Fleur-de-Words

My favorite morning greeting comes when I walk through the sheet metal shop on my way to the lunchroom refrigerator where I store my 1 p.m. meal.

Kutzown Ken greets me in Pennsylvania twang: “Morning Laurie” but what my garden-starved ears hear is “Mornin’ Glory”. And don’t we all wish our mornings were filled with morning glories—Grandpa Ott’s on the kitchen garden arbor and Heavenly Blue on the chicken fence.

Mystery Plant

Running through my brain are Paul Simon’s words:  “All lies and jests, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.” That sums up my workday.

Spring fever came early, and there are moments when I’m not sure I can make this adjustment to an office environment. Sure, it was ok in November, December, and January—but heavens, it’s spring! And I’m in a cave.

Sharon the receptionist not only faces the front glass door and a wall of windows, she has a skylight overhead. Not so in my portion of the building. When the sun breaks through the Central Pennsylvania clouds, the only way I know is when she sends me an email. Sharon also keeps watch on a computerized weather monitor and alerts the roofers to rainstorms or nasty winds heading toward their job sites. She’s a regular Mother Nature sitting up there with a big welcoming smile. Who? Me? Jealous?

My workplace buddy John, who has a windowless office near my windowless cave, teases me about my office light dimmer. There is a light switch near my computer that I flip on in the morning and off when I leave in the afternoon. But it took me several weeks to realize that there is also a little tab that can brighten or dim the light—well, actually, John told me about it when I was sitting in the semi-dark with the light switch on. So, when he found out about the sunshine emails from Sharon, he decided that was my cue to play Mother Nature. When Sharon emails a sun alert, I turn the dimmer switch up to full brightness; if I get notice that a thunderstorm is approaching, down goes the dimmer.

John is also my roofing terminology translator. It started when I heard him discussing crickets with one of the crews. 

“I know you’re not talking about Jiminy Cricket,” I said one morning, “but what’s a roof cricket? Certainly crickets can’t hop up on roofs.”

Close-Up

He patiently described a roof cricket (and there are actually “chimney crickets”—did Disney know that?), and how it is used to divert water. A few days later, the lesson was on “scuppers”. Scuppers are small openings in a roof railing that prevent water from pooling on the roof, channeling the rainwater through the railing and off the roof. Scupper. Don’t you just love the way the word tickles the roof of your mouth when you say it? I’d like to name a dog Scupper.

My farming ears really perked up one day when I heard the guys talking about a cow tongue drain. I had to see one of these. Well, a cow tongue drain outlet looks like a cow yawning after a big sip of water, big fleshy tongue hanging off its lower lip.

That’s not all. My Fleur-de-Lys French-ness got all excited when one of the estimators was writing a proposal for a “porte-cochere”—a carriage entrance leading through a building or wall to an inner courtyard.  Or, in this case, a drive-through entrance at a hotel.

But the perfect irony of workplace words hit me in a fit of scanning boredom.  In the quiet moments between my more arduous tasks of typing invoices or scribbling work orders for roof leaks, I scan the contents of the job folders for 2010 and 2011. If you’ve ever tried to slide staple-pried and dog-eared papers into a scanner that feeds the text, photos, and drawings magically into the computer, you know these are temperamental creatures. I sit there, sometimes hours on end, shoving documents into the feeder tray, anticipating the inevitable “Paper Jam” alert. Irritating at best…until I realized I used to spend my afternoons making strawberry preserves or elderblossom cordial. Now, I’ve graduated to paper jam. Yummy! Words do put a smile on my face. Laurie Lynch

A Little Help, Please: As I work in my Dad’s old gardens, I’m discovering brickwork I forgot about and an occasional plant I am not familiar with. Such is the case with the bold beauty pictured above. Can anyone help me out with an identification? It’s a daisy-like flower, blooming as I type, and 2.5- to 3-feet tall. Leaves are soft and fuzzy, and kind of arrow shaped.

