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

Fleur-de-Legend

OK, let me orient you. See the tall evergreen on the far left of the photo above? If you walk up the knoll, past that tree, and keep going, you’ll hit Country Club Road. Cross it, and you’ll come to the wrought-iron fence I photographed last summer with my bike shadow. Hop the fence, walk the length of a football field, and you’ll see it: Joe Paterno’s grave site.

Or maybe not.

Last week was an emotional one in Happy Valley. Thousands streamed through Pasquerilla Spiritual Center at University Park in hushed reverence. A large spray of white roses, tied with Penn State blue ribbon, blanketed his coffin at the public viewing. Two Penn State football players (one on the current team, one from the past) stood as honor guards on either side of the coffin. Off to the left of the altar was a large photograph of the beloved coach, educator, philanthropist.

The afternoon of Joe Paterno’s burial, a dozen or so police cars blocked the road to Centre Hills Country Club and Spring Creek Cemetery. My mother lives just past those two landmarks at the top of the hill. We were driving home from an errand and approached the barricade. We were told we’d have to take a detour through Lemont. As we drove in from the other side, we were stopped by another set of officers blocking the other road. After we gave them our house address they let us through. We went home.

The next morning, the newspaper said Joe Pa was buried in Pine Hall Cemetery on the other side of town. Office gossip claimed that Spring Creek Cemetery was used as a decoy, to keep curiosity seekers away.  On Thursday afternoon the memorial service at the Bryce Jordan Center streamed into our office via computer. We worked, and listened.

A week later, as my mother and I take our daily walks past that cemetery, cars quietly pull to the side of the road. One, sometimes two or three people silently leave their cars and walk toward the back of the cemetery. They huddle around a recently dug grave site topped with a pillow of spent white roses tied with Penn State blue ribbon. And there, in the background, the hedgerow frames our beloved Mount Nittany. Laurie Lynch

Working Stiff: When I worked on the farm, especially in early spring around asparagus weeding time, my muscles ached. But after a good night’s sleep, I felt refreshed and ready to go again.

I can’t say that was the case this past holiday season. During the last several days of 2011 and into the first several of 2012, I was in PAIN! Yes, there was the stress of a shower of post-nuptial paperwork, a flurry of family friction, and an avalanche of secretarial duties as a co-worker took a three-week vacation … but the pain in my neck/shoulder was primarily caused by the exertion of sitting at a computer all day! Imagine, from sitting. I couldn’t sleep; heck, I could barely lie down in bed without a handful of Ibuprofen and a hot-pad of lavender.

Just before New Year’s I made an appointment with a massage therapist. This was not your incense-wafting, feel-good-pampering, light-the-candles massage. This was heavy-duty medically based therapy. The fellow runs a school called Integrative Bodywork. He found the knots and kneaded them. Twisted, pulled, pummeled and squeezed them. Tears were welling up when I pleaded, “I’m no whimp but you are really hurting me.” He replied, “I bring tears to football players eyes – but I know what I’m doing.” And he did.

After a half-hour of muscular torture, 24-hours of ice-pack therapy, and a few days of my lavender heating pad treatment, I was feeling almost comfortable in my body again. But the best part of the entire prescription was a simple preventive exercise.

For the rest of you computer-bound folks, here’s the scoop: Sit in your office chair with feet flat on the floor. Take your right hand and grasp under the chair at your right hip. Take your left hand and place it on top of your head. As you pull up on the chair seat with your right hand, you firmly pull your head toward your left underarm. “Pull it down like you’re sniffing your armpit,” the fellow coached. Hold for a few seconds and release. Then, switch sides.

Doing this exercise every hour or so got me through inputting a kazillion pages of inventory and material transfers  -- 10,000 pcs of 14x1½ hex heads w/ washers, 8265 pcs.of 2 ¼” AP screws, not to mention too many square feet of 2’’ 60 PSI extruded polystyrene and another mouthful – Polyisocyanurate – which people in the know call “ISO”  -- without so much as a twinge of discomfort.

