Inviting friends and family to dinner has become a complicated endeavor. In the past, having someone over for dinner was a simple matter: you set a date and time, you decided on a menu based on what sounded yummy to you, you cooked it, you served it, the people ate it, they enjoyed it, they thanked you, and a good time was had by all. But all that is now in the past. Cooking for friends and family in today’s world has become a complex and almost scary affair, a tangled jungle of factors to fight through with a figurative machete, to try and determine what one can serve one’s guests.

If you don’t believe me, consider the following list of issues that the modern host faces: the diet fad of the day, ideological fads, lactose intolerance, food snobs, allergies, picky eaters, meat and potatoes only eaters. I have sometimes been known to exaggerate to make a point, but trust me when I say, that this time I am, if anything, understating the matter. Ok, let me elaborate a little to illustrate my point. Let’s take some of the items on the list, starting with fad dieters.

TO CARB OR NOT TO CARB

Let me start by saying that I am not making this up, these are actual people I know. It is never safe to assume I know which diet fad they are into at any given time, it just depends on what book or article they read last. One day they are into the whole counting carbs thing, so that if, say the main course were to be a pizza, that day they will only eat the fat-laden pizza toppings and leave the carb-infested crunchy crust resting on the plate like a forlorn food Frisbee. Then, the next time that same pizza offering would find them scraping off the tasty toppings and consuming the previously offensive carby crust, since now they are eating only carbs and shunning any and all food that might contain even a hint of fat.

IDEOLOGICALLY SPEAKING . . . NO GREEN EGGS AND HAM

And here we get into a whole mine field of food no no’s that, at least I would previously have never even imagined existed. The list here includes vegetarians, vegans, and raw food only adherents. The practitioners of these food ideologies came to these extremes for different reasons: some of them for health-related benefit beliefs; some for animal rights advocacy; some because they have a latent eeek factor, which they developed at age five and continue to cultivate into adulthood. The reasons are many, but the outcome the same: cook beware, chicken broth, honey, egg noodles as well as other every day staples like milk, bread and cheese are considered evil.

In one case an acquaintance became a vegetarian because she saw a documentary about a meat packing plant. Not sure how she thought cows became steaks before seeing this documentary, but from that day on, cows were off the menu – leather shoes and leather seats were still fine, but eating meat somehow was now taboo. Don’t ask me to explain the logic, I’m an omnivore, and adhere to the philosophy that if it can’t run away from the plate on its own it is fair game. Also, I was brought up in a plantation where my neighbors and family had farm animals. I remember as a little girl chasing down a chicken with my cousin to catch for that night’s dinner at my great aunt’s house. After we managed to corral the thing, my aunt wrung it’s neck, dressed it and we had fresh chicken that night for dinner. Oh please, don’t be horrified, the chicken wasn’t a pet, it didn’t have a name, and its whole reason for living in their yard was for the purpose of laying eggs and then serving as a dinner serving. Have you ever been around chickens? What other purpose do you think they should serve, they really aren’t the brightest of creatures, but they are tasty. I also love leather jackets, purses, shoes and sofas, so guess that I won’t be voted as a PETA representative any time soon, unless by PETA you mean “people eating tasty animals.”

My vegan, raw food friends are sweethearts and know that I try to come up with edible goodies for them, but they also accept that cheese and some form of “beast” will be served on our side of the table. We respect and accept each other’s food needs and a good time is always had by all. They also compromise when they come over and eat cooked food. I can deal and understand their vegan needs, but the “he” of this great couple doesn’t like raspberries, and that is the one thing I truly can’t comprehend on any level. I discovered this once when I made a raspberry sherbet for desert only to discover that he didn’t like raspberries. I must confess that that is just plain wrong, and even his wife agrees with me on that point. I mean, really, who doesn’t like raspberries?

WHERE’S THE BEEF?

From vegetarians, raw food only and vegans we then go to the other extreme: the meat and potatoes only group. Talk about schizophrenia. From no meat and only vegetables we take the giant food leap into the world of the only edible vegetable is the potato and the only possible main dish is a large hunk of red meat, preferably grilled, and for variety hamburgers or a slab of ribs are an acceptable alternative. I have an uncle who fits into this slot. I love him dearly, but bless his soul, he has never eaten a salad in his life, in his words “that’s rabbit food.” No wonder my aunt hates to cook, she is bored silly after cooking the same few things over and over for over fifty years. At least I don’t have to think too hard what to cook for them when I have them over for dinner. It’s pretty much a no-brainer.

GOING NUTS ABOUT NUTS

I don’t remember hearing about food allergies in the before time. I’m sure they must have existed, but you never heard about them. Growing up I don’t remember any kid being allergic to peanuts or nuts or any other food. Maybe there were kids with food allergies and since no one knew about them they just ate the stuff and then died from it before they ever made it to school, and that’s why we never knew any kids with allergies (hope you, the reader understand that I am being facetious here). But now it seems like everyone has some sort of, either allergic reaction, or for health reasons have to avoid all sorts of foods. Let me name just a few allergies that affect my own acquaintances: raw tomatoes, peppers, sea food or any sort, cucumbers, peanuts, anything with seeds, carbonation, lactose intolerance, tannins, chocolate, cheese, still water (explain that one to me), and that’s just the ones that come immediately to mind.

