own birthday party. There's no story behind the dress, but you  might be interested in seeing the pictures.

My cousin is about 12-years older than me. Here she is in "The Dress" at the age of about six or seven. It was red organza with a white organza collar and ruffle.

Here I am at the age of five, wearing the same dress about 12 or so years later. I remember my mother telling me that we were borrowing it and it would have to be returned to my aunt. (Notice that darn hair perm, again. My mother certainly had a thing for un-naturally curly hair.)

And here's the dress nearly 50-years later on my cousin's granddaugher, who at the time was about four-years old. How cute is this?

My cousin is heading to Alabama to see that beautiful child. I'm so glad she and her husband came, that we were able to spend some time together and that we even had some time to cry together. I look forward to another visit. Maybe next year my husband and I will pull our little camping trailer to Alabama to visit them.
One thing for sure -- she makes me feel so close to my parents, as if they are still with me.
(And they are!)

Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair

Tonight, I'm sitting here at the computer with very short and very crooked bangs.
Yep, I broke the rule.
It was probably the first rule I learned when, in junior high, I finally became the keeper of my own hair. When no longer was I under the rule of my mother and her crazy whims to perm my hair the night before school pictures, to keep my hair short, and to shampoo it while I laid on my back on the kitchen counter with my neck breaking as it hung down into the kitchen sink.

Now I could grow my string straight hair long and my bangs could come down over my eyes and I could shampoo it myself in the shower.

See, I grew up when long bangs down to your eyelashes and longer was the way to go.
You know the song...
"Oh say, can you see my eyes if you can
Then my hair's too short"

So, when I've had bangs, they've always been long. In fact, there's a long history of straight hair and bangs in our family. Here's a photo of my mother -- I think she's about ten-years old in this.

Obviously, her mother celebrated her straight hair and worked with what she had.
Not mine -- she'd give me a Toni perm the night before school pictures every single year.

This is what she'd do to me. And the boy who always sat behind me, because we were always in alphabetical order, would complain about the stinky smell.

As soon as I got into seventh-grade and my mom relinquished control of my hair, both on my head and on my legs, I did this:

I started growing out my bangs and kept my hair straight. Look at that smirk.


So, anyway -- you know the rule...
....Never cut your own bangs when they are wet.

But, yesterday I took a hankerin' to cutting my bangs. No big deal. I do it all the time.
But this time was different. I did it while my hair was wet and for some reason my head was half-cocked to the left.
Now I look like I did when I was four and did much the same thing. (Well, I know I don't actually look like I'm four, but you know what I mean.)
I wish I could find the photo I remember my mom showing me years and years later, but here's one taken last night.

It's okay to laugh. I haven't stopped.

I did something very similar about 10 years ago, when I was going through the very dreaded ( and rightfully so) menopause.
I woke up one night soaked through and through from night sweats, and decided right then and there that if I cut my hair, I'd be much cooler. I pulled my hair, which was then shoulder length, up into a pony tail right at the top of my head. I thought I'd give myself a shag cut -- how hard could that be?
I'd remembered while in college that several of my dorm mates did it, so why not? I'd remembered them looking great.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and took the scissors to my hair.
Clip!
I threw the hair on the floor, turned off the light and went back to bed.

The next morning, which just happened to be a Sunday morning, I nearly fainted when I looked in the mirror. It was a shag alright. What the heck had I done? I must have been possessed (which I was -- by the demons of menopause).
I had hair sticking out in every direction. Parts of it only about two-inches long and other parts about eight-inches long. But absolutely no rhyme or reason to it. I don't have any pictures of that, which is a good thing. It would be enough to scare you back to grade-school.
It was just a mess.
And what can you do on a Sunday morning?

I called my friend who had always done my mother's hair. She felt sorry for me and told me to come to her house.
"Yikes! What have you done?" she said. (She actually used other words, but I won't use them here.)

Needless to say, she fixed me up -- with very short hair.

I thought I had learned my lesson.
Clearly, I hadn't.