LOL: After reading about my “found” pierced earring holes, my friend Terry sent me a thought for the day that I think we all can appreciate:

“I don’t want to brag or make anyone jealous or anything, but I can still fit into the earrings I wore in high school.”

Wine & Cheese, DYI Style: For those of you in Eastern PA, my friend Lelayna is giving a class on making fresh cheese using raw milk and minimal equipment Feb. 10 at 6:30 p.m. at The Cob Studio, Chester Springs. The class includes making three varieties of cheeses, sipping local wine, and then eating a hearty organic winter soup made with cheese. $65 for the whole shebang. You must email Lelayna Klein at stresslessn@gmail.com by this Friday and mail the payment to her at P.O. Box 4, Kempton PA 19529. (Bring two glass containers with lids to carry your cheese home.)

Fleur-de-AndTheWinnersAre

Boy, you guys are brutal! I asked for your favorite F-d-L newsletter, and you definitely responded. But it was the responses that floored me. I thought you would remember newsletters about the joys of farm and family living. Instead, you chose those that dealt with the pains of life, and to put it bluntly, the pains of a bicycle crash!

Yes, Fleur-de-Planted was the readers’ choice No. 1 newsletter in this official poll. Folks, do I need to remind you this was the one where I ended up in the Emergency Room?  What were you thinking? Actually, a few of you told me.

“I loved Fleur-de-Planted,” writes Amanda. “I sympathized with you and it was most descriptive. Fell off my bike in Amsterdam when I was trying to do too many things along with staying on a bike that was too big for my 5’2 self …”

And then Kris shared her words of wisdom. “I think the best is when you went for your bike ride after moving … seeing that pic with the shadow as well as the details of your experience. Having bi-lateral knee surgery (both at the same time just 15 months ago) I have been riding my bike to work and around town for anything that is needed. My balance was an issue in the beginning … so when reading your terrible experience with such humor and humbleness, I just loved it. Sorry that I am bringing back such horror in the physical avenue. We need to experience pain to move.”

Which brings me to the runners-up. Talk about emotional pain. Fleur-de-Divorce, Fleur-de-Farewell, and Fleur-de-Shadow. You voted for them too! Here’s why:

“While it may be hard to re-live, I think your writings while going through a divorce, preparing to up root (literally), and moving away were very touching, reducing me to tears,” Judy writes. “So many can identify with your pain, which you so eloquently expressed in words.”

“Fleur-de-Divorce, so perfectly stated and so devastating … ‘We’ve grown apart, he said.’ And I can go on with more from memory,” writes Ruth. And Gretchen, “I loved it when you said your name was vow-less and vowel-less. You really poured your heart into that one. Thanks for always keeping it real.”

The newsletters concerning the circular conversations with my mother and the lighter moments of dementia were also mentioned. “I was especially moved by the one about making groundhog cookies with your Mom,” writes D.

The newsletter concerning farm life that got the most votes was Fleur-de-FoxHunt. Apparently the vision of me in my flannel PJs chasing a marauding fox brought many of you a case of the giggles. “Although I was never into horses, I have read my share of British literature,” Laurel confesses. “I love phrases like ‘riding to hound’ and as you began describing it, I knew exactly what was coming: why, she’s riding to hound! The armchair traveler in me thrilled.”

A dozen other F-d-L newsletters got one or two votes, and helped me with my final selections. Yes, you all got to vote, but when it comes down to it, I rule this kingdom! (Ha, ha.)  What you taught me is what I’ve said in the past but now believe more than ever: Fleur-de-Lys was a wonderful farm, but it continues to be an even better state-of-mind. And that gives me hope that I’ll continue to be able to connect with all of you.

One last thought from Lorraine. “I am an old egg customer. I enjoy your blog and have been following your new life with interest. My favorite blog is Fleur-de-Mushroom. It shows your positive outlook and gives us ‘folks’ out there a boost.”