TRICKS FOR TREATS

So, cooks beware, it is a food jungle out there with obstacles and snares which the modern day host must forge a tenuous path through. You almost need to keep an alphabetical log with the name of all your prospective guests with annotations of what foods they can or will eat next to each name. And oh, I didn’t even touch on the religious sins the unwary cook can condemn her guests to, like serving caffeinated coke, coffee or alcoholic beverages to a Mormon (I have a story about that one that I will write about at a later date), or a dairy product mixed in with meat to a Jewish guest. So, guess the only words of wisdom I can offer are: try your best to be as accommodating as you can, and hope your guests have the courtesy to be gracious of any and all unknowing faux pas you may unknowingly commit.

So, now that I have managed to scare you witless about all the dinner party pitfalls that can plague your plans, just take a giant plunge and forget everything I said and don’t worry and be happy… of course, you might want to pour yourself a large drink before your guests arrive.
Happy entertaining.

For those of you who are not aware of Scamper, a children’s book I wrote, I have decided to post the first chapter from the book on my blog. The book is available for purchase through Amazon, also through Xlibris.com, Borders.com, Barnsandnoble.com, or for international orders at: Orders@xlibris.com.

SCAMPER

By Cynthia Nill
Copyright © 2000

CHAPTER 1

Falling

Deep, deep into the woods, far from any roads, and further still from any houses or cities, is a place where humans have never set foot and where animals have not forgotten how to talk. The creatures that dwell in this place call it Farwood. All that lies beyond the Farwood is known simply as the Yonderlands. No one from Farwood has ever set foot, paw, or hoof in the Yonderlands. Nor would anyone want to. Or for that matter, have reason to.

It was springtime. A time when young were born and days grew longer. A time for sunny days filled with the sweet scent of freshly sprouted wildflowers. But springtime in Farwood was also a time where one day could go from blue skies filled with fluffy, white clouds and warm, gentle breezes, to a day where dangerous winds blew under an angry, dark sky. This was one of those days.

A slate-gray band was inching out of the northwest horizon growing wider and wider and eating away at the blue sky in its path. The mild afternoon breeze suffered interruptions from the gusts of wind that served as messengers announcing the approaching storm. Because of the storm, darkness would come early this evening. In anticipation, all the animals scurried nervously about collecting food and securing their burrows, nests, or whatever form of shelter they made their home in.

In her nest atop a tree, a mother squirrel whispered comforting words to her five squirming babies. The changes in the wind and the sky frightened the little squirrels who had never seen a storm before.
“It’s all right,” their mother cooed. “Don’t be frightened, it’s just a storm. Now listen to me. I don’t know how long the storm will last and I have to gather some food for the night. I’ll be back before the storm gets here.” She nudged them with her nose and licked the top of their heads to reassure them, then rushed down the tree to forage for food in preparation for the gloomy night ahead. When she reached the ground she glanced back at her nest and saw her wide-eyed babies peeking over its edge staring at her with worried faces. “Ooohhh,” she sighed when she saw the frightened faces of her infants. Forcing herself to look away, she gathered up her resolve and trudged off in search of their evening meal.

The baby squirrels strained to see their mother until she had disappeared from sight. Scamper, the smallest squirrel in the litter, shuddered trying to shake away his fear when he saw his mother disappear. One by one, the infant squirrels slid down into their nest and huddled as close as they could to each other hoping to steal whatever comfort the nearness of their tiny bodies might offer.
The storm grew nearer as the minutes dragged by. Whirlwinds popped up like ghosts, sweeping up last fall’s leaves in skyward spirals. A gray veil weighed down with heavy moisture spread across the earth replacing the blue sky.

Gliding in the air currents like a canoe riding the currents in a river, a hawk flew over the treetops with his wings spread wide. Round and round he circled, scanning everything below him with his hungry eyes. Alert to even the smallest movement, the hawk was hunting for a victim to serve as his bedtime snack.

As the storm grew closer and closer, dark clouds stole whatever daylight remained. The branch where the squirrel nest was perched swayed as heavy wind gusts fought the leaves for passage. Silver light flashed intermittently accompanied by a slight shaking of the ground under the tree. Scamper and his siblings shuddered nervously at the sound of the distant thunder.

The movement of the babies squirming inside their nest caught the hawk’s keen eye. Drawing his wings over his head to let the air escape and allow him to dive, the hawk swooped down on the defenseless infants. Scamper, whose senses were already heightened from his fear of the nearing storm, sensed that some other, more immediate danger was in the air and looked up just in time to see the outstretched talons of the hawk as he plucked his tiny body out of the nest. With Scamper imprisoned in his mighty talons, the hawk flapped his powerful wings to gain altitude and flew away with his infant victim.

Scamper’s brothers and sisters cried out in terror. His mother, who was hurrying back to her babies ahead of the storm, heard their cries. She looked up, but was powerless against the disastrous sight of the hawk flying away with her baby. Scamper’s mother cried out his name. It was the last time Scamper would ever hear his mother’s voice again.

Caught in the hawk’s taloned prison, Scamper could feel the intermittent thrusts of upward motion caused by his captor’s wings flapping to gain speed and altitude. For what seemed like a lifetime, the raptor-bird flew with his prey in the direction of the approaching storm.

Suddenly, the air around Scamper became electrified. All around him there was nothing but blinding
light and deafening sound. A bolt of lightening cracked and struck a tree a short distance away from the flying hawk and his prey. Startled, the hawk let out a harrowing screech and loosened his death-grip around Scamper. Falling, and falling, and falling, Scamper covered his eyes with his tiny paws, too afraid to look down to what he feared would be his death.