Written on Slate: The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and lightning bug.”  --Mark Twain

Fleur-de-Vintage

I love vintage clothes, vintage fabrics, vintage toys, and even vintage vintages. I once used the description “vintage vegetables” (as an alliterative substitute for heirloom vegetables) in a piece I wrote and a PASA fellow complimented me on my unusual word choice.  But when the computer geek at the Apple store said I had a “vintage iMac”, I knew this was not a good thing.

Yes, there are expiration dates on jars of mayo, peanut butter, and olives, and sadly most marriages don’t last a lifetime, but when a computer is going on its sixth birthday, is it time to call it quits?

In my case, it was. My iMac was stuck in perpetual sleep mode and resuscitation was doubtful.

Fritillaria imperialis (Crown Imperial)

I wasn’t ready for one of those flip-floppy tablet things, but I did want to go semi-mobile so I chose a laptop. The iTechies insisted they could transfer everything from my old computer onto the new, which they did. But, when I got home, I couldn’t open any documents. Long story short, after many sleepless nights, fruitless searching of boxes, and finally a software purchase, I now can get back to writing my 500 words a day—even if I have to bump everything up to 14-point just to read it on the screen. I didn’t anticipate that my fingertips would overhang the tiny keys, nor did I know how to massage the touchpad. Not expecting miracles from dear old Mom, my son Richard saved my mouse from its previous life and showed me that I can still use it when my laptop is sitting on a desktop, thus easing the transition.

Enough of all that. It’s time for catching up. Laurie Lynch

In Bloom: This handsome gent is a native of Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, and produces a musky odor that repels mice, moles, and squirrels. As an extra bonus, even deer don't like to nibble on Fritillaria imperialis.

YoYo Yogurt: I got several emails and links about yogurt making and it looks as though there are probably a dozen different techniques and many of you are much more skilled at it than I. I’m going to stick with my heating pad method because it works for me. There’s a good solution out there for you.

One reader mentioned the book Wild Fermentation, which says to use no more than one tablespoon of starter per quart of milk. This keeps the yogurt culture from being crowded. I’m embarrassed to say that I own that book—and didn’t even think to use it as a guide—because a certain son of mine is interested in other fermentation processes and had hijacked the book to his dorm room!  Wild Fermentation also suggests making yogurt in an insulated cooler and references The Joy of Cooking.

Karen makes her yogurt directly in the crockpot, so my too-hot hypothesis was not cool at all. She sent along two links with methods she has tried and found successful:

http://crockpot365.blogspot.com/2008/10/you-can-make-yogurt-in-your-crockpot.html

http://girlsguidetobutter.com/2010/02/crock-pot-yogurt/

HARING HEART:  I got another email from Al Haring about his son Keith’s heart art on the cover of Architectural Digest; “We had not been aware of the heart that Brooke (Shields) has hanging above the mantle (nor the wrapping paper) and were surprised to see it.”

He sent along the following link that has a slide show listing all of the places in New York where Keith Harings can be found, for all of us armchair art gallery goers!

galleristny.com/2012/03/haring…

Beds just waiting to be planting with F-d-L seedlings.

Fleur-de-Central: The mild winter blending into an early spring means we’ve got lots of new gardening projects going on. Seeds I saved from my favorite F-d-L vintage tomatoes germinated (will I ever stop planting triple what I need just in case there is major seedling failure?)

I’m renovating my Dad’s old raised-bed gardens and wrapping them in fencing to keep the groundhogs and rabbits out. I’ve decided to turn a planter on my Mom’s deck into an herb garden. Fresh herbs will be an arm’s length away when we dine outside. And, the garlic I harvested last summer at Fleur-de-Lys and planted in State College in the fall looks fabulous!

Fleur-de-InsomniacYogurt

One of the things I’ve adopted wholeheartedly about living in State College again is taking classes. In January and February there was a Saturday morning series on campus called Food: Strategies for Growing Enough for Everyone, with such topics as The Global Pollinator Crisis and Where Will the Food Come from in a Hotter, More Crowded World? Then, there’s this wonderful grassroots community organization called Spring Creek Homesteading that has what they call “re-skilling” classes on a variety of topics, from making herbal lip balms to home beer brewing and weaving potholders.