Many thanks, Laurie Lynch

Written on Slate: “If I didn’t start painting, I would have raised chickens.” – Grandma Moses

Waiting Room Small World: Before the holidays, I was sitting in the dental office waiting room while Richard had his wisdom tooth removed (he was born without three of them, a wise move on his part). Anyway, I kept looking up from my book at this fellow sitting across from me. Finally, I said, “Do you have a twin who’s a blacksmith?” How random is that? Well, it turned out the fellow was a blacksmith – Griffey’s blacksmith! John-the-blacksmith’s mother lives in nearby Lewistown and being the good son that he is, John brought his mom to the dentist in State College for an extraction.

Office Small World: My co-worker and co-Rotary Mom Sharon spent three weeks in Brazil over the holidays. While there, she spent a week with Richard’s Rotary host mom, Meire. (Sharon was host mom to Meire’s daughter Jade).  Sharon brought back a gift from Meire to me – a pair of drop earrings with clear stones. Meire said she hoped they’d bring me clarity. What a nice thought. Anyway, I haven’t worn pierced earrings for 20 years – since Marina was a babe in arms and always grabbing at my earrings. So, I went home, stood in front of the bathroom mirror and searched for those holes … and darned if they weren’t still there! I wore the earrings proudly the next day.

Eye Catching: As I mine Centre County for words of interest, I must pass on a few. One of my favorite restaurants, the Elk Creek Café in Millheim, features “nouveau Dutchy cuisine.” A bumper sticker for the aging flower children: Make Tea, Not War. And, a co-worker was describing the YO-YO method of office training … You're On Your Own.

Wish Come True: We’re snowed in and I was re-united with my cross-country skiis!

The Queen’s List:

2004: Fleur-de-LysHillofBeans – the one about our Avalon meals with each family taking a turn.

2005: Fleur-de-Herbs – the one about the Egg Lady and her Herbvan

2006: Fleur-de-CousinCamp – the one about the Cousin Chicken Catch and Treasure Hunt.

2007: Fleur-de-Flock – the one about Richard’s History Day interview with Malachy McCourt.

2008: Fleur-de-FeastDays – the one about halushki making at St. Mary’s and Fleur-de-Macy’sParade – the one about Keith Haring and giving thanks on the farm.

2009: Fleur-de-Sleepwalk – the one about our Easter Peeps and Fleur-de-Predators – the one about the great horned owl.

2010: Fleur-de-DeuxMilleDix – the one about starting the new decade with Marina and Julia Child and, sadly, Fleur-de-Divorce.

2011: Fleur-de-Shadow – the one about Nonna and the Groundhog Cookies, Fleur-de-Foxhunt, Fleur-de-Farewell, Fleur-de-Planted, and Fleur-de-Mushroom.

Fleur-de-FairyDust

A good fairy sprinkled fairy dust on my new year. I’ve been awarded a scholarship to the San Francisco Writers Conference in February!

Pinch me. Is it real?

In seven weeks, I’ll know for sure.

The conference features authors, literary agents, editors, and publishers talking about the craft of writing and the challenges of marketing. Trig (the Brownie Points lady) tells me all I have to bring is myself, business cards, and a weekend’s worth of networking energy. A planeload of confidence would help too. Let’s face it; I’m scared to death!

So, I’m asking for a little help from my friends. Marina and Richard used to watch DVDs of  “Friends” while I prepared dinner and listened from the kitchen. I always thought it was clever that they listed the episodes of each season as “The One with Mrs. Bing” or “The One with a Dozen Lasagnas,” or “The One with all of the Kissing.”  Like they were sitting around the apartment saying, “Remember the one …”

Well … I’m asking you to email, call, write, or even send smoke signals telling me your favorite Fleur-de-Lys newsletter. “The One…” It can be as specific as “Fleur-de-Busy” or the June 20, 2005, issue, or go the “Friends” route with “The One with the bat in the bedroom” or whatever. Then, I will print out hard copies of these “winners” and go to San Francisco armed with confidence boosters.