Only seconds before his body was due to hit the ground, a powerful force snatched him and carried him upward, only this time, there were no talons holding him prisoner. An updraft of wind had whooshed under the tiny squirrel, carried him upwards, and threw him into the middle of a whirlwind. Leaves were swirling around him, under him, and over him. The noise of wind, leaves, and thunder mixed into a maddening symphony of chaos. Scamper was caught in a whirlwind that seemed to go on forever. Like a drowning victim who grabs onto whatever he can, Scamper managed to grab a large passing leaf and held on to it with all of his might. Leaf and squirrel spun round and round until finally the whirlwind danced away and released them from its stubborn grip. Riding the leaf like a glider, Scamper circled downward, downward, downward, until he landed with a thud on a pile of leaves that the wind had stacked. His racing heart was pounding in his chest and he was breathing so hard that he could hardly catch his breath. He was trembling from the fear and the cold, and was too dazed and frightened to move. The crack of a lightening bolt shocked Scamper back into the present. Rain started to pour. Each gust of wind brought with it an extra sheet of cold rain that pelted down on the wretched little squirrel. Scamper collected his wits and surveyed his immediate surroundings. He was alive and free from the hawk. He was free! Free? He was alone.

Peering through the dense curtain formed by the rain, he spotted a log with a hole in it. Scamper ran as fast as he could toward it. Stumbling on the slippery, muddy ground, Scamper fell face first into a puddle, pulled himself up and kept on running toward the safety that the hollow log promised. When he finally reached the log he scratched his way up its wall and into the hole. He was wet and shivering with cold. Inside the log it was dry and dark. Scamper took one last peek at the unfriendly world outside, and too exhausted now to feel even fear, he let himself fall into the comfort of the cavern that was the inside of the hollowed log. The bottom of the log was filled with small twigs and leaves that had drifted inside of it over time. Scamper nestled his little body into this soft and welcome refuge from the cold and the wind and fell into a deep sleep.

MATERIALS
2 skeins of Twinkle yarn (58% nylon, 40% Acrylic, 2% polyester – 92 yards per skein, gauge: 4 sts = 1” with #9 needle) – color #34.
# 9 needles.

INSTRUCTIONS
Cast on 24 sts. – I always use a needle two sizes larger to cast on because that way I am assured that it is not tight and it will then look much more even.

K first three rows (garter stitch).

RS (right side) and every 4th row knit a row of twisted drop stitch: insert needle into stitch as if to knit, wrap yarn around both needles once and then wrap around the right hand needle once and finish the stitch as you would normally for a knit stitch.

K three rows (garter stitch)

Do this for eight rows of the twisted drop stitch. Then, continue in garter stitch until you finish your first skein of yarn. Attach your second skein and continue knitting in garter stitch until a couple of rows before the twisted drop stitch should start (when you fold the scarf in half). Start doing your twisted drop stitch, remembering to do so on the right side of your work. Repeat the instructions that you did to begin your scarf, then bind off. I also bind off with a needle two sizes larger to insure that it is a loose bind off.

Voila, you have a lovely scarf that is easy as pie to make.

Note: You can, of course, make this a longer scarf if you want. After all, you are doing the knitting and it is your scarf and your creative genius at work, so by all means, make it your own. Any worsted weight yarn will work for this pattern, just make sure to check your gauge, and again, you can make it as narrow or wide as you feel suites you.

BY THE WAY:, if you click on any of the pictures you can see them in full, enlarged size.

I finished the Komon Kimono (See article: “My Present Knitting Project – Komon Kimono” – Posted on May 15th, 2008), and it turned out gorgeous.

As is my usual way, I strayed from the original pattern and did some changes. The front of the kimono called for knitting a long strip and then attaching it. That sounded like a lot of extra finishing work and a complication I wasn’t interested in undertaking, so instead, I picked up stitches along the whole front of the garment with long (60 inch) circular needles, did a ribbing of K2, P2. I then decided that I wanted to mimic the finishing touch on the underside of the sleeve, which called for a crocheted seam, so I did an I-cord bind off for the whole front. I think that it gave it a nice finished and consistent look.

I think this is going to be a very versatile garment, which can be dressed-up or dressed-down, depending on the occasion. It should look just as much at home worn with a pair of jeans, as it will with dress-up slacks, over a dress for a “blazer type” look, or with a skirt. In short, I think it can go anywhere at any time of day or night.

NOTE: The information on the pattern is in the book by Vicky Square entitled “Knit Kimono.”

Photos show I-cord bind off and edging detail and the sleeve and edging rib detail. And by the way, to see any photo on this site in its full, enlarged size, just click on the photo.

GET THEE TO A DOCTOR

If you are unfortunate enough to get sick while on a trip, don’t try and suffer it out, learn from my mistakes and save yourself a lot of grief. Believe me, you are not the first, nor the last person to get sick while traveling abroad. Tour guides and hotel concierges have dealt with this before and can arrange for whatever appropriate medical attention you require post haste.

On the second day of my recent trip to Ireland I started to feel the all too familiar symptoms of a sinus infection. I am prone to the nasty things and I’m sure that eight hours of exposure to the horrid plague-ridden air of today’s airplanes went a long way toward compromising my immune system and contributing to the onset of the sinus irritation, which progressed at light speed into an infection. Instead of doing the intelligent thing and seeking medical help immediately, which is what I would have done had I been home, I tried to tough it out. Now, experience has taught me that the only way to combat these nasty sinus plagues is with a dose of antibiotics, and the sooner, the better. Once a sinus infection really sets in, they don’t want to leave, and they are harder to get rid of the longer you let the darned things get a good grip of you. Anyway, as I said, I tried to tough it out with over the counter remedies. They were, however, getting me nowhere. I was getting worse, and I was also getting zero sleep, which in turn was making me less able to fight the infection, which. . . and so the vicious circle goes, you get the idea.