Last month my mom and I attended a Yogurt and Granola Making Workshop. I connected with our instructor Nynke immediately. She was wearing a colorful apron decorated with cooking utensils and ingredients, each design with the vocabulary word written beneath – in Dutch.  Nynke’s homeland is The Netherlands, a neighbor of Belgium. That’s close enough for me to conjure up a bond that includes my daughter Marina. It just so happens that Marina is taking a Dutch language class so, needless to say, Nynke (and her apron) held my attention.

Nynke began making her own yogurt because it is “no waste”.  She makes a batch of yogurt in a quart Ball jar and doesn’t need to deal with buying yogurt in all of those plastic containers. Without the packaging and promotion, homemade yogurt is also cheaper. That made immediate sense to me. To top it off, we have a wonderful farm, Meyer Dairy, less than two miles from the house. You can see the Holsteins grazing in the pasture, and yes, sometimes smell them, but the fresh milk is the best! And even better, the milk comes in returnable glass bottles. Again, no plastic waste.

So, one Saturday morning Nynke showed us the basics of making yogurt at home, and it couldn’t be easier. There are two ingredients: a quart of milk and 2 tablespoons of  “starter”, which is simply plain yogurt, no sugar added, with “active bacteria” listed on the label. And, once you make your own yogurt, you can just use 2 Tbsp. from that to start the next batch. Nynke bought her quart yogurt maker on amazon.com, and there are other products out there including something called “Yogotherm.”

Because my past life is in boxes, I did not want to buy another kitchen gadget. Nynke suggested a warm oven, the sun on a warm day, or a heating pad – anything to keep the yogurt at a consistent temperature for four to eight hours.

Now Nynke is one of those cooks who tests food temperatures on the inside of her wrist, and the crucial part of yogurt making is all about temperature. Here are her instructions:

1. Heat four cups of milk in saucepan until almost boiling (180°F).

2. Let the milk cool to 105° -115° F.

3. Pour warm milk into glass jar with starter (2 Tbsp. yogurt) and keep at 105°-115° F for four to eight hours. Then, refrigerate.

4. You’re done!

We did the initial stages in class and she fast-forwarded the four-to-eight-hour bacterial fermentation part by bringing in a quart of her yogurt from home. Then, we moved onto homemade granola. Kids play.

I was raring to go! I bought a quart bottle of whole milk at Meyer Dairy (you can also use skim or 2%) and a container of plain Oikos (Stonyfield) Organic Greek Yogurt. On the label were listed the live active cultures: S. Thermophilus, L. Bulgaricus, L. Acidophilus, L. Bifidus, and L. Casel.

My mother had a crock-pot, so I figured I’d improvise. I poured water into the bowl of the crock-pot, and set the dial on low. Meanwhile, I heated my quart of milk slowly until it formed a “skin” on top, just before boiling. By heating the milk this way, you kill the undesirable bacteria and “denature” the milk proteins so they set rather than form curds. Just stir the skin into the rest of the mixture.

After cooling the milk, I poured it into the Ball jar with 2 Tbsp. of Oikos and plunged the quart jar into the warm water bath. I covered the jar and crock-pot with a clean kitchen towel and left it to ferment in peace. I went to bed. About four hours later, I checked on the brew. So far, so good. At 3 a.m., my normal women-of-a-certain-age waking hour, I looked again. No change. A hour of putzing around, and it was still sour milk soup, not yogurt. I refrigerated it, hoping that would solidify. Wrong.

OK, so my wrist must not be as sensitive as Nynke’s. Before starting I had searched my mom’s kitchen for a candy thermometer—she had to have one somewhere. Nowhere. I know I have one, but it’s packed in an unlabeled box somewhere…so I broke down and I bought a candy thermometer. A $4 expense, but I was back in business.

The following night, I went through the same routine, only with a candy thermometer to gauge the temperatures along the way. At 3 a.m., my bewitching hour, I was roaming the halls and peaking under the kitchen towel at my brew. Warm sour milk soup, not yogurt.