Wishing you a bouquet of new experiences in 2012, and a healthy sprinkling of fairy dust of your own. Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-TheWeek

 

The Week that Was: My friend Dina called mid-way through the week. I told her, “Remember how I didn’t feel the earthquake in August? Well, I felt this one.”

And we’re still feeling it. The victims, stripped of innocence, will feel it for a lifetime. 

But my mom and I were luckier than most. Earlier I signed up for two classes that gave us a break from the headlines and filled a few hours with new ideas.

Diversion is a good thing. Especially when trusty old NPR invades my Scion space with the Scandal in Happy Valley. Skype with Marina in Brussels and she tells me she read about IT on Al Jazeera. Get a call from Richard explaining he was just “exercising his First Amendment rights” on Beaver Avenue. And the CDT (aka The Seedy-T), where I was a reporter in the 1980s, has cover-to-cover coverage of The Story.

Cooking with Seasonal Local Vegetables, Gujarati Style, was a godsend. Within minutes, crowded around a kitchen workspace, we were taking in the fragrances of the state of Gujaret in western India. Sunil, our instructor, is also a farm manager for a local CSA. On the day’s luncheon menu was Green Chutney, Root Cutlets, Dal with Winter Squash, Kuchumbar (raw veggie salad), Methi Egg Curry, Greens, Riata (shredded veggies mixed with green chilies and cilantro in a yogurt base), and rice studded with cumin browned in ghee. Sunil manned two stove tops, boiling pots, frying pans, cutting boards, a palette of spices, and questions coming from a dozen on-lookers without as much as a raised eyebrow. I was in awe. After that performance, succession planting and the vagaries of Mother Nature must seem like a vacation.

It was my first venture into the realm of Indian cooking, and Sunil gave us a lot of tips and information on an array of new-to-me spices, all passed on to him by his mother, a native of Gujaret. Incorporating some of his techniques and trying even one or two new spices will add a complexity of flavors and excitement to our fall standards of butternut squash, turnips, parsnips, and sweet potatoes (white-fleshed only if you want to authenticate Indian dishes).

I’ll share a taste of the class with all of you, as well as I am technologically able. (I’m waiting for Skype to come up with a system of transporting meals and hugs through the interspace.)

• Whole spices such as cumin, mustard seeds, cloves, peppercorns, and fenugreek seeds are used as aromatics. Either dry toast them or fry in hot oil to release the aromas.

• Know the ratios of ground spices rather than amounts, Sunil suggests. You might just use a dash of asafetida and tumeric, a teaspoon of chili powder or garam masala (a combo of peppercorns, cloves, black cumin seeds, nutmeg, star anise, coriander, cardamom, and malabar leaves), and two heaping teaspoons of ground roasted coriander or ground roasted cumin

• Sweet and Sour are the two flavor components to think about in Indian cooking. A little sweetness is typically added to dishes to balance out spicy or sour flavors. If a sour flavor is added, always use a sweet. Lemon juice, dried mango powder, kokum or tamarind are used for sour flavor; sugar, brown sugar, and jaggery (a raw sugar) are used for the sweet

• The triad of ginger, garlic and green chilies (ratio of 1:1:1) adds great flavors to dishes. Process and use as a paste.

• Indian cooks add cilantro to almost every dish. Sunil uses the leaves and stems, as long as they aren’t woody, by the handful.

Here is one of the easiest recipes to tempt you into the Indian kitchen. Although Kuchumbar is typically made with raw onions, cucumbers and tomatoes, Sunil adapted it to fall vegetables.