We were on a tour for the first leg of our trip. That particular morning, which happened to be on a Sunday, I told our tour guide/driver that I was going to need to see a doctor because I was not getting any better and I desperately needed to get an antibiotic prescription. We were leaving Killarney and going to Galway. He called the hotel we were going to be staying at in Galway, and they told him that I should talk to the concierge that afternoon as soon as we arrived there. We arrived there around 4 p.m. Keep in mind that it was Sunday. I did as instructed. The concierge told me to go up to my room and she would make arrangements for me to get to a doctor. Within minutes of getting to my room I received a call from a very efficient lady who asked me about my symptoms and what I thought I might require, and if I could get to the doctor, or if I needed to have the doctor come to me. Ok, I don’t know how far back in history we would have to go here in the States to have a doctor make a house call, buy I would venture to say that it is probably way longer that my particular life span. After taking what information she required from me she told me she would find out where the nearest doctor on call was and would make an appointment immediately for me. Within minutes she called me back and told me that she would give the address to the concierge and have her, the concierge, arrange for a taxi to transport me to the doctor’s office. I went down to the lobby, and the concierge called a cab, gave him directions, and I was on my way to see the wizard.

I asked the cab driver how I could arrange for transportation after seeing the doctor, and his response was, “ah, don’t worry about it, I will wait for you darling. And by the way, ask the doctor what nearby pharmacist is on duty on a Sunday afternoon.” The doctor was equally accommodating and kind. He examined me and offered three nearby pharmacist’s addresses that he believed would be on duty at that hour on a Sunday. It was now past 5 p.m. Again, because it was a Sunday, his secretary was not on duty, and he didn’t know how to operate the credit card machine. “Do you know how to operate it by any chance?” he asked me. I assured him that I did not. “That’s, ok then,” he said, “call my office tomorrow and give her the information.” With that vote of confidence I left to my waiting chariot and gave the nice taxi driver the addresses of the pharmacies. He took me to the first one and we were in luck. I got my prescription filled and was transported back to the hotel. The taxi driver charged me a ridiculously low fare for all his kindness and patience. I gave him a really good tip and my heartfelt thanks. Within a day of starting with the antibiotics I started to turn the corner and could feel myself feeling better, and within a couple of days was like a new person and able to truly enjoy the rest of the trip as a healthy person.

The moral of the story: don’t suffer unnecessarily. Get thee to a doctor if you need one. They do have them in other countries you know. . .

GETTING DOWN AND DIRTY

When on the road, I have found that one of the hardest things to contend with is what to do about dirty laundry and/or wrinkled clothes. For the laundry part there sometimes is no really good solution. Hotel laundry services are so expensive that it is cheaper to buy new whatever clothing item than it is to have them launder it. I do take a small bottle filled with Woolite, or some other similar type of hand wash detergent, and wash underwear and or other clothing that is hand washable and drip dries fast and is of a fabric that does not wrinkle. It doesn’t solve the whole laundry problem, but it is a help. On longer trips, what we’ve done is take time out to find a Laundromat, or as they are called in the British Isles and in Ireland, launderettes, and just take advantage of the time doing laundry to catch up on writing cards or making notes about the trip. On our trip in 2005 we did that twice, since we were there for over three weeks.

One of the best trips that anyone has ever given me came from my sweetie, Chuck. A spray bottle is indispensible when traveling. If the night before, you hang what you are planning to wear the next day and generously spray it with water, all the wrinkles miraculously fall out. The “laugh lines” on slacks disappear and they look like they have just been ironed and never worn. It is a great way to have a just pressed look without the pressed part. I don’t only do that when I am traveling, but I also do it at home. Try it, believe me, it works like a charm.

Hope some of the travel tips I have given are of help to you. Bon voyage to you on whatever great vacation you may be taking, perhaps a last hurrah for the summer or a Labor Day vacation.

No matter how well you may think you have planned a trip, unforeseen things seem to pop up along the way. For example, before my recent trip to Ireland I had gone to my cell-phone company and asked them about calling home from Ireland. I wanted to know if I could call with my cell phone and what the rates would be and that sort of thing. I told the girl who waited on me that I knew that my home service had a fantastically cheap rate to call from the States to Ireland, but that I wanted to be able to let my sweetie know when he could call me at the hotel in the evenings. She told me that the best thing would be to text message home, which would only cost 25 cents a message. Thinking that I was now equipped and ready, proud of my preplanning, I was confident that all was well and that I would be able to text home throughout my trip. Wrong. Upon getting to Ireland I tried to text home to say I had arrived fine, only to find that my phone could not get a signal to do so. Fortunately, one of my friends that I was traveling with had her cell phone, which, in fact was able to latch on to a cell signal and I used her phone to text home. The company she’s with told her that only certain newer models of cell phones are capable of being used abroad.

When I got home I went to the cell store and complained. The person I spoke with this time said that not only are certain phones able to work abroad, but that it also depends on whether a given cell phone company has an agreement with the other country’s carriers to use their company’s cell signals. So much for pre-planning and thinking that I had the proper tools and information to call home. Your information is only as good as the competence of the person who is giving you that information. Not sure how you can prevent this from happening, other than really drilling the person giving you the information and making sure that they, in fact, know what the heck they are talking about. So, hope it helps to know that not all cell phones are created equal, and that not all cell phone companies have agreements in other countries, and your cell phone may or may not work there. You can, I have learned since, rent a special phone when traveling that comes with a set number of minutes. Best advice I can give is to inquire from your carrier and hope that you get an informed employee.