I'm sure that's why my mother was so reluctant to give up control of my hair...she knew I'd never learn.

Grateful to a community leader

Is it true the best relationships come from friendships?
Or could it be the best friendships are born from accidental relationships?

I spent an extended lunch break today with a very dear person - a person I've admired as a community leader for many years; a person I've even spent time with on several fundraising committees; but she was the last person I expected to have reach out to me with such comfort and care.
She said she was surprised I accepted her invitation for lunch.
I said I was surprised by the invitation.

We met at the beach, sat at a picnic table on a picture-perfect, chamber-of-commerce day in paradise, ate the chowder and salad she brought, and talked and talked. She listened and then spoke about her experiences with the loss of her own mother. She listened, again, and held my hand as I cried. She told me about her waves of emotion and how those waves creep up on her unexpectedly. We talked about some things I haven't spoken of with many others; like my mother's "awakening" on the evening before her death.
We both talked about some disappointments in hospice care and the final days of our mothers, and while it felt very healing - she also told me not to expect our conversation to be the magic wand I'm looking for.
She said that I needed to take my journey, accepting help along the way, but remembering that it may take a while - to travel at my own speed.

I'm sure that's true, but I'm forever grateful to this pillar of the community for taking so much time out of her busy schedule to offer her heart to me.

Tomorrow marks 11 years since I lost my father. I'm sure he's happy to have his wife of 65 years back with him, but if I had my druthers -- they'd both be right here.

A tsunami hits

I need to talk about my mother...not crafting and not cooking.
So, if you're thinking I'm nothing but a big baby, stop reading. But if you have words of wisdom to share, please read on and leave your comments of encouragement at the end. I could use them today.

My house feels empty. Why today more than yesterday? I don't have the answer to that, but "they" tell me my emotions will come in waves. If that's true, I've reached a tsunami.

I guess it all began when I started going through my mother's closet last night, trying to make some temporary storage space. I haven't yet gone through her dresser or closet, and it wasn't my intention to do that last night. But when I moved some of her things around, I came upon two packages that I didn't think I recognized. When I opened them, I saw that one was a gift for my younger sister -- that I remembered Mother buying at Macy's on the day after Christmas 2011. Her intention was to give it to my sister on her birthday this past December. I had completely forgotten about that.
But the other was a gift Mother bought for a friend of mine who did my mother's hair for many years. That's the one that drew such deep emotions, because I don't know when she would have purchased it. I was her driver. I was always with her. But it was wrapped and had my friend's name on it, and I needed to deliver it today. My friend was as surprised as I was and nearly as emotional; reminiscing about my mother's beautiful head of hair, the kindness of my mother and her very lady-like ways. We stood there at my friend's station, in-between clients, and cried.
My friend is really quite fortunate; she still has her mother, who will be 95-years old in February. I must be completely transparent here and admit that I'm often jealous. Not only of my hairdresser friend, but of others who still enjoy the company of their mothers or fathers.
I feel rather guilty about that, as jealousy is not an acceptable behavior pattern...not very becoming. In fact, other than for a short period of time while in junior high, I honestly can't remember ever being jealous of anyone.
Both my mother and my father taught me to make the changes necessary to achieve whatever it was I  was aiming for. Both of them taught me to be confident. Neither of them ever showed or expressed jealousy.
But this isn't something I can change. I can't "achieve" my parents back.

Anyway, I took all this as a sign to go ahead and empty her dresser drawers. So, I began with her lingerie,  which was a simple process. The next drawer was filled with everyday clothes, like shirts and Capri pants. I knew this, because I used to put her clothes away on laundry day.
I opened the drawer and right on top was a light orange and white striped shirt that she wore - like all the time.
That's it. I can't go any further.

So, my question...when will I know when the time is right? When will I be able to empty her room and maybe even redecorate her living room? When will donating her clothing to charity feel right?

This photo was taken only 18 days before she passed away. Look at her beautiful hair at the age of 94! I certainly have her to thank for my lovely locks.