Autumn Kuchumbar

Chop turnips, radishes and beets into ¼-inch cubes or strips. Add roasted cumin, salt, sugar, lemon, and chili powder (trial and error on the amounts). Massage (yes, with your clean bare hands) the entire mixture. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

For our Organic Beekeeping class, I worried about my mother repeating what she said to me when I told her we were signed up, “Oh yuck, bzzzzz bzzzz.” Thank goodness she behaved … especially when she found out honey-tasting was on the syllabus. We listened to two beekeepers discuss packages and nucs, queen bees, worker bees and drones, supers and bottom boards, and yes, tasted honey (my favorite, a dark knotweed honey). As we neared the end of the session, Sylvia explained the hive hierarchy, and how10,000 bees work together as one organism. The queen reigns but she doesn’t rule. “The hive is like the Board of Trustees,” Sylvia quipped. “The hive decides.” So much for escaping the buzz. Have a sweet time, Laurie Lynch

Written on Slate: “We Queens try to include items from all four major food groups – sweet, salty, fried, and au gratin. Balance is very important to us.”

                                                            -- The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love

Fleur-de-HillofBeans

I have a bone to pick with the colloquial saying, “It ain’t worth a hill of beans.”

For the last several weeks we’ve been reaping the rewards of a hill of beans, and expect to continue throughout the winter.

When I moved to State College this past summer, one of the first things I did was transfer my Penn State Master Gardener ties from Lehigh County to Centre County. Now, many of you probably didn’t know I was a Penn State Master Gardener, have been for 21 years. Although it involves extensive training, the purpose of the Penn State Master Gardener is to volunteer in educational and outreach activities in the field of home horticulture, thus extending the reach of the University, Cooperative Extension, and the much-taxed resources of what once was called the “county agent.” Now, this is not the time or place to get into a political discussion on cutbacks in state funding, but I will say I consider Penn State Cooperative Extension the goose that keeps laying the golden eggs for all of us folks out in taxpayer land … until she’s butchered by cutbacks, fiscally forced retirements, and other such nonsense.

HalloweenWeekend White-Out

Anyway, one of the conditions of being a Penn State Master Gardener is that any type of commercial horticultural venture (ie. FdL) is kept separate. So, I haven’t been at liberty to extol the virtues of the program through this newsletter until now. Joining the Centre County group has given me an instant introduction to the gardening community here as well as a way to stay involved with Cooperative Extension. One day, I received an email from our county MG coordinator saying that varieties of edamame being grown in a PSU research plot were available to MGs for the picking. I drove several miles in the Nissan, harvested to my heart’s (and back’s) content, hardly made a dent in the field, but filled the  truck bed with a hill of beans.

The following football weekend, when we had lots of out-of-town visitors, I boiled bushels of edamame pods in salted water as a snack, freezing masses of them. Mom and I also  shelled a bunch to refrigerate, and use them in soups, tuna salad, mixed greens salads, stir-fry, enchilada wraps – you get the picture!

Edamame is translated from Japanese to mean “beans on branches”.  When harvested, these immature soybeans are chock-full of protein, carbohydrates, omega-3 fatty acids, and micronutrients such as folic acid, vitamin K, and manganese. Plus, they’re fun to eat.

I enjoyed gleaning the edamame research plot and decided to give back to my new MG group with a selection of Fleur-de-Lys garlic for them to take home to their Centre County gardens to plant. And yes, I can almost taste it now, a steaming bowl of edamame spiked with slices of Fleur-de-Lys garlic -- yum! Laurie Lynch

Llama Bean Hill: I took the hill of beans theme a step further. When I planted my own garlic in a newly established plot inside the llama pasture, I decided to hill semi-composted llama beans over my garlic rows. Not only will they add some slow-release nutrients for next spring, they’ll keep Belladonna from nosing around my garlic patch. (Llamas are very clean animals and keep their “toilet areas” very separate from their “grazing” areas.)

East Coast Connection: Remember Trig, the Brownie Points lady who lives in Tiburon, CA, and meets and greets people across the globe with her homemade ultimate brownies? Well, she was in State College and she made a luncheon date with my mom and me She told us the one ingredient she can’t find on the West Coast is black walnuts. So, she had just come from the local Weis supermarket where she went on a buying binge, emptying the black walnut display, and shipping them back to her kitchen in Tiburon.

