Tomorrow I will buy a turkey breast to cook for Thanksgiving. It's my turn to cook. I won't buy a whole turkey, because there will only be five people around our Thanksgiving table, and we certainly don't want to be eating leftovers into mid-December.
This is not an advertisement for Harris Teeter, my grocery store "home," but that's probably where I will go to purchase my turkey breast. I usually know where to find things, even though it is my husband who does the grocery shopping 99% of the time. Five minutes from my house by car, I will drive there, plunk the turkey breast in my shopping cart, roll my cart to the check out counter where they will scan it and put it back in the cart for me to push out to my car. When I get home, I'll carry it to my refrigerator where I'll place it until it's time to cook it the next day. It will take a half hour at the most to get my turkey.
It was different for my mother when I was growing up. She used to journey to downtown Tokyo on two separate trains to purchase our turkey. It took her well over an hour just to get to Kinokuniya, the import store where American food like peanut butter, popcorn, corn flakes, or a turkey could be purchased. Once she selected our turkey, she placed it in the large, sturdy bag she took with her to the store, packing it carefully among a few choice other items she felt she could manage to carry home along with the turkey. She then began her trip back to our house in Mitaka, first hauling the twelve pound bird to the train station. She placed it on the seat next to her (if there was room) on the train, and then an hour later put it into the wicker basket on the front of her bicycle to peddle it home. It took practically the entire day to buy the turkey.
I am thankful for my mother who went to extra efforts to make sure that we celebrated Thanksgiving and got to know this holiday. We celebrated it, even though nobody else in our neighborhood did. She showed me the importance of this most precious of holidays where we stop, come together, and give thanks. It is my favorite holiday. I enjoy its slow pace, the purposeful time in which we are together just for the sake of being together, and count all the ways in which we are blessed.
So when our commercial world marches on to take away even this, this one single day when we pause to give thanks, I will not participate. I will never, ever, shop on Thanksgiving Day. I will remember those stores who opened on this holiday. For the rest of the holiday shopping season, I choose not shop there. It's that important to me.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Popcorn for Dinner
It wasn't often that Mom was away at dinner time, but when she was, she usually prepared something that Dad could heat up and serve up on the table for dinner. Our family rarely ate out at restaurants. It was a really special occasion when we did, and it certainly was not something we did for convenience in those days. We went to restaurants as a family for celebration, so we did not go to a restaurant without Mom. That just wouldn't be fair.
On those rare evenings when Dad was left to his own devices to prepare dinner for us, we had popcorn.
Dad loved having popcorn for dinner, and we were part of his ritual of preparation from beginning to end. He told us all about how often he had this special dinner of popcorn when he was growing up. Our kernels came from Kinokuniya, the imported food store in downtown Tokyo, or was shipped to us in care packages from America. Not to be overly dramatic about this, but having popcorn was one of the ways we were reminded that we were American.
First, Dad coated the bottom of the stainless steel pan with some vegetable oil. Then, we watched as he cut open the bright colorful American plastic bag of corn kernels, and poured them in to the metal pan, making a loud noise.
Then, Dad placed the pan on the stove, and we gathered in close to listen for the first pop. I always wished I could see the popping and not just hear it, but of course, that was impossible with the metal pans. We silently waited, still as we could be, so as not to make any unexpected noises that would take away from the excitement of hearing that first kernel hit the lid of the pan. When we heard it, that first lone popper, we looked at each other's faces to be re-assured, that yes, that was a pop.
Slowly, gradually, more and more kernels popped, and in no time there were so many kernels popping in rapid succession that we couldn't tell them apart. That was the best part. It was out of control!! As the popping died down, Dad shook the pan over the stove to make sure that as many kernels as possible would pop, and slowly, slowly, the energy and sounds from the pan died down. Sometimes Dad included enough in the pan that the white jewels began to lift the lid off of the pan. I secretly wished for it to overflow and cover the top of the stove.
When the popping was finished, Dad salted it and tossed it in a mixing bowl. Then, the three of us sat at the card table in the kitchen rather than the dining room table where we usually ate dinner. Dad scooped the popcorn out of the pan with the bowls he would set in front of us for dinner. Finally, just before we said the blessing, he retrieved the cold glass bottle of milk from the refrigerator, and poured it over our hot popcorn. We ate it with a spoon, just like Dad did when he was a little boy.
