Columns

The ongoing embarrassment of life with a StupidPhone

I may be old enough to remember rotary phones, but like many Gen Xers, I’ve adapted to technology.

The whole Blackberry thing bypassed me, so when I got my first cellphone, I used the text function the way God intended – slowly picking through the alphabet with my pointer finger.

Hipper friends whizzed out messages using the two-thumb method, while I just shook my head. My thumbs don’t work that way.

I employed proper punctuation and grammar and eschewed texting lingo except for an occasional LOL or OMG. Seriously, how much time would I save by typing “u” instead of “you?”

But with more and more of my work and personal communication done via text, I realized my hunt-and-peck method took too much time.

Then I discovered the little microphone on my phone transcribes my spoken words to text. It should be a terrific time-saver, but unfortunately, I didn’t get a smartphone – I got a stupidphone. How else to explain the mortifying messages it regularly sends? Messages I then must decode and resend to the recipients.

For example, the exciting news of my first book’s publication got garbled. I sent an announcement to those in my contact list. Instead of “Publisher wants ‘War Bonds’ for spring catalog,” my pals were informed, “Publisher wants your buns for spring catalog.”

I’m unable to share the replies because most of them were GIFs and emojis unsuitable for print.

My phone can’t even get my name right.

Talk to text changes Cindy Hval to “Cindy of All.” I was OK with that, but lately, it learned a new trick. I texted a source and it identified me as “Cindy Evolved from The Spokesman-Review.” I’ve just decided to go with that and am considering amending my business cards.

When I tried to tell my husband I had an interview at the Jundt Museum it turned into Bundt Museum. We don’t have one of those in Spokane, but I’d cover it if we did.

On several occasions, my shortcut landed me in hot water with Derek. For example, every time I talk-text about meeting my friend Jill for lunch or Happy Hour, Jill becomes JOE.

“You spend a lot of time with this Joe guy,” said Derek. “Should I be worried?”

Then I tried to let him know one of his favorite Van Halen songs was playing.

“Daniel Santa got in my car, and Hot for Teacher came on the radio,” I texted.

“So. You took Santa for a ride?” he asked.

It went downhill from there and I still don’t know who Daniel Santa is.

Speaking of Jill/Joe, recently, I tried to confirm a lunch location with her, and “On Monroe, for heaven’s sake,” became “On Monroe, we’re having sex.”

I guess you can see why Derek’s worried.

Even Dame Agatha Christie isn’t spared. Talk-text changed “There’s a new Agatha Christie on Prime” to “There’s a nude Agatha Christie on Prime.”

No one wants to see that.

Once, I tried to confirm a spa appointment, and my phone changed it to spay appointment. So, I guess I’ve been fixed.

Sometimes, my mishaps end up in our family lexicon, like the time I let our son, Sam, know I’d made some treats.

“I saved you some fudge in a Ziploc bag in the fridge. The white time is butter dum fudge. It’s new and it’s really good.

  • kind
  • rum

Good grief.”

Haha! You talk texted that didn’t you?” he replied.

Now, every Christmas I make Butter Dum fudge.

I should know better, but I often use the talk-text feature to post on social media. I invented a new sandwich when “Patty Melt” became “Party Melt” on a food blogger’s Instagram account.

When I tried to vent my frustration to a friend about my latest phone-induced embarrassment, “talk to text” turned into “talk to test.”

Apparently, that’s an exam I continue to fail.

Columns

First Valentine’s Day Deflating

My husband and I have reached the time of life when downsizing seems prudent. No, I’m not talking about selling our home or offloading possessions, I’m talking about reducing our waistlines.

Keeping track of things like blood sugar looms ever more important as we age. That’s why, when Valentine’s Day approached, I suggested we skip the usual exchange of chocolates.

Derek agreed, but I could tell by the twinkle in his eye he had something else in mind. More on that in a minute.

We’re in our second year as empty-nesters, and we continue to adapt.