Kutztown Connections: My job at the roofing company led me to a fellow Rotary Exchange Mom, and more recently, to a former Kutztownian. Ken Smith, who graduated from KAHS, crafts sheet metal for various roofing jobs. We started talking about K-town, and then he told me of the B&B he and his wife Ruth ran … until their Bellefonte Victorian Manor was destroyed by fire several years ago. We shared fire stories and dreams-going-up-in-smoke stories (literally and figuratively). Then, one day he brought in a beautiful scrapbook of the family’s B&B memories. Not only did I see photos of the B&B at its best, with wonderful stenciling by Ruth and lots of antiques, but I also saw photos of the fire-ravaged rooms. Of special interest, the scrapbook contained letters from many of their guests (some of whom I recognized as Kutztown acquaintances) and a testament to the family’s faith that some times wonderful things come to an end. You go on.

Hand Jive: When you’re a 50-something mom you don’t expect many positive comments on your physical features. So, I was taken aback when Marina was in middle school and her favorite teacher said she loved my hands. She said they looked like “hard-working hands,” which they were, thanks to all the FdL busy-ness. The complement gave me a new perspective. Then, this summer, when my 20-something nephew Wille blew into town, he made the comment, “Your knuckles look like they’re wearing hubcaps.” And the worst thing is, they do!  And yes, my nail-bitten fingers are atrocious. However, even though I’m working in an office instead of a field, my hands are still getting a workout.

I overheard the two other women in the office talking about “rubber fingertips” and how manufacturers seem to be making them smaller than in years past. A light bulb went off in my head. Actually, it had been flickering for some time. I go through hundreds of paper invoices in a week’s time – paper invoices which have been touched by workmen’s hands, filed on truck floors or crumpled on the dash, not the cleanest sheets of paper in the world, especially during flu season. To shuffle through piles of paperwork, I don’t use my “index” finger, which is why it’s called an “index” finger (light bulb No. 2); instead, I use my middle finger … and my tongue, which licks the tip of my finger to flip from page to page. I’ve never been especially wary of germs, believing that a healthy dose of microscopic critters toughens your system and actually helps build immunity, but with all of those office hours for thinking, I decided maybe I’d try a  “rubber fingertip”. I got the box in our supply cabinet. Why, oh why, do even the mundane things in English sound so beautiful in French and Spanish: doigtiers or cubre dedos de hule? Anyway, if these rubber tips are too tight on my co-workers index fingers, I knew it would be a BIG stretch to get one over the tip of my middle finger. I squeezed it on, with the base stretching over the tip of my finger and the rest of it airborne. However funny it looked, it worked. It’s an amazingly simple invention that I just discovered but I’m so glad I did. My co-worker showed me her old, stretched out, blackened one, and I certainly got the sanitary point. So, my working hands now sport a rubber fingertip – and I whisk right through the paperwork, hubcaps and all!

Written on Slate: “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”

                                                               -- Humphrey Bogart to Ingrid Bergman

Fleur-de-OctoberReflection

It was a summer of Swiss chard cravings and too many green peppers. Too much wildlife and too many well-meaning weekend gardeners. And yes, too much rain.

The other day I came home from work exhausted; stretch out on the bed, bones above the mattress, everything else sinking to the floor, drained. I was awakened from my deep slumber by the alarmed staccato clicking of my mother’s llama, Belladonna. She was clearly upset. I looked out one window and couldn’t find a culprit. Then I looked out the second window: two white-tailed deer standing in full alert, staring at Bella.

So it wasn’t just the groundhogs and rabbits that consumed my Swiss chard, tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, squash, carrots and beans; it was probably the deer too. While there’s an Amish market nearby that fills almost all of our vegetable and fruit needs, when I asked if they’d be selling any Swiss chard, a young woman looked at me strangely and said, “I’ve never heard of it so I know we’re not growing it.”