My family does not eat popcorn for dinner. We don't pour milk on our popcorn, either. Our popcorn is popped in a microwave in a paper bag that expands and we throw away in the trash. My family won't be carrying on that tradition, much to my Dad's dismay, but I will always have great memories of pop corn for dinner at the little square card table in the kitchen in Mitaka.
On those rare evenings when Dad was left to his own devices to prepare dinner for us, we had popcorn.
Dad loved having popcorn for dinner, and we were part of his ritual of preparation from beginning to end. He told us all about how often he had this special dinner of popcorn when he was growing up. Our kernels came from Kinokuniya, the imported food store in downtown Tokyo, or was shipped to us in care packages from America. Not to be overly dramatic about this, but having popcorn was one of the ways we were reminded that we were American.
First, Dad coated the bottom of the stainless steel pan with some vegetable oil. Then, we watched as he cut open the bright colorful American plastic bag of corn kernels, and poured them in to the metal pan, making a loud noise.
Then, Dad placed the pan on the stove, and we gathered in close to listen for the first pop. I always wished I could see the popping and not just hear it, but of course, that was impossible with the metal pans. We silently waited, still as we could be, so as not to make any unexpected noises that would take away from the excitement of hearing that first kernel hit the lid of the pan. When we heard it, that first lone popper, we looked at each other's faces to be re-assured, that yes, that was a pop.
Slowly, gradually, more and more kernels popped, and in no time there were so many kernels popping in rapid succession that we couldn't tell them apart. That was the best part. It was out of control!! As the popping died down, Dad shook the pan over the stove to make sure that as many kernels as possible would pop, and slowly, slowly, the energy and sounds from the pan died down. Sometimes Dad included enough in the pan that the white jewels began to lift the lid off of the pan. I secretly wished for it to overflow and cover the top of the stove.
When the popping was finished, Dad salted it and tossed it in a mixing bowl. Then, the three of us sat at the card table in the kitchen rather than the dining room table where we usually ate dinner. Dad scooped the popcorn out of the pan with the bowls he would set in front of us for dinner. Finally, just before we said the blessing, he retrieved the cold glass bottle of milk from the refrigerator, and poured it over our hot popcorn. We ate it with a spoon, just like Dad did when he was a little boy.
My family does not eat popcorn for dinner. We don't pour milk on our popcorn, either. Our popcorn is popped in a microwave in a paper bag that expands and we throw away in the trash. My family won't be carrying on that tradition, much to my Dad's dismay, but I will always have great memories of pop corn for dinner at the little square card table in the kitchen in Mitaka.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Turning on the Heat
We turned the heat on at our house this morning. Alan got up out of bed in the middle of the night and went to the hall thermostat to push the "up" button several times to kick it into heat mode. Thank goodness, because the extra blanket I had put on the bed was not quite doing the job. For one thing, it was doing nothing to warm my face; my nose was ice cold.
I've become somewhat of a "wimp" when it comes to coping with cold weather. We live in Wilmington, NC, after all, where it almost never snows, and people still use air conditioning well into late October. But when the temperature dips below 40 degrees for the first time each year, you would think I lived way inside the arctic circle for all of my complaining.
I used to be a lot tougher about coping with cold temperatures when we lived in Japan, where most of our house wasn't even heated. Only the downstairs was heated by a singular stove that heated up with a clicking sound. When the temperature of the stove finally hit a point high enough, a fan turned on and blew glorious hot air into the living room.
Getting us out of bed on the coldest winter mornings was a challenge for my mother. She timed waking us up to the stove's fan's cycle. As it began to heat up, she came upstairs to one by one remove our blankets and quilts piled on top of us as we slept on our futon.
"Rise and shine!," she'd say, as she came upstairs to our room to put away our bedding into the closet for the day. After begging for a few more minutes under the electric blanket and thick Japanese quilt on top (also called a futon,) our retort was always,
"Is the heater on?"
We knew our window of opportunity to dress in warmth was limited. If the fan was blowing hot air, we grabbed our clothes including long underwear, and ran down the stairs to dress in front of the heater as it blew out its warmth, and got dressed as quick as we could before the fan went off. Dressed in our wool sweaters, we headed off to Japanese school where the rooms were heated with black iron pot-bellied coal stoves - but that's a story for another day.
I will do my best to remember how fortunate I am to live in a house that has heat, and all we have to do is to push a plastic white button a couple of times to heat up the entire house.