I tussled with my pillows and cursed the moonlight until dawn trying to figure it out where I went wrong. Finally, it came to me: Perhaps the jar was getting too hot resting on the bottom of the crock-pot, thereby annihilating and liquidating all of my good bacteria. 

So, evening No. 3 I began again. I had roasted vegetables for dinner, so I had a warm oven in which to place the quart jar. Every hour I was up and checking the jar and oven. Was it too warm? Not warm enough? How do you keep a warm oven warm for eight hours, especially when you keep opening the door to check on it?

The night reminded me of my pre-Easter nights of peep tending. Were they warm enough under the heat lamp? Too warm? Did the bulb burn out? All those trips to the barn in my muck boots and PJs. Around midnight I decided the oven was no longer the least bit warm. What to do? I found an old heating pad in the linen closet and wrapped my jar in the pad, plugged it in and turned it on low. Around 3 a.m. I checked the batch. I made yogurt!

Forget the cost savings and plastic waste reduction—eating homemade yogurt is like biting into a ripe tomato on your garden vine—it can’t compare to the store-bought product. So, now I’m an insomniac yogurt pro. For breakfast, I have yogurt with granola. If I’m feeling really decadent, I drizzle some golden honey on top. And, for those of you who like fruit yogurts, add fresh fruit or go Euro-style and add a spoonful of strawberry jam. If you’re like me and up at odd hours of the night, making yogurt gives you that warm nurturing feeling. You can take the woman off the farm…but she’s still a Mother Hen. Laurie Lynch

Like Mother, Like Daughter: While I was experimenting with yogurt making, Marina was in Antwerp at her boyfriend’s family home having kitchen trials of her own.  When she visits Ziggy’s family she often bakes a sweet treat. They love her banana bread, so Ziggy’s father suggested she make some to sell at their bio supermarket Terrasana (Earth and Sun). All of the ingredients had to be “bio” (organic), but luckily Marina could get all of them–including 80 some over-ripe bananas—at Terrasana. She made some loaves with sugar but most with stevia (“It’s just that type of crowd, Mom.”)

The night before the big special, she baked 27 loaves in six hours. But the real challenge came the next day when she was the guest baker at the store with her Bio-Banana Cake (In Belgium, you can charge more for cake than bread…) The BBC sold for $21,95 euro per kilo (about $13 US a pound), and each loaf was about a half-kilo. Some loaves were sliced and weighed for individual servings, costing anywhere from $1,20 to $2,20 euro. The amazing thing is that almost all of the transactions were made in Dutch!

“My Dutch was tested, and frustrated some people,” she said, but she also realized she knew more of the language than she thought. Comments from shoppers ran the gamut from “It’s too expensive” to “I don’t eat butter/flour/eggs/bananas” but, there were plenty of sales, one repeat customer—and hey, Marina understood what everyone was saying!

Speaking of Good Eggs: I got together with friends who were attending a campus event, and they brought a gift from a mutual friend – a dozen blue and brown eggs. Linda adopted several of my hens last spring, and shared some of their hen fruit with me, across the miles.

Fleur-de-LiteraryTour

On the last day of the San Francisco Writers Conference, we took a literary tour of North Beach, the “Little Italy” neighborhood where baseball great Joe Dimaggio grew up and the “beat generation” of writers--Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs and others--gathered.

It was one of those days when the sun warms your face and the magnolia blossoms stir your heart. We walked past outdoor cafes, bakeries, and salami shops. Along the way, our guide pointed out a bar, a church, a mural, an alley, told a story, and read a snippet of a poem to set flame to our literary souls. It was here that I was given a short-course on Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet laureate of San Francisco and owner of the first all-paperbound bookshop in the country, City Lights Books.

