Pumpkin Cookies

A couple of weeks ago I bought 2 pie pumpkins at the grocery store. (They were on sale, buy one get one free.) I cleaned them, roasted them and pureed the flesh. I put two cups of the puree into freezer bags and froze two of them so we can have fresh pumpkin pies in November. (Like we do!) The trick to this technique is to cut the bags off the frozen pumpkin before thawing it, or it is just a big gloppy mess.

The other two cups I used to make cookies. I am trying to be healthier in my baking endeavors so I have been lowering the amount of sugars and adding more fiber. Anyway, these came out really yummy so I thought I would share the recipe here. Enjoy.

Pumpkin Cookies
An autumn favorite, these cookies are soft and chewy.These are fabulous with a glass of fresh apple cider.

3/4 cup butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
8 oz solid pack pumpkin (or 1 Cup fresh pumpkin puree)
2 Cups flour
1 1/2 cup oats
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup mini chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugars until well blended. Add egg and vanilla. Mix in pumpkin. Stir in dry ingredients. Add chocolate chips. Drop by rounded teaspoons onto cookie sheet. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 10—12 minutes. Cool on wire rack.

TIP: microwave for 15-20 seconds to re-melt chips!

 

On Guns

     I was thinking about writing about a variety of different things this morning. Then I ran across an article in the Sunday paper that struck a bit too close to home. The article itself isn’t available online yet, but it was written by one of my favorite Flint Journal writers, Andrew Heller. Over the years his articles have often made me laugh out loud as he has commented on the trials and tribulation of raising a family, living in the Flint area, and other social issues. 

     Earlier this week I heard about two men who, following some kind of road rage incident, pulled into a car wash in a small town in Michigan and shot each other to death. Both were legally carrying concealed weapons. What a couple of idiots, I thought. I hope it was worth it, to be right – to not only die in order to be right, but to kill another human being, in order to be right. And what a stupid legal system we have. And, shaking my head at the stupidity of it all, I set the whole story aside.

    Today, in reading the Sunday paper, I saw the names of the two men who lost their lives for no good reason. One of the names jumped off the page and punched me in the gut. I went to high school with Robert Taylor. He is one of my facebook friends. Yes, I have known that he owns guns, he is a Michigan boy who hunts deer – many of the people I went to school with participate in this tradition here in the mitten. Robert and I were never close friends, but he has often put kind words of encouragement on my posts. And he was one of those idiots. He took another man’s life, and lost his own, over some stupid bad behavior on the highway. What a waste.

    This incident was in the wake of the shootings at the Naval Yard near our Nation’s Capitol. Yes, another mass shooting. This time, thankfully, no children were involved. That incident was followed by a journalism professor at KU being suspended from his job because of a hateful response tweet.

    I try very hard not to be judgmental. I try to accept other people’s decisions about how to conduct their lives. But I simply do not understand how anyone feels it is necessary to own, much less carry, a handgun. Owning a riffle so one can go hunting, or protect themselves from wild animals is one thing. Owning and carrying a hand gun is something different.

    Having lived in West Africa as a child, having a gun pointed in my face at the age of 8, and having seen what life is like in countries where hand guns are forbidden, I do not understand what would make anyone think that a populace armed with hand guns is a good idea. This is beyond stupidity.  I really don’t know what to say. But I am pretty sure if Robert and the other driver hadn’t had hand guns, they might have knocked each other silly, they might be in the hospital, or in jail, but I am pretty sure they would both be alive today to read my post, and try to talk me out of my beliefs  and that “guns don’t kill people”.

Nesting

     It has cooled off in the Mitten and the urge to stock up yummy supplies for the winter has hit me hard. Last weekend we went to the Flint Farmer's Market and I bought some tomatoes which I cooked into spaghetti sauce and froze.  I also bought raspberries and blackberries, some of which somehow disappeared from my kitchen, but others made it into cobbler and others were cleaned and frozen. This weekend I bought pie pumpkins. I roasted them, mashed and pureed them, and put the pumpkin into freezer bags - 2 cups per bag, so that I can make pies this winter. There is also container with roasted pumpkin seeds, but I doubt those will last long. Next up, apples from the local orchard and then a freezer full of apple sauce for the winter.
     Doing all this reminded me that I owe a special someone in Kansas my recipe for Raspberry Razzle:

For those of us who love raspberries, this is the perfect side dish or dessert any time of the year.