I've become somewhat of a "wimp" when it comes to coping with cold weather. We live in Wilmington, NC, after all, where it almost never snows, and people still use air conditioning well into late October. But when the temperature dips below 40 degrees for the first time each year, you would think I lived way inside the arctic circle for all of my complaining.
I used to be a lot tougher about coping with cold temperatures when we lived in Japan, where most of our house wasn't even heated. Only the downstairs was heated by a singular stove that heated up with a clicking sound. When the temperature of the stove finally hit a point high enough, a fan turned on and blew glorious hot air into the living room.
Getting us out of bed on the coldest winter mornings was a challenge for my mother. She timed waking us up to the stove's fan's cycle. As it began to heat up, she came upstairs to one by one remove our blankets and quilts piled on top of us as we slept on our futon.
"Rise and shine!," she'd say, as she came upstairs to our room to put away our bedding into the closet for the day. After begging for a few more minutes under the electric blanket and thick Japanese quilt on top (also called a futon,) our retort was always,
"Is the heater on?"
We knew our window of opportunity to dress in warmth was limited. If the fan was blowing hot air, we grabbed our clothes including long underwear, and ran down the stairs to dress in front of the heater as it blew out its warmth, and got dressed as quick as we could before the fan went off. Dressed in our wool sweaters, we headed off to Japanese school where the rooms were heated with black iron pot-bellied coal stoves - but that's a story for another day.
I will do my best to remember how fortunate I am to live in a house that has heat, and all we have to do is to push a plastic white button a couple of times to heat up the entire house.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Planting Seeds
I planted two flats of multi-colored pansies in the front yard today. That was a success, but the extra lettuce seeds from my planting yesterday that I forgot to bring in overnight were eaten by some wild animal. Probably a raccoon. He (or she) tore into the little white seed envelope and ate them up, making a big mess of torn paper next to the clay pots. I forget that there are wild animals that roam my yard at night.
The first time I remember planting a seed, I was in the first grade. I planted a black and white striped sunflower seed along with the other 39 children in my class. We put them in a little paper cup with rich dirt, pushing the seed down deep into the soil as far as our little fingers could push. We then lined the cups up by the window where they would receive lots of sunlight. We planted them the same day, using the same batch of seeds and same bucket of shared soil to pretty much the same depth, and watered them just the way Kikuchi Sensei told us to. Then we waited.
Days later, one by one, the seeds began to sprout, poking little green ropes up out of the soil in an arc. A month later, by mid-July when it was time for summer vacation, we each had a seedling to take home and take care of. Some children's seedlings were a dark, healthy green, already outgrowing the paper cup, making them topple over. Other seedlings were scrawny yellow plants - they either got too much water or not enough, too much sun or not enough, and were not healthy specimens.
I took mine home where it was quickly forgotten after a week or two and it shriveled up. I cared more about that little seedling when it was a competition. Once it was just mine, where nobody was measuring their success based on mine, I gave it very little attention. I'd like to think I care more about my seedlings now, but my careless handling of lettuce seeds yesterday afternoon might prove otherwise.
The first time I remember planting a seed, I was in the first grade. I planted a black and white striped sunflower seed along with the other 39 children in my class. We put them in a little paper cup with rich dirt, pushing the seed down deep into the soil as far as our little fingers could push. We then lined the cups up by the window where they would receive lots of sunlight. We planted them the same day, using the same batch of seeds and same bucket of shared soil to pretty much the same depth, and watered them just the way Kikuchi Sensei told us to. Then we waited.
Days later, one by one, the seeds began to sprout, poking little green ropes up out of the soil in an arc. A month later, by mid-July when it was time for summer vacation, we each had a seedling to take home and take care of. Some children's seedlings were a dark, healthy green, already outgrowing the paper cup, making them topple over. Other seedlings were scrawny yellow plants - they either got too much water or not enough, too much sun or not enough, and were not healthy specimens.
I took mine home where it was quickly forgotten after a week or two and it shriveled up. I cared more about that little seedling when it was a competition. Once it was just mine, where nobody was measuring their success based on mine, I gave it very little attention. I'd like to think I care more about my seedlings now, but my careless handling of lettuce seeds yesterday afternoon might prove otherwise.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
An Extraordinary Fall Day - and a Pumpkin
I spent the morning walking with a good friend, talking about our lives and our "grown" children (just about the same thing) and solving some of the world's major problems. In between all of this important conversation and therapy we provided to each other, we exclaimed with genuine awe at least a dozen times over the course of a couple hours and four and a half miles,
"It's such a beautiful day!"