During the years our sons lived at home, Valentine’s morning was special. They awoke to a lace-topped table filled with heart-shaped dishes of cinnamon, cherry and conversation heart candies. A card and a box of chocolates waited at each place and, when they opened the refrigerator, they discovered that Cupid had magically turned the milk pink.

Even after the older boys moved out, they stopped by to get their cards, candy and hugs from Mom. With the departure of our youngest last year, for the first time in 25-plus years, Cupid skipped our frig, and the heart-shaped dishes and lace tablecloth remained tucked away.

We were back to where it began – just the two of us.

That’s not to say our first Valentine’s Day as man and wife was especially romantic, but it was certainly memorable.

As newlyweds, we attended college full-time and worked three jobs between the two of us to keep our Love Boat afloat. I knew we couldn’t afford to go out on Valentine’s Day, but I did my best to make it special.

When Derek arrived home late on that fateful Feb. 14, I’d roasted two tiny Cornish game hens with potatoes and herbs and set our wobbly card table with a vinyl cloth and our wedding gift stoneware. I’d placed a small box of chocolates and a red enveloped card at his place.

“This looks nice,” he said, kissing me.

Then he noticed the card and heart-shaped box.

“Oh! It’s Valentine’s Day?”

At that, I burst into tears, ran the six steps to our bedroom and collapsed on our waterbed, heartbroken.

“Don’t cry! I’m sorry I forgot! I’ll be right back!” Derek yelled, slamming the apartment door behind him.

I was still face-down on our now-soggy bed when he returned.

He switched on the bedroom light and announced, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Babe!”

Sniffling, I sat up.

That’s when he thrust a helium-filled balloon into my hand. I tugged the attached ribbon, looking for the card.

There was no card.

No candy.

No flowers.

Just a Pepto Bismol-pink balloon.

Our waterbed got even waterier. My bewildered and exhausted husband went back out and returned with a card. We ate cold game hen and potatoes and made up the way newlyweds do.

Our sons know this story well, as I’ve shared it as a cautionary tale (future daughter-in-laws will thank me.)

Yet this year, when I suggested skipping the exchange of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, Derek nodded.

“But balloons are OK, right?” he asked.

Columns

No matter how old, a kid still needs Mom when illness strikes

This summer, our son, Sam, got sick.

Really sick.

ER visit sick.

He lives in Odessa, Texas, and teaches English at Odessa College. Nothing prepares you for having a sick kid, so far from home.

Thankfully, a friend took him to the hospital. Sam suffered through a miserable bout of gastroenteritis that antibiotics cured, but an MRI showed another issue. A large nodule had formed on the left side of his thyroid. Eventually, surgery became necessary.

It wouldn’t be his first stint in the OR, but it would be the first one he remembered.

Twenty-four years ago, Sam was born with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole had formed in his diaphragm during gestation, allowing his stomach and intestines to move into his chest cavity, crowding his heart and lungs.

At 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. After a three-week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit at Sacred Heart, we brought him home.

His recovery was nothing short of miraculous, but any mom will tell you that the trauma of being separated from your newborn is one that lingers.

That’s why when his thyroid surgery was scheduled for Jan. 9, Derek and I immediately booked a flight and reserved a hotel room. Sam insisted that we didn’t need to come. It was outpatient surgery, and friends offered to drive him and care for him post-op.

You’d think he’d know me better by now. No child of mine is going to recover from an operation without my homemade chicken noodle soup to speed up the healing process. Maybe you can mail soup, but you can’t Fed Ex mom’s kisses and hugs.

Besides, I hadn’t been to his new home. Derek had moved him, but I longed to see his apartment and city. I wanted to visit his office and meet his colleagues and friends,

We arrived in Texas on a blissfully sunny day. While the temps in Spokane steadily dropped, Sam showed us his favorite haunts and took me on a walk at Odessa’s Memorial Gardens Park, where the thermometer topped 67 degrees.

The next day, we visited his workplace. We met his dean and the colleagues we’d heard so much about. The college sports a replica of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Anne Hathaway’s cottage on the campus. Shakespeare in West Texas!