The other fun thing when traveling on the other side of the pond is the whole electrical outlet issue. In the States we use a 110 volt current, and in Europe their set-up is all 220. I bought a plug adapter, and was told that I also needed a special converter that would work for both small appliances like hair curling irons and dryers and also for electronic devices. Well, first time I plugged a hair dryer into the thing it (the adapter) blew up. Apparently the one the guy sold me was only good for electronic devices. Again, my friend came to the rescue, because her converter had an actual toggle switch that enabled her to have the converter step down to either a 110 current for the small appliances, and another setting for the 60 current that electronics use. So, we took turns charging our camera and camcorder batteries for the rest of the trip. Toward the middle of the trip her 110 setting blew out her curling iron and she ended up having to buy one over there, but it at least still worked on the electronics setting. One of the hotels we stayed at loaned us an adapter, which weighed about 4 pounds and was the size of a small bread box. That one worked well no matter what you plugged into it. I think the moral of the story is that a 220 volt current is just too much electricity running through those little travel adaptors and they are not really able to tame down that much electricity to the lower voltages without a real strain. They really don’t work all that well. So, if the hotel you are staying at has one of the monster adapters, ask to borrow that. Otherwise, good luck with the small travel adapters, they may or may not work.

Another biggie to watch out for when traveling is forgetting stuff at the hotel. In this case, my mother, who was one of my traveling companions, left the charger to her camcorder behind at one of the hotels. So far I have contacted two of the hotels to see if the cleaning crew found it and turned it in, but have had no luck. Probably they didn’t even bother to turn it in to the lost and found. Replacing the charger and cord is going to run over $100. An expensive oversight.

Earplugs are a real life saver on a trip. One of the hotels we stayed at had a live band playing on the sidewalk below our window. The band mercifully stopped playing at a relatively civilized hour—11:30 p.m., but there were still party goers whopping it up until the early hours of the morning. If I hadn’t had ear plugs I doubt I would have slept at all that night. I wouldn’t leave home without them.

Of course there are all the obvious things to watch out for when traveling, like being aware of your surroundings because all major cities have their share of pickpockets. But you should be doing that at home too because pickpockets will prey on anyone who is distracted or careless anywhere you happen to be. I like to travel with a crossover purse because that way I always have my purse in front of me, which makes it almost impossible for someone to steal it or any of its contents. Also, I make sure that my purse is big enough to carry my essentials and my camera, but not too big, otherwise the temptation to pack too much into it will make for a heavy purse to lug around when shopping or sightseeing. Kind of like the three bears of purses – not too big and not too small, but just right.

I’m sure that any good travel book will list tips on how and what to pack and a lot of other worth-while information on do’s and don’ts to keep in mind when traveling. They might, however, not mention the things that we experienced on our trip that can and do go wrong. Of course, things will always happen when traveling that cannot be foreseen, but hope that if you are going on a trip that my experiences might be of assistance. The real thing to keep in mind is to not let the little things ruin your trip and to remember to dwell on the fun time you are having. The rest, well, it might be annoying and/or inconvenient, but not insurmountable.

If you are on your way to somewhere fun, hope you have a great trip.

I recently returned from a trip to Ireland, which is why there haven’t been any new postings on this blog in the last few weeks. After returning it took a while before by body and my brain converged in the same time zone. For those first few days my body was in Eastern Daylight Savings Time and my brain was five hours ahead somewhere in Greenwich Mean Time. Heck, it takes me about a week to get used to the time change when we go between regular time and daylight savings time, let alone a five hour difference. I was waking up at 4:30 a.m. and unable to get back to sleep. But the story has a happy ending. My body and brain are happily reunited and I have stopped feeling like my eyelids have weights on them and my brain is full of fuzzy haze. I could never be a jet setter. My jets are definitely not the setting type.

Ireland has changed a lot since my first visit to that lovely country in 2000. Not all the changes have been for the better. Nicknamed the “European or Celtic Tiger” because of its booming economy in the last couple of decades, its economic success has also resulted in some growing pains and its resulting problems. One of the noticeable changes is the increase in the number of cars, which has grown much faster than the road infrastructure is able to accommodate, resulting in an exponential increase in traffic congestion.

Tourism is among the major industries in Ireland, and the influence of this is making itself felt in many of the major cities, which have become “touristy,” and hence, lost some of their original charm. Another huge difference that has occurred in the last eight years is the number of immigrants from the Eastern European region – Poland, the Czech Republic, etc. Ireland offers its citizens free education up through, and including college, so the Irish youth are a well educated group. The pharmaceutical and computer industries are part of the reason for the economic boom that Ireland has enjoyed. The availability of a well educated young population was one of the major attractions for these industries. The result has been a lack of manpower to fill all low-paying service industry jobs, and that is where the immigration from the Eastern European countries comes in. Many young people from those countries have come to Ireland looking for work and are willing to take the low-paying service industry jobs. Hence, pretty much all the restaurants, hotels, store clerks, etc, are manned by this group of people. Some speak English pretty well, but some . . . not so much; so good luck getting your dinner order right.

The slowing of the economy is not just a U.S. phenomenon. Ireland too, is experiencing an economic slowdown. The housing industry, which, like in the U.S. had experienced a boom, is now 50% down. Computer companies too, have started to pull out – probably going to lower wage countries like India. The closed up Dell computer factory was a grim testament to the slowing down of the economic growth in Ireland. Up until recently Ireland boasted a zero unemployment rate. They are now seeing that figure disappear, and for the first time in many years are suffering from a rising unemployment rate. I was told that some of the immigrants are actually returning home as the economy of those countries has improved. I was told by several people that even though the official line is that they are not in a recession, the population is feeling the pinch of the slowing economy and that they feel that they are either in or near a period of recession.