It has been, indeed, a beautiful day. The sky was Carolina blue, a few white clouds dotted the sky, a light breeze blew off the ocean, and the sun warmed our skin like a hug as we walked in our t-shirts and shorts. We ended our walk with a visit to the Trolley Stop for a hot dog and a Diet Pepsi. I think heaven must be something like this.
In the afternoon, I planted some tender lettuce seedlings in my raised bed garden and watered them, naively believing that I'll enjoy fresh lettuce all winter long from this brief one hour of gardening.
It has truly been a beautiful day and I am thankful...for friendship, for honesty, for autumn, for cool breezes, for fresh dirt under my fingernails. I'm thankful for my friend's love of decorating for the fall season and my being okay with myself for not enjoying or being skilled at that, and the fact that my house pretty much looks the same year-round. I will go to her house one of these days soon and enjoy her fine touches, the variety of pumpkins, squash and gourds that she has carefully selected and arranged, and I will wish I had the same eye for decorating that she does. I will walk through her front door and it will smell like pumpkin or apple or falling leaves or ginger, and I will be transported by her thoughtful decor to a calm, comforting happy place where I will dwell for an hour or two and it will be marvelous.
Then I'll head home, stopping on my way at the grocery store to pick up an ordinary round orange pumpkin on sale to place on our front stoop. And I will call it good.
"It's such a beautiful day!"
It has been, indeed, a beautiful day. The sky was Carolina blue, a few white clouds dotted the sky, a light breeze blew off the ocean, and the sun warmed our skin like a hug as we walked in our t-shirts and shorts. We ended our walk with a visit to the Trolley Stop for a hot dog and a Diet Pepsi. I think heaven must be something like this.
In the afternoon, I planted some tender lettuce seedlings in my raised bed garden and watered them, naively believing that I'll enjoy fresh lettuce all winter long from this brief one hour of gardening.
It has truly been a beautiful day and I am thankful...for friendship, for honesty, for autumn, for cool breezes, for fresh dirt under my fingernails. I'm thankful for my friend's love of decorating for the fall season and my being okay with myself for not enjoying or being skilled at that, and the fact that my house pretty much looks the same year-round. I will go to her house one of these days soon and enjoy her fine touches, the variety of pumpkins, squash and gourds that she has carefully selected and arranged, and I will wish I had the same eye for decorating that she does. I will walk through her front door and it will smell like pumpkin or apple or falling leaves or ginger, and I will be transported by her thoughtful decor to a calm, comforting happy place where I will dwell for an hour or two and it will be marvelous.
Then I'll head home, stopping on my way at the grocery store to pick up an ordinary round orange pumpkin on sale to place on our front stoop. And I will call it good.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Enough?
From the feel of things, I'm thinking it's probably time to put away my summer clothes and get the winter ones out of the attic. But I'm not going to get to it today. It's a chore I don't enjoy very much anyway, probably because it reminds me of my excesses. I have a nice sized closet...It should be big enough to hold all my clothes for two seasons.
When I was growing up, I had just one week's worth of clothes. I had one nice outfit, something I wore to church and to other dressier occasions like a piano recital which were few and far between. I also had a couple pair of pants and a couple of shirts and a sweater or two. That was it. It was enough. That's what everyone else had, and I never, ever, for one moment considered that I didn't have enough. It's because I did have enough.
If I could find the energy today, I would go up into the attic and awkwardly maneuver the big plastic box with the lid that snaps shut that contains my sweaters, and I would lug it down the stairs. I would pay the price for having too much. But I'm not going to get to it today. I am numb.
Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of my peaceful Saturday afternoon, as I sat on my screened porch reading one of many books I own, after a satisfying lunch and as smells of our taco dinner were just beginning to fill the house, I heard up close seven gun shots, one which took the life of an 18 year-old boy.
There wasn't enough of something, and it wasn't fall clothes. The shooter and the victim, caught up in their world of gangs and drugs, were missing something. What did they not have enough of? Was it a loving home to grow up in? Was it a safe neighborhood to live in where they could walk out their door and not be accosted by gang members? Were they missing a quality education? Was it a lack of parents and community members who believed in them and their potential? Was it access to counselors who could help them process their anger at the unfair world? Were they missing the flicker of hope in the possibility of a different life, one that included a job to support themselves? What did they not have enough of?