That evening, I cooked a giant batch of soup – enough to see him through his recovery, with extra to stash in his freezer.

His surgery took place in San Angelo – a two-hour drive from Odessa. We met with the surgeon, who explained that the nodule would be biopsied while Sam was on the operating table. If it was cancerous, they’d remove his entire thyroid. If it wasn’t, only the left side would be removed.

I paced the hospital halls while we waited, beset with memories of my newborn, intubated, isolated, in a NICU room filled with machines that kept him alive. While I knew this surgery wasn’t remotely as serious, it was difficult for me to separate the images of my helpless baby from the independent 6-foot-2-inch young man he’d become.

Finally, the surgeon met us in the waiting room. He said the surgery went “perfectly,” and there was no sign of cancer. A blood check at his post-op visit will show if Sam needs to take medication or if his remaining thyroid would produce enough hormones.

A few hours later, our son was eating chicken noodle soup at home. His incision was sore, and his throat hurt, but other than that, he felt OK.

In fact, the next day, he insisted on taking us to his favorite walking trail at the University of Texas Permian Basin. He and I walked a windy 3-mile loop, pausing to take in the student-built Stonehenge replica, view the cactus garden and peer at the George H. W. Bush house. Bush moved to the 800-square-foot house in Odessa with his bride Barbara and 2-year-old son George W. in 1948. In 2004, the house was relocated to its current site at UTPB.

Sam slowed down a bit after that outing, but we spent plenty of time soaking in the warm Texas sun on his veranda and we got in a few more walks.

While he fretted about the time and expense of our trip, he was glad we came. At the airport, he enveloped me in a huge hug.

“Thank you for the soup and for taking care of me, Mom,” he said.

The truth is I couldn’t NOT be there. Though once he fit snuggly in my arms and now he towers over me, he’ll always be my baby boy.

Just don’t tell his students that.

Columns

Kindness is the best gift

A few days before Thanksgiving, I had one of those too-much-too-little days.

Too much traffic, too many crowded stores and too little time between appointments. I pulled into my bank’s parking lot and noticed the drive-thru line was several cars deep. I decided to park and go inside. Both tellers were helping people, but I was next in line.

While I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch, the teller nearest me engaged in a long conversation with an older gentleman named Jimmy. Honestly, I was annoyed that they were still chatting when his business concluded, and the line grew behind me.

Then I tuned into their conversation. It sounded like Jimmy’s wife was dying and might not make it to Christmas.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” the teller said, patting his hand.

The urgency of my errands and appointments paled as I thought of a friend facing her first Christmas without her husband. Another just lost her dad. Yet another is grieving his mom.

And Jimmy?

Maybe this was the first time he’d been able to tell someone what his holidays looked like. Maybe this was the first time someone slowed down enough to listen.

Blinking back tears, I finished my banking and left, but not before noting the teller’s name.

I’m thankful for kind people like Rayna at Chase Bank. And I’m grateful for humbling encounters like this to remind me that while I’m rushing from one appointment to the next, hurting people are all around me, and there’s no greater calling than kindness.

As soon as I had a break that day, I phoned and asked to speak to the branch manager. Too often, we’re quick to call to complain instead of compliment. I wanted to let them know about their stellar employee.

The manager was gone for the week, so I sent an email. But Rayna answered the phone, and I got to tell her how much witnessing her kindness inspired me.

During the holidays, many of us feel the pinch of those too-much-too-little days, but kindness is one thing we can never have too much of.

Columns

The Sounds of Summer

A faint rumbling caught my attention as I carried a load of laundry through the living room.

It sounded almost like a motorcycle but not as loud. The noise tickled a memory as it ebbed and faded.

A breeze drifted through the open windows and rattled the blinds. I set the basket down to raise them and discovered the source of the rumbling.

“It’s a Harley! I got a Harley!” a neighbor kid yelled.

He’d affixed a sports card to his bike spokes, and he pedaled back and forth in front of our house, delighted with the souped-up bike that sounded just like a motorcycle to him.