“Dog” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

… And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory

and past Coit’s Tower

and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee

He’s afraid of Coit’s Tower

but he’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle

although what he hears is very discouraging

very depressing

very absurd

to a sad young dog like himself

to a serious dog like himself

But he has his own free world to live in

His own fleas to eat

He will not be muzzled

Congressman Doyle is just another

fire hydrant …

“The Old Italians Dying” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

… You have seen them

every day in Washington Square San Francisco

the slow bell

tolls in the morning

in the Church of Peter & Paul

in the marzipan church on the plaza

toward ten in the morning the slow bell tolls

in the towers of Peter & Paul

and the old men who are still alive

sit sunning themselves in a row …

(Don’t you just love that “marzipan church”.)

“The Green Street Mortuary Marching Band”

 …where all the café sitters at

the sidewalk café tables

sit talking and laughing and

looking right through it

as if it happened every day in

little old wooden North Beach San Francisco

but at the same time feeling thrilled

by the stirring sound of the gallant marching band

as if it were celebrating life and

never heard of death …  --L. Ferlinghetti

I’ll wrap up the tour with one of the newest artistic additions to North Beach—Language of the Birds (2006-2008) by Brian Goggin with Dorka Keehn. This sculptural installation at the corner of Broadway, Grant, and Columbus streets is a flock of 23 books, flapping above the heads of pedestrians, while words and phrases from 90 authors of the neighborhood—Italian, Chinese, and English—drop to the sidewalk. Solar panels are mounted on Ferlinghetti’s City Lights bookstore to illuminate the fluttering books at night.

There were books above us, words below us, and as one joker in the group said, “There’s even a dangling participle!” Laurie Lynch

Hearts Follow Hearts: Al Haring got the Brooke Shields magazine and sent a thank you, and this link to another Keith Haring and Brooke Shields heart …

http://gotham-magazine.com/channels/home-page/insights/relics-from-keith-harings-iconic-pop-shop

Written on Slate: Every man’s memory is his private literature. --Aldous Huxley

Fleur-de-Mouse

If there was one catch phrase that came home with me from the San Francisco Writers Conference it was “word of mouth and mouse”.

Yes, the words and story are important, as is your audience, but to broaden your audience and, frankly, to generate interest in your book among publishers, you’ve got to use your computer mouse. That means breaking into the whole scary world of social media. One fellow went so far as to say that tweets are the new haiku! (I’ve never even seen a tweet, so I really can’t comment.)

The four days of back-to-back lectures covered prose, publishing and promotion, punctuated with open windows that welcomed early spring breezes and the gentle rattle and ding-ding-ding of cable cars descending California Street.

Although I had a packet of newsletters for critique, this wasn’t the forum. The conference was all about proposals and compelling premises – a step beyond my meager “elevator speech”.

But, oh, the information! Alan Rinzler (editor and publisher for Toni Morrison, Hunter S. Thompson, Andy Warhol, Bob Dylan and others) gave us the sobering facts:

•   Eighty percent of American families did not buy a book in 2011.
•  Fifty-seven percent of new books are not read to completion.

Still, Rinzler talked of hope for the writing world, where technology enables readers to get to know authors, and authors can establish communities of readers. Writers, he said, have a built-in compulsion to make sense of their lives and “cannot NOT write.”

In preparation for the conference, I read books by several keynote speakers or presenters including Lolly Winston’s Good Grief, Lisa See’s Dreams of Joy and two of Michael Larsen’s books (co-founder of the conference). I also went to several sessions as a selfish reader, hosted by writers already known to me, Cara Black, whose murder mysteries in Paris I’ve mentioned before, and Ellen Sussman who wrote French Lessons. And, of course, I was introduced to a whole slew of new writers and went home with a long list of titles to read, including Linda Lee’s Smart Women Stupid Computers, which will be published shortly.

I passed up the Speed Dating with Agents session. It was $50 per person and I just was not ready to go there, in any sense of the playful (but frightful) title. I did, however, book 15 minutes on the red couch with Kevin Smokler, billed as “wise person in residence” at the conference. I told him I needed a book shrink because I had been writing my memoir...foodie farmer and rent-a-peep queen…but then I got divorced, lost the farm and lost my purpose.