I did find some at another farmers’ market – it was seriously wilted, but I was seriously craving chard pie, so I snatched it and rushed home to make the dish for that night’s dinner.

Yes, the only thing Fleur-de-Lys Central yielded this summer was bell peppers. For some reason, the critters turned up their noses at my six bell pepper plants.  But that’s not to say they weren’t admired. My sister and her weekend guest, my mother and her part-time caregiver, and my brother-in-law, all spotted these shiny, blocky, gorgeous bell peppers and picked them, proudly bringing them to the kitchen. But, they picked them green; my sweet red and yellow peppers were picked at the immature, much-less-sweet stage of green. But who can complain (more than just a little) for helping hands.  Laurie Lynch

Update on Mom: For the last several years, my mother fills any quiet moment with jingles or songs. Depending on my mood, it can either be pleasant or downright irritating. When she breaks into her Sound of Music, “I am 16 going on 17” song, I laugh and sing along because my mother still feels more like 16 than 82. But when I’m approaching a green-turning-yellow traffic light and she belts out very Supreme-like: “Stop, in the name of love” the irritation begins … and escalates when she then goes into her police siren sound that is so realistic I glance over my shoulder. But the tune that family members  shake our heads over in a state of perplexity is: “Who’s gonna marry Tom Mix?”

A while ago, my sister Larissa looked up info on Tom Mix, and he was a cowboy actor who was married five times. That sort of made sense, like having your dad sing, “Who’s gonna marry Elizabeth Taylor?”

But when my mother added: “Not me. He’s gone.”  I decided to look into this Tom Mix fellow a little further.

Tom Mix was born 40 miles north of State College and grew up near DuBois. He was indeed married five times, but his most loyal sidekick was Tony the Wonder Horse. Mix acted in 336 cowboy movies (silent and nine or so talkies) and by doing so, this King of the Cowboys paved the way for folks like John Wayne and Ronald Reagan. What stopped me in my tracks, however, was the fact that Tom Mix died Oct. 12, 1940.  (He drove into a gully traveling 80 mph when he came upon construction barriers blocking a bridge that had been washed away in a flood in Arizona.)  I did a little quick math, and my mother was 11 going on 12 when he died, so that jingle must have entered her life around that time. And 70 years later, it’s still playing in her mind. What an amazing thing, the brain.

Speaking of Brains: My niece Ansley is majoring in psychology and studying abroad in Copenhagen, Denmark, this fall. Her blog at http://www.flanahagen.com is an absolute delight. The theme is her quest to find happiness in one of the world’s happiest cities, and she has photos and text that has put a smile on her aunt’s face, and maybe yours too. She is taking a Positive Psychology class, and her professor assigned a task that might do all of us good. It’s called Three Good Things. If, each day, you list three good things that you experienced, your self-flourishing tendency may overpower your self-languishing tendency – and put a smile on your face.

Forks Over Knives: I took my mom to see this documentary a few weeks ago and was surprised that it mentions a former classmate/swim team buddy of my youngest sister, Leslie. Rip Esselstyn, whose father features prominently in the film, has written a book called The Engine 2 Diet. Forks Over Knives, which promotes a plant-based diet, inspired me to try this recipe that came in the Lehigh Valley Health Network’s “Healthy You” magazine. It is a delicious and nutritious way to celebrate fall vegetables (including red bell peppers).

Roasted Vegetables

1 small butternut squash, cubed

2 red bell peppers, seeded and diced

2 sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed

1 red onion, quartered

1 Tbsp. chopped fresh thyme

2 Tbsp. chopped fresh rosemary

¼ c. olive oil

2 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 475°.

In large bowl, combine squash, red peppers, and sweet potatoes. Separate red onion into pieces and add to mixture. In small bowl, stir together thyme, rosemary, olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. Toss with vegetables to coat. Spread evenly on large roasting pan. Roast 35-40 minutes in oven, stirring every 10 minutes, or until vegetables are cooked through and browned.