All four of our sons had done the same thing at one time or another – a simple summertime joy discovered by thousands of kids.

Later that evening, a less pleasant sound floated through the windows. There couldn’t possibly be a more irritating song than “Pop Goes the Weasel.” Why ice cream trucks choose that tune is a mystery.

All around the Mulberry Bush,

The monkey chased the weasel.

The monkey stopped to pull up his sock,

Pop! goes the weasel.

What does this even mean, and what does it have to do with ice cream treats?

While I pondered popping weasels, I looked out the window to see a tragic sight. A kid wearing flip-flops with cash clenched in his upraised fist was huffing and puffing after the disappearing truck.

It reminded me of the “Crabgrass” comic running in our newspaper. Friends Miles and Kevin are consistently thwarted in their efforts to catch the ice cream truck.

Our neighbor kid experienced a similar fate. I watched him trudge back by our house – empty-handed, except for his cash.

My Facebook memories show the last time one of our kids got a treat from the ice cream truck. Eleven years ago, I snapped a photo of 12-year-old Sam running down the street, a frozen Sponge Bob treat held aloft.

Another sound seems uniquely summerish – the thump, thump, thump of a bouncing basketball. Many homes in our neighborhood have curbside hoops. Now that school’s out, I pass several pickup games in progress when I’m on my walk.

Once, a ball bounced off the backboard and into my path.

I picked it up, pivoted and shot.

Let’s just say my high school basketball skills have severely rusted. The ball hit the rim and bounced back to me.

I shrugged and tossed the ball to the nearest kid.

“Try again!” he said, tossing it back.

My second effort didn’t exactly swish, but it went in.

“Sweet!” said the kid.

I grinned and resumed my walk.

A few weeks ago, we added a new sound to our summer. We bought an outdoor Bluetooth speaker/lantern for The Great Gazebo.

This means I had to add a music app to my phone. I’m notoriously app-averse, but the results are lovely.

In the afternoon, I can listen to tunes while I deadhead flowers or work on a crossword puzzle. In the evening, we have lovely soft light to go with our music. The lantern has several settings, from a steady golden glow to a flickering firelight.

Whether the soundtrack of your summer features kids on bikes, ice cream trucks, bouncing basketballs, or the rich sound of Ella Fitzgerald crooning “Summertime,” I hope you’ll find moments to relax and soak it in.

Columns

Replacing one earworm with another

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I invited readers to share what they consider the most annoying songs ever, but I truly regret it. And so perhaps will you.

“Baby Shark” had been stuck in my head since we returned from visiting our 2-year-old twin grandsons, and I thought sharing my woe and inviting readers to share their own might be helpful. And it has been. It’s also been painful.

My sister reminded me that you don’t even need a television or radio to suffer the miseries of annoying songs. Take family road trips, for example. Our family took a lot of them. This was back in the dark ages when there were no cellphones or handheld video games to distract us. Instead, we played Bug Slug (Slug Bug to some of you), the license plate game, and I Spy.

When the games ran out the tunes began. Namely, “Ninety-nine Bottles of Coke on the Wall (we weren’t allowed to sing about beer) and “Alfalfa Hay,” a song in which every verse and the chorus features only two words….alfalfa hay.

The best part of this ditty is after every verse we chanted.

“Second (or 10th) verse, same as the first. A little bit louder and a little bit worse!”

Good times!

And a Facebook friend reminded me of the old standby, “Found a Peanut.” On road trips, we could milk that one for a good half hour.

“Found a peanut, found a peanut, found a peanut just now.

Just now I found a peanut, found a peanut just now.”

It’s no “Baby Shark,” but may well have been responsible for my mother’s hair turning gray.

However, readers have their own earworms that they seemed to take great pleasure in passing along to me. So, of course, I need to share them with you.

Pattie Felland wrote that many years ago, a friend gave her a cassette of “Sesame Street” tunes. She’s still trying to forget a Cookie Monster tune. “Your article this morning brought back the infamous ‘Breakfast Song,’ ” she said. “It’s been 30+ years, but now I’ve got ‘I’ll have a soft boiled cookie with a glass of cookie juice on the side’ running on and on through my mind.”