He told me books on farms are over done. I kept looking at the floor, tears blurring my eyes and words evaporating in my mouth. He said that I have to decide why I want to write the book. So, dear folks, that is what I must do—that, and write 500 words a day, and farm out much of this technology stuff, at least for the time being. So, you see, I’ve got a serious case of brain fog, and have to work it through. But, I cannot NOT write, and I promise there will be a book, even if it’s published posthumously.  Laurie Lynch

Grace Cathedral Labyrinth

Floating Through the Air: Author Bharti Kirchner, in the workshop Making Your Setting a Character in Your Novel, emphasized the role the five senses have in writing. A spell checker is fine, she said, but you also need a “smell checker”.

The Happy Wanderer

Spiritual Visits: Just a short walk from the conference was the beautiful Grace Cathedral. We walked the outdoor labyrinth and I saw a delicate, new-to-me vine called Hardenbergia violacea (aka the Happy Wanderer). It’s Zone 9, so it can’t be grown in Pennsylvania, but all of you happy wanderers out there should look for it.  We also visited the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption, and someone there has a sense of humor.  After Mass, Trig wanted to show us the gift shop downstairs. We got in the elevator and there were no numbers to press – only the letter H, going down…

Paterno/Cemetery Update: JoePa is definitely buried at Spring Creek Cemetery near my mother’s home. In infinite township wisdom, 17—yes, I counted them—17 No Parking signs (P with a slash through it) have been posted on the short stretch of road. I guess the P with a slash through it could also mean No Paterno…

Next Blog: A literary tour of North Beach.

Fleur-de-Heart

Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s better to give than receive. And Valentine’s Day—what a commercial Hallmark holiday. No computer-generated card can pull the heartstrings like a handmade card.

But, and this is a big BUT, it made my 2/14/12 to receive an e-photo of a pristine, unfurling rose.

The sender is a former Eagle Point Road neighbor—actually, I’m the former, he still lives there. You may even know him. Allen Haring is no stranger to Fleur-de-Lys newsletters. Before anyone gets any crazy romantic ideas, Al is happily married and I am one of several who receive his photographs via email at various holidays throughout the year.

Al is the Man-In-Charge of the Kutztown Fair. He recruited me to champion the Scarecrow and Crazy Vegetable contests each August.  He and his wife often parked his pickup at the farm, unloaded their bikes from the back, and went for bike rides down Hottenstein Road rather than risk the dangers of riding on Eagle Point. Al was featured in a newsletter one Thanksgiving when an ink sketch by his late son, Kutztown-raised artist Keith Haring, was made into a huge balloon and featured in the Macy’s Day Parade.

When Richard was Brazil-bound and needed “local” pins to take with him to trade with students in the Rotary exchange tradition, Al connected us with the Keith Haring Foundation, established in 1989 to assist with AIDS-related and children’s charities. (Keith was diagnosed with AIDS in 1988 and died two years later.) We bought a sack-full of playful, colorful KH characters on button pins that “went global” in Brazil.

So, last week I was out on the “Left Coast” at the San Francisco Writers Conference hearing about setting writing goals (500 words a day – I’m up to 305 right now) and lots of other things I’ll be sharing with you in the coming days/weeks. The conference coincided with President Obama’s fund-raising trip. The conference was at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, Pres. O was speaking at the Nob Hill Masonic Hall … and our car was parked in a garage between the two. Trig-the-Brownie-Points-Lady didn’t let a battalion of motorcycle cops and (we found out later) rooftop snipers stop her.

“I’m an 83-year-old grandmother and I need my beddy-bye,” she told an officer trying to block the sidewalk, as she pulled me and two other conference attendees into the parking garage to her waiting red Mercedes.

Forty minutes later, we had crossed the Golden Gate and were relaxing in her home on a hillside above Tiburon. Trig is the consummate storyteller and mentioned that two days earlier (Valentine’s Day) she had tied a red balloon to each of her neighbors’ mailboxes. We continued to chat and then she offered me the March issue of Architectural Digest for bedtime reading.