But get out of the cities and drive through the country, and Ireland is still one of the most breathtaking places on the planet. The whole of Ireland’s countryside is a photo op. Wherever you look the beauty of the scenery is as breathtaking as ever. The roads are as scary and narrow as they have ever been, just with even more traffic. But the beauty of the country is there to be taken in and enjoyed in whichever direction you look. And history is a living thing in Ireland. It is all around you in the ruins of the many monastic sites scattered throughout the country, the castles, and the towers that dot the countryside. When they say something is old in Ireland they mean it – centuries and even millennia old is the measurement by which history is measured. And more recent history and events are also part of the landscape to be taken in – monuments reminding us of the tragedy of the potato famine; the bullet holes still apparent in the post office in Dublin; statutes, and a museum honoring some of the many writers which that smallish island has given the world, like Oscar Wilde, Shaw, Joyce, etc.; pubs throughout Dublin and the whole of Ireland, each with its unique history and stories to tell of the patrons who have passed through its doors and ordered a pint of Guinness or a shot of Jameson and “talked a little treason” within its walls. All that and more are part of the charm that is Ireland.

I hope some of that never changes.

She was always old. At least so it seemed to me, since when I met her at the age of seven, she was 90 years old. Her name was Victoria Zumbado de Rodríguez, but everyone called her Mamita Toya, which roughly translated means “little mother Toya. Toya was a nickname for Victoria.” She lived her whole life in Heredia, a small city about fifteen miles north of San José, the capital of Costa Rica, in Central America. She was my great grandmother.

I was raised by my maternal grandparents. When I was seven, my grandparents and I left Michigan and moved to Costa Rica, my grandfather’s native country. We lived a couple of miles outside of Heredia in a house my folks built on a small coffee plantation.

Mamita Toya, my grandfather’s mother, lived a block and a half away from the elementary school that I attended, and her daughter, my great aunt, Natalia – Tala, as we called her – lived across the street from her. Every morning, my grandfather dropped me off at school, and after classes I walked the short distance to Mamita Toya’s house and waited either there or at Tala’s house for him to pick me up after his chores on the coffee plantation.

Mamita Toya’s house was a huge, old, rambling building made of adobe and laid out in typical colonial Spanish fashion – rooms winding around a large open patio in the center of the house and only a couple of windows and a door facing the outside world. The open, central patio permitted sunlight to filter throughout the house and gave tropical breezes access to all the rooms. The front door, which faced a straight, long corridor, was always open during the day. Immediately to the right of the corridor was a large sitting room with a rocking chair in one corner, strategically placed to offer a clear view of the front door and the sidewalk beyond it. Mamita Toya could be almost always found sitting in that rocking chair, either holding court for whatever visitors dropped by throughout the day, reading a newspaper, praying the rosary, or napping in between Hail Marys. The wall opposite the rocking chair was lined with four or five straight chairs at the ready for the many people who stopped by to chat with her every day.

My arrival at my great grandmother’s door was always acknowledged with a warm smile and her usual greeting of “Oh yes, Juancito’s little girl.” Juancito is the affectionate term for Juan, my grandfather’s name. She would then gesture for me to sit in one of the chairs and ask me the same series of questions every day:

– “Does Juancito know that you’re here?”
– “Yes, Mamita Toya, he knows that I’m here.”
– “Where is Juancito?”
– “Probably working on the plantation or running errands.”
– “How’s María?” (María was my grandmother).
– “Mami is fine”
– “Is Juancito going to pick you up?”
– “Yes Mamita, probably in about an hour or so.”
– “That’s good, that’s good.”

After the question session our routine would vary. Sometimes I entertained myself by doing my homework. At other times we would talk, or rather, I would sit quietly and listen to her talk. Her monologues were astonishingly detailed reminiscences about events that happened in her youth and people long since dead. A few minutes into her story she would turn her head away from me, gazing at some distant place beyond the wall or the present time and continue her narration, no longer talking to me, but rather, back in her youth remembering people long since dead and events alive now only in her memory. After a while, she would stop talking and fall silent, still staring at that place and time long ago where her memories had transported her back to. She would remain this way for an indefinite span of time. I would sit as quietly and still as I could manage, allowing myself only to breathe and blink, afraid that any sound or motion would interrupt her trance. Then, eventually something would draw her back to the present and she would turn her head and look surprised to see me sitting there. She would then start the same litany of questions regarding my presence at her house and my grandfather’s whereabouts and plans to pick me up. It was usually at this point when she would pull her rosary out of her apron pocket and tell me it was time to pray. Since praying the rosary was not one of my favorite pastimes, I would make up some excuse about having something I needed to talk to Tala about and I would scoot across the street to my great aunt’s house. Tala, like her mother, would always receive my arrival at her door with a friendly and warm smile. In addition, she would always offer me some sort of homemade tasty morsel from her kitchen. She was a wonderful cook, probably because everything that she cooked was a labor of love. I can still remember the taste of her “cajeta,” a wonderful milk fudge that she made sure she always had on hand to offer me on my daily visits.

Both women always treated me with warmth and kindness. I don’t remember ever being made to feel unwelcome or in the way. Both, mother and daughter always seemed genuinely happy to see me and made me feel like I belonged and could walk into their home at any time and remain there for as long as I wanted. I have no recollection of ever receiving a reprimand or a look that was other than one of warmth and acceptance from either of them. I was part of the family. Even though I was only a child, I was one of them.