After listening to this for research purposes, I can now sing the entire song. Repeatedly.

It’s hard to argue with David Tiffany who wrote, “The all-time worst earworm (annoying song) has to be ‘It’s a Small World After All.’ Sorry if I just started it going through your mind!”

For Rose Lewis, “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” has staying power. “It was a bouncy catchy tune and could really imbed itself in your brain,” she said.

Advertising jingles can be an extremely irritating source of earworms.

“The most annoying song that gets stuck in my head is that old radio jingle for Beefaroni,” Kerry Masters wrote. “The song starts ‘We’re having Beefaroni, beef and macaroni’ and ends ‘Hurray! Whee! for Chef Boyardee!’ This song is particularly horrible for me to get stuck singing since I’m an animal-loving vegetarian and haven’t eaten beef for probably 55 years.”

Though it’s been a week since I listened to this jingle, it’s still echoing in my brain. I really should have taken Masters’ word for it.

At least the song ends, unlike this final nomination. (This is your last chance to stop reading. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

Francie Radecki and Carol Bellinger both reminded me about “The Song that Never Ends,” which was the closing theme of “Lamb Chop’s Play-Along.” on PBS. The lyrics and the tune are impossible to forget.

This is the song that never ends

Yes, it goes on and on, my friends

Some people started singing it not knowing what it was

And they’ll continue singing it forever just because….

The song never ends, but this column does. Thanks to the readers who shared their musical memories with me. It did help me shake the “Baby Shark” song.

Until now.

Columns

The cat’s out of the bag

The text from my son flashed on my phone while I was at the gym pedaling my way to fitness on an exercise bike.

“Is this a bad time to talk?” Sam texted.

I picked up my phone and typed, “I’m almost done with my workout. Can it wait?”

A few seconds passed before he texted, “We have a situation with Walter.”

Sir Walter Scott is our 2-year-old rescue tabby. We often have “situations” with him. As the kids say, “He’s a bit spicy!”

Walter epitomizes the cartoon of a cat wearing a T-shirt that reads, “What doesn’t kill me makes me curiouser.”

Usually, his situations involve food – specifically anything involving bread or chips. Recently, I enjoyed a slice of cold pizza for breakfast. Well, I tried to enjoy it while fending off Walter’s grabby paws.

After I ate, I wadded up the foil and finished reading the Sunday paper. When I got up to take the detritus to the garbage, I couldn’t find the foil. Then I looked down the hall and followed a trail of shiny scraps to my bedroom where Walter was doggedly shredding the tightly wrapped ball in hopes of scoring a bit of crust or fragment of pepperoni.

Aluminum foil is not a healthy snack and we anxiously watched him for signs of intestinal distress, but he was fine.

A couple of days later, we had homemade sub sandwiches for dinner. Like all the young men I’ve raised, our youngest gets a bit peckish before bed. He came upstairs and made another sandwich after Derek and I had turned in. What he didn’t do was hide the last hoagie roll in the microwave or stash it in a cupboard.

I know this because in the morning when I groggily got the cats’ breakfast ready, I stepped on something wet and squishy. Stepping on wet, squishy things is just one of the joys that occur when you’re owned by cats. This time I’d stepped on the well-chewed roll, still encased in its plastic bag. It seems Walter had the midnight munchies.

The situation that prompted Sam’s urgent text, however, didn’t involve food. He’d been getting ready to clean the litter box and dropped a plastic bag nearby while he went to do something else. A few minutes later, he heard banging and crashing and ran downstairs. The plastic bag was gone, and so was Walter.

I called Sam on my way home, and he said he’d found Walter cowering under the TV cabinet with the bag wrapped tightly around his back leg. Evidently, he’d tried to rummage through it got stuck.

“He won’t come out,” Sam said. “He’s so freaked out he peed himself, and he actually hissed at me!”

We didn’t even know Walter could do that.

By the time I arrived, he was missing again.