The Princes of Serendip must be alive and well in Marin County.

On the cover of the magazine was Brooke Shields standing in front of her Greenwich Village fireplace. Above the mantle, a heart-shaped painting I’ve never seen before but recognized immediately. I opened the magazine to the article, and there was even a photograph of the wrapping paper that Keith Haring decorated to present his “heart” to Brooke for her 21^st birthday!

This magazine heart wasn’t left in San Francisco. I placed it in an envelope and it is headed to Eagle Point Road with a Fleur-de-Lys note—a little late for Valentine’s Day, but still, a joy to give. Laurie Lynch

Written on Slate: “San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art. Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That is the whole truth. – William Saroyan

Speaking of Written on Slate: Paula emailed the other day asking how I painted my quote slates. She has an e.e. cummings slate from the shop in her front yard in Philadelphia where she is a member of a community garden. Another member has a pile of slate, and they thought they could make signs for the garden. I told her I bought “paint pens” from the Art Store on West Main Street in Kutztown, down the hill from Uptown Espresso Bar. I wash and dry each slate prior to painting, write the quote, and then seal it with spray shellac.

Fleur-de-Sister

Growing up, we had a school bus driver who referred to my sisters and me as “the fish-eaters who lived on the hill.”

I didn’t know what that meant, so I went home and asked my dad. He told me it was a nasty way of saying we were Catholic because, at that time, rules from Rome forbid us from eating meat on Fridays; we could only eat fish. Times were worse when he was growing up Italian Catholic in a small Pennsylvania town. The KKK burned crosses on the hill behind his home.

State College didn’t have a Catholic school when I was a youngster. It wasn’t until I was in college that I began hearing nun stories from kids who went to Parochial schools. The ones about the nuns who whacked errant hands with rulers. The ones about the nuns who locked kids in closets. Then, there were the nuns of movie and TV screens:  the Sound of Music nuns, The Flying Nun, and the Whoopi Goldberg Sister Act nuns. I wanted a nun.

In all my years as a growing-up Catholic, running-away Catholic, and a come-back-to-the-fold, finally practicing Catholic, I never knew a nun.

We joined St. Mary’s Parish when we moved to Kutztown in 1997. Two years later, Sister Kathleen White became a pastoral associate and director of religious education for the parish. She nurtured both of my kids and countless others through junior and senior high ministry and the growing pains of young adulthood. With effortless calm she recruited and trained the kids to serve spaghetti suppers in the church hall to raise money for Heifer International. 

Sister Kathleen became “my” nun when I joined one of several faith-sharing groups in our parish. And I’m sure each of the parishioners at St. Mary’s felt the same possessiveness toward her.  My stories aren’t out of the ordinary–she shared herself with so many.

Over the years we had a standing date in November to go to the Kutztown High School musicals together. And we’d exchange emails, mostly her encouraging me to use my gifts. Two of my gifts were my strength and height. And one of Sister Kathleen’s gifts was allowing people to feel worthwhile by asking them for a favor. My last January in Kutztown, she invited me to her apartment because she couldn’t get her artificial tree to break down for storage. I used a little of my farm muscle and got the darned thing apart, and we packed it away into the far reaches of her closet.

My mom, friend Dina, and I supported her Missionary Sisters of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, located in Reading, by walking in their Nun Run. One day Sister Kathleen shocked me by saying she played point guard for her high school’s basketball team. If Sister K stood 5’tall, I’d be surprised.  But she was so feisty I could see her ripping up the court.

Another time, Sister Kathleen confessed that she was pulled over by a police officer for speeding. En route to a diocesan conference, she had stashed her purse in the trunk with boxes of religious materials. When she had to open up the trunk to get her license, the officer quickly put two and two together. “He told me, ‘Have a good day, Sister,’ ” she said, with a twinkle in her eyes. He walked away without giving her a ticket.

I remember once she asked me why I called her Sister Kathleen, and not just Kathleen. She said when she came to St. Mary’s everyone called her Sister or Sister Kathleen. “I don’t understand,” she said. I explained that she was the first and only nun I had ever known, and was proud of her. I had five sisters, but she was my only Sister.