During those six years of elementary school I got to spend a lot of time with my great grandmother and to learn much about her. She told me that her family, though not rich, had been well to do. As a young woman she had attracted many suitors who wanted her hand in marriage. I suspected this was not an exaggeration on her part since, even in her 90’s her fine, classic, Spanish features were still apparent. If you looked beyond the fair, wrinkled skin you could still see the outline of a beautiful face: high cheek bones that slanted upwards and formed an invisible triangle with the thick, straight eyebrows that rested over her oval, brown, eyes, and a long, thin nose that protruded proudly over thin, delicate lips.

She told me how the first time she saw her husband was through a keyhole. He was one of the many young men who came to ask her father for her hand. “I didn’t love him” she told me. “I don’t know why my father chose him to be my husband. He was poor. I had other suitors who were rich and even better looking. But for whatever reason, my father liked him, so he gave me away in marriage to him.” Her husband’s name was Nicolás. From the only picture that I saw of him, he was a good looking man.

She was wed to Nicolás and bore him twelve children. Three died at birth, and nine survived – two daughters and seven sons. One of the daughters, Evangelina, died of tuberculosis sometime in her twenties. The rest of her children, like her, were all long lived. Tala was 96 when she died, two of the brothers were in their late 90’s, my grandfather was one month short of his 101st birthday, another brother died at 104, and as of this writing I have a surviving great uncle who is in his late 90’s.

What Nicolás lacked in wealth he made up for with hard work. Nicolás died in his 50’s of a pneumonia he contracted after getting caught in a rain storm while working in one of the fincas (farms). But, at the time of his premature death, the family was well on its way to wealth. He had accumulated several coffee plantations and a number of fincas. I don’t know how large the family’s total land holdings were, but from everything I learned from Mamita Toya and from the rest of the family, they were considerable.

Widowed for almost half of her life, my great grandmother never remarried, or, to my knowledge, ever had another suitor after her husband’s death. She still lived in the same house where she had given birth to and raised her nine children. A whole wing of the house now laid empty except for a few pieces of abandoned furniture. Once in a while, I used to go and play in that section of the house. The empty wing consisted of a corridor that led to four or five large rooms. Even though I found the abandoned wing terribly spooky it, nevertheless, held a certain fascination for me. Almost holding my breath, afraid of disturbing whatever ghosts might be living there, I would tiptoe through the long hallway. The only things that lived in those rooms were shadows and silence. But it was the silence that seemed almost to be a living thing in those desolate rooms. The tiniest sound I made would reverberate throughout the deserted wing, making the echo sound like a reprimand for my daring to intrude into this quiet and unmoving world.

Mamita Toya and that old house are inseparable in my mind – each seemed so much a part of the other. Like the house, Mamita Toya was a remnant of the past. With few exceptions, she had no use for anything modern, including her clothes. She dressed as she had always dressed. It was almost like a uniform. She wore a floor-length, long, black skirt; a long sleeved, black or white, high necked blouse; and, over it all, a full apron with large pockets where a handkerchief and her rosary always lived. She also kept a ready supply of change in her pockets that she dispensed to her three or four regulars – beggars who had been stopping by her house every day for years.

Every day, Mamita Toya made the journey across the street to visit for a while with her daughter, Tala. She walked slowly with the aid of a cane with small, deliberate steps. Without bothering to see if any cars were coming, she would carefully manage her way off of the sidewalk curb and, step by step, undertake the pilgrimage to Tala’s doorstep across the street. I once told her that she should be more careful and watch out for cars when she crossed the street. Her reply was one that I have never forgotten: “I was here before the cars were even invented. It’s my street. Let them watch out for me.” And watch out for her they did. Every day, drivers waited patiently for however long it took her to make her way across that street and back.

One of the funnies memories I have of her is of a time when my grandmother, María, gave Mamita Toya a bottle of cologne as a birthday present. Mamita Toya opened the bottle, lifted it to her nose and smelled it. She then looked up at my grandmother and, giggling like a school girl, started to splash the entire contents of the bottle all over herself. After disposing of the cologne in this fashion she carefully screwed the lid on to the empty container, and then, with a satisfied look and a warm smile she announced: “thank you, that smells pretty, it’s very nice… very nice. Now, would you please put the pretty bottle on my dresser in my bedroom?” Without saying a word, my grandmother took the empty cologne bottle and obeyed Mamita Toya’s instructions.

When I was ten years old, my natural mother, Virginia, came to visit us in Costa Rica for the first time. Mamita Toya had never met Virginia, her granddaughter. My mother was excited at the prospect of finally getting to meet her grandmother. We entered the sitting room and my mother walked over to Mamita Toya who was sitting in her rocking chair. In her broken Spanish, my mother said: “hello Mamita, I’m Virginia… Juan’s daughter…your granddaughter.” Mamita Toya looked up at her. Without taking her eyes off of my mother, she lifted herself out of her rocking chair and stood facing her granddaughter for the first time. Mamita then grabbed my mother’s arms, and with her eyes now welled up with tears and visibly shaking, she cried: “my God, it’s like looking at myself when I was young.” The two women embraced for the first time. That embrace erased the gap of time spanning three generations.

Mamita Toya died in 1965. I was visiting family in the States when she died. We had returned for a number of months because my grandfather needed to have surgery. He preferred to have the operation performed in the States because he felt the medical facilities and treatment at that time were better in the States than in Costa Rica. He was convalescing when we received the news of Mamita’s death. She didn’t die of anything, that is, of anything in particular. She just died because she was old.

From what I was told, practically all of Heredia showed up to pay their respects at her funeral. I still wish that I, too, could have been there to say good-bye.