He took off when I tugged at the bag on his leg,” Sam reported.

I discovered the terrified tabby hiding under the stairs. He didn’t run when I reached for him, but he did hiss. He’d managed to get most of the bag off his leg, and Sam and I finished freeing him and checked for damage. Walter walked a bit stiffly at first, but quickly began winding himself around our legs.

After some cleaning and cuddling, he appeared to recover – until Sam took a new bag out to finish the job he’d started. At the sound of rustling plastic, Walter bolted and ran to his safe place – under my bed.

Walter hiding from the SCARY plastic bag monster.

“I think he’s got permanent plastic bag PTSD,” Sam said.

When I relayed the sorry tale on Facebook, my friends found the bright side.

“Perhaps food in plastic bags will be safe, now,” one said.

Another replied, “You could experiment with plastic-bagging those carbs just to see what happens.”

I have brilliant friends.

Will Walter’s bag phobia be stronger than his love of carbs?

Stay tuned.

Columns

Limping My Way to Another Birthday

Quick question. Don’t cheat by Googling.

What do columnist Cindy Hval, former Detroit Lions linebacker DeAndre Levy, former Minnesota Viking running back Adrian Peterson and former New Orleans Saints free safety Jairus Byrd have in common?

Answer: all have suffered meniscus tears. (The meniscus is a c-shaped piece of soft and fibrous cartilage in the knee.) Sure the injuries of the latter all occurred while playing for the NFL and this columnist’s injury apparently happened while strolling around the block, or sleeping, but still – I’d like to think the four of us could bond over a beverage whilst discussing physical therapy protocols.

The hitch in my gitalong happened last fall shortly before we visited The World’s Most Beautiful Boys (our twin grandsons). I noticed a twinge in my left knee during my regular walk but dismissed it. I’m prone to dismiss twinges, which is why we arrived at the hospital a scant 20 minutes before the birth of two of our sons.

While in Ohio, chasing after toddlers proved painful, so the day our plane landed in Spokane, I scheduled a doctor’s appointment. An X-ray showed no fractures and very minimal arthritis for “a woman my age.” Diagnosed with a suspected sprained knee (though I hadn’t fallen or even twisted it that I recalled) my doctor prescribed ibuprofen, ice, elevation and rest.

Then my knee started buckling without warning. The swelling didn’t abate and the stairs in our split-level home became my idea of the old lady Olympics.

With another visit to the twins coming up, I finally sought physical therapy. After some poking and prodding, the therapist said she suspected I had a slight tear in my meniscus. She felt optimistic that with diligent home exercise and physical therapy I could avoid surgery.

That was six weeks ago, and I have seen lots of improvement, though how the injury occurred in the first place is still a mystery.

Last week I celebrated another 50-something birthday and I’ve noticed one side effect of aging is the increase of mysteries.

Example: Yesterday, I brushed my teeth after breakfast, but when I got ready for bed at night I couldn’t find my toothbrush anywhere! I scoured cabinets, tables, nooks and crannies, before finally finding it behind the coffee maker.

Obviously, I wasn’t caffeinated enough to wield a toothbrush.

A sore neck puzzled me for weeks. No amount of pillow-fluffing alleviated the ache. Then I read that many who work at computers all day don’t have their monitors at eye level which causes neck strain. Currently, my monitor rests on a copy of “E-Myth Mastery” and “Greenhouse Gardner’s Companion.”

Recently, my husband and I planned a Netflix binge of a suspense series we’d wanted to catch up on. Halfway through an episode, I awoke with a start. What woke me? Derek’s snores. We had to start the entire episode over.

“That’s what we get for trying to watch late-night TV,” I said.

Derek cleared his throat.

“It’s 9 p.m…”

Earlier this month my 90-year-old mom had another dental emergency. I scheduled her appointment and we arrived early. A full day early.

“That’s OK, sweetie,” she said. “I’m used to it. Your dad got everywhere early. He even showed up in Heaven early.”

Speaking of Mom, last week I was at her senior-living apartment making a list of items I needed to pick up at the store for her. It was a mental list, which turned out to be a big mistake.