1 Package Raspberry Jell-O

1 10 ounce package frozen raspberries or 1 cup fresh
1 cup sour cream
3/4 cups water

Combine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan over medium heat using a wire whisk. Bring to a boil. Pour into a pretty bowl or mold. Chill until set. For dessert, serve with a dollop of whipped cream. Yum.

About Time

     Across the back of my yard there is a row of a dozen blue spruce trees.  Since we moved in to this house, I have marked the passage of the seasons by watching the sun rise behind those trees. This morning I woke up before six “enjoying”, as my sons would say “a personal tropical vacation”. Seeking relief, I made my way down to the deck, stopping off to make a pot of coffee on my way. When my coffee and I stepped out onto the deck, it was cool, dark, still, and silent. Peaceful.
     As I sipped my coffee and watched the sun rise I was amazed, once again, by the world awakening all around me. Oscar bin Laden, terrorist kitty, joined me on his favorite perch atop the covered gas grill. The sky began to lighten directly behind the row of trees and I was reminded that the autumnal equinox is quickly approaching. The breeze picked up, birds began to chirp in the maple tree, and the sun breached the horizon, spilling gently through the center spruce tree. In the distance the rumble of the first school bus approached the neighborhood.
     Then the sadness washed over me. This is the first time in my adult life that I am not involved in the start of a new school year in some way. Weird. My children are grown and the one who is still in school is on the other side of the country. I am not working in academia so there is no significance to the beginning of the year for me. There is no excitement at meeting new teachers, or classmates, or students. There were no trips to buy school supplies or the “cool” clothes. There is no need for the family calendar marking the dates and times of practices, games, and concerts.  Nothing.  Just the sounds of the endless stream of school busses coming and going from the neighborhood.
     This year I will not mark the passage of time by midterms or school breaks, I will not watch the syllabus for the next assignment. I will mark the passage of time as the sunrise moves across the spruce trees to the south and then again to the north.

On Writing Struggles

     When I was in school sometimes I had to write about something in order to understand it (think economic theory here). That has also been true in my relationships. Often if I have been upset about something, it doesn't matter if it is something important or something trivial, if I write about it, like in a letter, I can figure out why it is I am feeling the way I am feeling. It is easier to see the ideas which simply aren't true, and which ideas are really important. And then, once I have figured it out, I can face that problem head on and handle it.
     There is a story I have been struggling to tell since I was 9 years old. It is the story of how I came to be in the middle of a war in Nigeria, West Africa. Before my parents passed away they gave me all of their documents from that period. I have binders full of letters my father wrote to my mother, letters my mother wrote to her family, running notes from their research, essays they wrote years later, receipts, passports, and even my father's testimony before congress. There is plenty of fodder for this story, and yet I have continued to struggle with writing this story.
     One day I was driving to school on I-475 and the story flashed before me in movie form. I decided at that point that I should write it  as a screenplay and someone (God only knows who) would make it into the movie and the story would finally be told. The fact that I don't know anything about writing a screenplay, or getting someone to make it into a movie wasn't going to stop me. If I wrote it, somehow it would work itself out. So then I dove straight into the deep and murky waters of how to write a screenplay and from time to time, I work on it.
     A couple of weeks ago I happened across a post on my facebook feed about a movie which is to be released soon. "Half of a Yellow Sun" is based on a novel written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. She is a wonderful author from Enugu, Nigeria. I am pretty sure her father was a student of my father. I suddenly felt as though all my years of work (albeit spotty work) was for naught. Here, someone has already made a movie about that conflict, so now what am I to do? My mother told me, "You are going to have to write this story", and I just didn't know what to do.
     Then last night the strangest thing happened. Again, I was looking at my facebook feed and I stumbled across a link to  Ted Talks with Chimamanda Adichie. At first I was hesitant to look at it at all, but then I decided I should see what this woman, who had done what I only "worked on", had to say. And what she said made me sure that I need to both finish the screenplay and write the book or books. "The danger of a single story" is why I need to write it.
     My father spent the better part of seven years, much of the time away from his family, to bring higher education to the Nigerians. Even as a 7 year old child, I felt guilt and shame at being white and privileged. Those feelings only grew over the years. But those feelings were unwarranted. He didn't dedicate those years to making the Nigerians "more like us" but to making the tools available so that the Nigerians could be more of who they were - a people for whom he had a great love and respect. His mistake was taking sides in a political struggle where the odds were stacked against those that he championed. And me, I was just a little girl doing her best to get through the 4th grade.