I don't know the answer to those questions. But I do know one thing for certain. There were enough guns. There was definitely enough of that.
When I was growing up, I had just one week's worth of clothes. I had one nice outfit, something I wore to church and to other dressier occasions like a piano recital which were few and far between. I also had a couple pair of pants and a couple of shirts and a sweater or two. That was it. It was enough. That's what everyone else had, and I never, ever, for one moment considered that I didn't have enough. It's because I did have enough.
If I could find the energy today, I would go up into the attic and awkwardly maneuver the big plastic box with the lid that snaps shut that contains my sweaters, and I would lug it down the stairs. I would pay the price for having too much. But I'm not going to get to it today. I am numb.
Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of my peaceful Saturday afternoon, as I sat on my screened porch reading one of many books I own, after a satisfying lunch and as smells of our taco dinner were just beginning to fill the house, I heard up close seven gun shots, one which took the life of an 18 year-old boy.
There wasn't enough of something, and it wasn't fall clothes. The shooter and the victim, caught up in their world of gangs and drugs, were missing something. What did they not have enough of? Was it a loving home to grow up in? Was it a safe neighborhood to live in where they could walk out their door and not be accosted by gang members? Were they missing a quality education? Was it a lack of parents and community members who believed in them and their potential? Was it access to counselors who could help them process their anger at the unfair world? Were they missing the flicker of hope in the possibility of a different life, one that included a job to support themselves? What did they not have enough of?
I don't know the answer to those questions. But I do know one thing for certain. There were enough guns. There was definitely enough of that.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Camping in Tokyo
I feel sorry for kids who are not playing outside today. I sit on our back porch getting the best of both worlds - writing and being outside all at the same time. It is so beautiful.
The neighbors rented some sort of blow up jumpy castle contraption for what I guess was a birthday party yesterday afternoon. Though I can't see it, I can hear it. Children have been screaming three backyards over for over 26 hours with only a short break to go inside for the sleeping part of the sleep-over. I think it must have been a 48 hour rental, because although sounds have died down a bit, there are certain indications that children are still jumping.
Our yard in Tokyo would never have accommodated the kind of jumping toy our neighbors have rented. I do remember sleep-over camping in our small yard in Tokyo, though. We had more yard than many of our friends, even though our tent took up half the grassy space. In fact, most of my friends had no yard at all. Dad helped set up the tent in the afternoon, and one or two friends and I climbed in through the zippered entrance at dusk with flashlights to ward off the monsters until morning. I was never really afraid of the Japanese monsters. They never looked real to me, with their two little horns sticking out of the top of their heads and blue and red skin like someone had colored them with a crayon.
Before we got in the tent, our friends marveled at the weenie roast and precious marshmallows Mom had to go all the way to downtown Tokyo's Kinokuniya to purchase and carry home on the train. Behind our cinder block wall in Mitaka, Tokyo, in our tiny little yard, we spent an exciting night with nature, even though the only wildlife we encountered up close were mosquitoes and the screaming sounds of cicadas.
The neighbors rented some sort of blow up jumpy castle contraption for what I guess was a birthday party yesterday afternoon. Though I can't see it, I can hear it. Children have been screaming three backyards over for over 26 hours with only a short break to go inside for the sleeping part of the sleep-over. I think it must have been a 48 hour rental, because although sounds have died down a bit, there are certain indications that children are still jumping.
Our yard in Tokyo would never have accommodated the kind of jumping toy our neighbors have rented. I do remember sleep-over camping in our small yard in Tokyo, though. We had more yard than many of our friends, even though our tent took up half the grassy space. In fact, most of my friends had no yard at all. Dad helped set up the tent in the afternoon, and one or two friends and I climbed in through the zippered entrance at dusk with flashlights to ward off the monsters until morning. I was never really afraid of the Japanese monsters. They never looked real to me, with their two little horns sticking out of the top of their heads and blue and red skin like someone had colored them with a crayon.
Before we got in the tent, our friends marveled at the weenie roast and precious marshmallows Mom had to go all the way to downtown Tokyo's Kinokuniya to purchase and carry home on the train. Behind our cinder block wall in Mitaka, Tokyo, in our tiny little yard, we spent an exciting night with nature, even though the only wildlife we encountered up close were mosquitoes and the screaming sounds of cicadas.
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