“Did you say you needed paper towels or toilet paper?” I asked.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one with dementia?”

I may be aging, but I’m still young enough to get schooled by my mother.

Unfiltered 57 🙂
Columns

Made with Love: Kitchen Memories

During the holidays my house smells like sugar and spice and everything nice. The aroma doesn’t come from scented candles; it emanates from the shortbread, sugar cookies, three kinds of fudge, and two loaves of Amish cinnamon bread I’ve made.

Shortbread and sugar cookies

The cinnamon bread cools in my mother’s aluminum pans. Last month, I wrote about the memories those pans hold for me and invited readers to share their stories of memory-laden kitchenware.

Below you’ll read about everything from pie tins to rolling pins, as readers reminisce about recipes, traditions and warm memories made in the kitchen.

Tom Peacock said his mother and grandmother were “pie goddesses.” It seems he inherited their skills, along with her flour sifter and Spode Christmas dishes.

“I baked my first pie (cherry) when I was around 12,” he wrote. “I picked the cherries from the next-door neighbor’s tree, pitted them with Mom’s old-school pitter, and the pie turned out nicely.”

From there he progressed to banana cream, pecan and blackberry cream pies.

“I did get to bake side by side with Mom, especially in her later years. The last few years before she went into assisted care, I did most of the Thanksgiving cooking using the skills I learned from her,” Peacock said.

Every baker knows you can’t make a good pie crust or sugar cookies without a quality rolling pin. John Kafentzis and his family use an irreplaceable one.

“A rolling pin from my grandmother is still very much in use at our house,” he said. “It was carved by her grandfather from a single piece of maple around 1920. It’s substantial. The family joke is that it was carved from the last tree in Kansas as that’s where they lived at the time.”

Pier Sanna’s mom was a pastry chef and taught Sanna to make everything from croissants to wedding cakes.

“After her death in 1980, I had first dibs on her bakeware – 50-plus-year-old cast iron pizza pans and cookie sheets. Try finding those at Williams Sonoma,” Sanna wrote. “Every time we use her bakeware, we suspect she is standing next to us smiling and resisting the urge to supervise.”

Jan Erickson uses a braising pot that her grandfather gave to her mother on her wedding day in 1947.

“I remember wonderful roasts, ribs, and so many favorite dishes coming from this pan,” Erickson said. “My grandparents did not have much money, but they splurged on this pot for my mom. Granddad told Mom that this pot would last her through her entire life. It surely did!

“I know my daughter wants this pot when I’m done with it, so it will continue in our family for years to come.”

Many of us revel in holiday baking traditions. For example, Leslie Olson Turner’s mother embraced her Norwegian roots when it came to Christmas cookies, making spritz cookies, berlinerkranser, rosettes, almond crescents and krumkake. Turner has continued the tradition, using her mother’s cookie press and rosette irons.

“I reserve the holidays to kick in my own version of a baking frenzy,” she wrote. “The krumkake iron I now use I inherited from my Aunt Sonja. It’s identical to the one my Mom had used – made of heavy-duty cast iron. And while I could have bought an electric one, it just wouldn’t have been the same.”

Michael Paul also continues cultural traditions. His great-grandmother was born in Hawaii to Portuguese immigrants.

“The Portuguese brought with them many new foods, including what is today known as Hawaiian sweet bread. Each Christmas, Nana Schultz would bake sweet bread for everyone, blessing each loaf with a cross and a tiny piece of garlic in the center of the cross as it went into the oven,” Paul wrote. “Today, I am just about the only one left in my family making this bread and the pickled pork also served at Christmas time.”

He still uses his grandmother’s metal measuring cups and Nana Schultz’s recipes.

“There’s no telling how old those recipes are. They came ‘around the horn’ from Portugal in the late 1800s,” Paul said.

Sometimes, the most practical items are treasured.

“After my dear mother passed away, going through her things there was one kitchen item, in particular, that was the golden ticket – the jar opener,” Julie Hoseid said. “Since I did most of the help for her, I rewarded myself with it, however, my sister and I are discussing shared custody.”