“What do you want to be called?” I asked.  “I’m Kathleen,’ she responded, “but Sister Kathleen is fine.”

Throughout the long months of the Chicken Fight, she supported Fleur-de-Lys in the shadows.  Once a week she would stop in for a dozen eggs and a chat under the trees. As we sat on the “Stonehenge” benches, she encouraged me to fight the good fight.

Our twice-monthly faith sharing get-togethers glowed with her wisdom. She always seemed to find a clear path in a muddled world. When the door of divorce crashed shut in my life, our faith-sharing group was reading and discussing Joyce Rupp’s The Open Door.  Sister was there, giving me faith that doors would open, that all was not lost. On days that I couldn’t imagine an open door, or even a window, she’d squeeze me into her busy schedule. We’d sit in my kitchen, with just a simple bowl of soup or grilled cheese sandwich, and just talk.

Her gracious and graceful words were healing. Her conviction was softly spoken, but direct. I remember when I first realized my marriage had fallen apart I was ready to chuck everything. I had been on the Internet investigating my options. I’d decided on the Peace Corps. It was something I had always wanted to do and now it seemed like the perfect escape. I was so excited about telling her I had found my open door.

Sister Kathleen listened politely. Then, with just three words, she gently brought me back to reality. With three words she solidified everything and I saw my doorway. 

“Richard needs you.”

Last spring Sister Kathleen went to a doctor’s appointment. One thing led to another, and doctors discovered she had brain cancer. She had surgery, and chemotherapy, but then pneumonia set in. On Feb. 3 Sister Kathleen left us. She was needed elsewhere.

Laurie Lynch

Comfort Food: Everybody needs a little comfort in February, even when we’ve had a mild winter. Ruthie send this recipe for Cream-less Creamed Corn and I couldn’t wait to share it with all of you. What I like best about it is that you can make it Southern-style, with grits, for my Charleston SC buds, or Northern Italian-style, with polenta, for my family roots.  What I like second-best about it is that it is even better as a leftover, and yes, the vegetable lover that I am, I like it for breakfast as well as dinner!

Cream-less Creamed Corn

3 T butter

1 small onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

2 springs fresh thyme, leaves only

2 T olive oil

4 cups fresh corn (4-6 cobs) but frozen corn is fine too.

2 cups chicken or vegetable stock

2 cups milk

1/3 cup cornmeal (or grits)

Salt, pepper, and Tabasco sauce to taste (Instead of Tabasco, I tried a sprinkling of smoked paprika, my new favorite spice, yum!)

Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and cook, stirring, until tender. Add garlic and thyme; continue to cook for another two minutes. Add olive oil, corn, and a pinch of salt, and cook, tossing until soft, about 8 minutes. Add stock and milk, and bring to a simmer. Sprinkle in polenta (cornmeal), add a dash of Tabasco, and continue to simmer, stirring, for 15 minutes or until polenta is cooked. Adjust seasoning if necessary, and serve warm. Ta da!

California Dreamin’: Soon I’ll be heading to the San Francisco Writers Conference. Before I moved to State College, my good friend Terese brought over a bottle of California wine she discovered when visiting SF. It’s called Rex Goliath. I’m partial to the Rex Goliath Free Range Red. It’s so smooth. It also doesn’t hurt that there is a gorgeous graphic of a proud black-and-white rooster with red wattles and comb on the label.

Plus, it’s got a great story: At the turn of the 20^th century, His Royal Majesty Rex Goliath was a treasured attraction at a Texas circus where he was billed as The World’s Largest Rooster, weighing in at a whopping 47 pounds. The wines, the label says, are a tribute to Rex’s “larger-than-life personality.”

Written on Slate No. 1: “Don’t curse the darkness; light a candle.” –one of Sister Kathleen White’s oft-quoted sayings. 

Written on Slate No. 2: “What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All we love deeply becomes part of us.”  --Helen Keller