Adjustments

Once again it is time for adjustments, or maybe I should say re-adjustments. This time I find myself adjusting to living in my own house, in my own town, once again. Having been gone for two and a half years, I find I am feeling a bit discombobulated and in need of a routine. Last week was all about moving from Kansas, but this is the first week I have been home, with no job, and no real routine.

The move itself went pretty smoothly thanks to my wonderful sons and Nick's friend, Lindsay. They packed, hauled, moved and cleaned like pros. They got up early and piled into the truck and car, and the drive was fairly smooth. Even Oscar (terrorist kitty) was wonderful - didn't make any fuss at all during the long, long drive back to Michigan. Except for my poor choice in picnic area along the flooded Mississippi, the whole trip went off perfectly.

Actually, we have all been adjusting. I have been combining my household back into itself after dismantling it a few years ago - and yet, everything has changed. It isn't a bad thing, it is just different. And once again I am reminded, you can't go back. So I have returned, and I am adjusting. At least unlike Oscar, I am not afraid to come out from under the bed, go downstairs and reacquaint myself with my belongings, my yard, my street, my town, the general area, and adjust.

Flash fiction

The Phone Call

She reached for a towel to dry her hands before she picked up the ringing telephone.

“Hello,” she said as she reached over to turn off the hot water running into the sink. There was a lag and a crackle on the line and then,

“Mags, sweetheart?” asked a British man’s voice.

“Hey, Ronnie! Where are you guys?” responded the tall, lithe brunette.

“We’re in Osaka" he replied.

Her face broke into a smile as she leaned up against the kitchen wall in her apartment. They had been friends for about ten years, since she sang back-up on his debut album.  A few years later Ron had introduced her to his new drummer, Vic, and they had fallen madly in love.  Ron had been best man at their wedding almost five years ago.  They were the perfect couple for almost five years, but the stress of their careers had taken a toll on their relationship and she had moved into her own place about two months ago. The divorce would be final in another six weeks, and even though the marriage hadn’t worked out, they were all still very close friends.

“Are you taking good care of my soon to be ex-husband?” she asked.

“Well, luv,” he began, “that’s why I’m calling.”

There was a tone in his normally lilting voice she didn’t like.

“Pete is coming by with the limo to take you to the airport so you can come on over. You can pick up your tickets at the counter…”

She slid down the wall and could see herself sitting on the floor in the reflection of the sliding glass door. Something was terribly wrong.

“Ron,” she interrupted, “what’s happened to Vic?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this…Vic collapsed after we played your song last night and we had to bring him to hospital.” His voice was cracking with emotion. She was suddenly aware of noises in the background, hospital noises.

“Ronnie…?” she began, but couldn’t finish.

“I’m so sorry, luv, but Vic had a massive heart attack and…” she could hear him sobbing on the other end of a call from half way around the world. There were muffled voices, but no one was talking to her.  She was stunned. This couldn’t be right, he was only thirty five and in great shape.  She sat staring at her own reflection in the sliding glass door, unable to think, dazed.  Time stood still.

“Mags? It’s Lou.” Their road manager came on the line. “Sweetie, you’ve gotta come over here and handle the legal stuff so we can bring Vic home. Baby, are you there?”

“Yeah, Lou, I’m here…” she choked out.

“The consulate says you’ve gotta sign the release so we can bring the body home.”

“Oh my god….Okay.” was all she could say.

Tears were streaming down the face in the reflection in the sliding glass doors as the silver stretch limo pulled up outside. As she watched the driver get out she realized that her life had just completely changed. Suddenly she realized she was looking at the reflection of a widow.