It seems pie-baking stirs up many memories.

“I’m not sure how old I was when Mom taught me her pumpkin pie filling tweaks, but I remember her setting me up at the kitchen table the first few times because I was too short to reach the countertop,” Carol Nelson wrote.

When Nelson married her, mother gave her the LustreCraft stainless mixing bowl, the pie plates that ensure an evenly baked crust, and her rolling pin. But it was her mother-in-law that gave her a never-fail pie crust recipe.

“Fifty-one years later, both moms have passed, but each time I take out my pie plates and the now-stained recipe card, I think of them, and their gifts of love to a new bride.”

Gail Justesen said her mother was known as one of the best pie-makers in Whitman County. When her mom was out of town, a teenage Justesen decided to step in and bake two pies for a pie social.

“The first two I cooked too long: the crust was brittle, apple filling overflowed. The next batch, the crust was raw and the filling soupy,” she recalled.

But Justesen kept trying – making seven pies in all before she had two that were pie social-worthy. Her dad didn’t mind gobbling up the mistakes.

“My friends moan when they think of making pies and usually cave to the store-bought pie crusts. However, I love to make them and am so thankful for the ‘pie genes’ I received from my mom,” said Justesen.

I’m not the only one with aluminum bread pans. Lisa Meiners treasures four that belonged to her mother.

“My mother passed away Aug. 1, just four months shy of her 100th birthday,” Meiners wrote. “She raised six children in Alaska and was a wonderful cook and baker. We always had homemade bread. Four of Mom’s bread pans moved with her from Alaska to Washington. I’m the only one of her five daughters who bakes bread regularly, and now have the honor of owning those bread pans that were used to bake loaves of love every week.”

So readers, as you sit at your holiday table this week, I hope you’ll enjoy more than just delicious food. Sometimes sharing memories and traditions with those you love is the most satisfying feast of all.

Columns

Baking with Mom

The lightweight aluminum pans aren’t beautiful. Scratched and slightly dented, they’re certainly nothing you would find at Williams Sonoma. They aren’t even nonstick.

Nevertheless, my freezer is filled with pumpkin bread, chocolate zucchini bread and beer-cheese bread, all turned out by these stalwart pans.

When my mother moved into a retirement community, it fell to me to sort out her kitchen – choosing what I wanted, what my siblings and their children might want, and what would be left for the estate sale.

Mom’s four kids are all long-married with established homes and kitchens, so most of her goods weren’t wanted or needed by any of us.

But the loaf pans that had churned out countless batches of banana bread – well, I knew I would use them, and I have.

I don’t have any cozy memories of Saturday baking with my mother. The kitchen was her domain, and I wasn’t invited to learn by her side. It could be that I wasn’t interested in spending my Saturdays mixing and measuring. Honestly, I don’t remember. But I must have learned something by osmosis because I’ve spent the past 35 years feeding copious amounts of family and friends.

Mom wasn’t stingy with her recipes. My cookbooks are filled with her handwritten notes for gingersnaps, pie crust, snickerdoodles and other tasty treats. It’s just that we never baked them together. In fact, when my sons were young, and I was working, it was my mother who baked weekly treats for them – a way to lure them to Grandma’s house for a visit and a hug.

She still misses baking. Still wakes up with a start thinking she’s left something in the oven too long.

Recently, I showed her a photo of the pans.

“Do you remember where you got these?” I asked. “I know you’ve had them since I was tiny.”

But her memories are clouded now. Dates and times blend and blur.

No matter.

On Thanksgiving, I’ll welcome her to my table set with her harvest gold cloth and the lovely Noritake china my father bought for her in Japan. I’ll lay out her silver flatware that I used to polish every holiday as a child. It seems some chores are yours for a lifetime.

I’ll roll out her pie crust recipe with her red-handled rolling pin and fill the crust with fragrant apples, cinnamon and cloves.

And perhaps after all these years, it will feel like I’m finally baking with Mom.