By Cynthia Nill

BASIC QUICHE:

INGREDIENTS

1 pie crust (a store bought refrigerated pie crust is great for this recipe, and is a time-saver. But if you don’t have one on hand and want to make your own, that is great too).
8 eggs
1 cup half and half cream
½ cup heavy cream
8 slices of bacon - large dice and cooked until crispy
1 ½ cups grated Amish baby Swiss cheese (about ½ a pound)
Freshly grated nutmeg (about ½ tsp.)
Dash cayenne red pepper
Salt and freshly grated pepper to taste (remember that the bacon is salty, so don’t over-salt)

LEEK & SPINACH QUICHE VARIATION:

All of the above ingredients, plus:
1 package frozen spinach – thaw and then squeeze as much of the water out of it as possible
2 leeks – Sliced very thin – the white part and only a little of the green part. Cut it lengthwise and then wash it well to make sure that you remove any sand within the leek.

ASPARAGUS, BACON & SAUSAGE QUICHE VARIATION:

Ingredients for the basic quiche plus:
1 bunch of asparagus. Use the tender part of the asparagus. Cut into ½ inch pieces
1 or 2 links of whatever your favorite sausage is. I like to add a chicken with spinach and cheese sausage, but there are many tasty varieties of sausage available to choose from.

PREPARATION

Preheat the oven to 375.
Cook the bacon. Use a tiny amount of the drippings to sauté the vegetables (leeks or asparagus, depending on which quiche you are making). Take off of the heat.
While the veggies are cooking, roll out the pie crust to fill a 9 inch pie dish. Put the crust in the dish and crimp the crust corners.
In a bowl, whisk the eggs, add the cream, nutmeg, cayenne, salt and pepper.
Put ½ the cheese in the pie crust, then add ½ the veggies, add ½ the cream, and then repeat the layers.

I protect the edges of the crust with tin foil so they don’t burn. You can then take off the foil about 10 minutes before you take the quiche out of the oven.

Bake for 1 hour, or until the top of the quiche is golden.

NOTE:
The variations I have given here are suggestions. You can pretty much do anything you like – mushrooms and ham, chorizo, red onions or shallots would taste great. It is a great way to use up stuff left over in your refrigerator. The quiche in the photograph was a Bacon, sausage and asparagus quiche.

Recently, a couple, good friends of ours, emailed Chuck, my significant other, to tell us that they are thinking of going camping in a yurt. I gave Chuck a blank stare.

“What?” I inquired, “in the hell is a yurt?”

Chuck gave me an impish smile and handed me a printed sheet of an article he found on the internet from the washingtonpost.com entitled “In New Jersey, It Yurts So Good.” He had obviously anticipated my reaction and question. It turns out that a yurt is a tent with origins dating back to ye olde Genghis Khan times; originally a tent made out of leather with a wooden frame used by Mongolian nomadic tribes. Apparently some camp grounds have yurts available for campers to rent.

Ok. I will start out by making my position on camping clear. I have never understood why after working hard to own a home with modern conveniences like a state of the art kitchen with all the amenities, utensils, and expensive cookware; an expensive, but well worth the price, mattress that has the perfect blend of softness/support ratio; goose down pillows, indoor plumbing; equipping our home with air conditioning; and all the other modern conveniences that make life in this century much more appealing than in Genghis’ day, anyone would want to regress to sleeping on a cot, battling mosquitoes, and walking long distances to the nearest campground toilette in the middle of the night. Yes, I know that there are many millions of people that like the whole outdoor camping thing, but usually they are people who are much younger and have been doing that sort of insanity on a regular basis. I don’t know that our friends have seen a campground in at least the last two decades. I know that it is much warmer where they live than where we are here in Michigan, and I worry that perhaps the heat there is having an adverse effect on them.

I have been camping only a couple of times in my life, both experiences now more than two decades ago. I hated it both times. Once was in a tent, and the other time in a camper. Don’t really know which experience was worst. The tent experience had me sleeping on an air mattress. I am the original princess with the pea when it comes to sleeping accommodations. Air mattress or not, I felt every lump and bump on the ground under my mattress. The distant campground bathroom thing was not a good experience either. I spent the whole night walking back and forth the equivalent of a city block’s worth distance to the campground bathroom. It was a chilly and damp night, so by the time I would get back to the tent, the chill of the night air made my bladder decide it was time to make the return trip back to the toilette “facilities.” I got very little sleep and a lot of exercise that night. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning (no pun intended) I did manage to fall asleep only to be rudely awaked by some early morning jerk who decided to wake the whole campground up by playing “A Horse With No Name” on his guitar at 5 a.m. I was really tempted to go over and grab the guy’s guitar and smash it over his head, a la John Belushi in the movie “Animal House,” and probably would have, but for my husband restraining me from committing, what I would have considered justifiable campground battery with a musical weapon.

My second outdoorsy experience was in a camper. We went to the wilds of Canada with friends who owned a small – emphasis on small – camper. Four people trying to co-exist in a very confined space is a very bad idea. We all made the best of it, but it was not easy going. Remember what I said about being a princess with a pea kind of girl when it comes to sleeping arrangements. Well, I am also a bed hog. Trouble is, there was very little bed to hog. My husband and I had to try and sleep in a bed that was sized only slightly larger than a twin bed. One of us ended up holding on for dear life all night trying not to fall off the miniscule “bed” while squooshing the one nearest the wall in an effort not to fall off of the thing. We both woke up sore and cranky.

This trip took place in late spring. The Canadian wilderness is full of black flies that time of the year. The first night there we were unaware of the danger the plague of black flies presented, and my husband got so badly eaten alive that he had a fever that night from all the bites. The object of this trip was to fish a series of inland lakes for pike. It was pretty warm, but in spite of the temperature, we were forced to wear clothing to cover every part of our bodies since any exposed flesh was promptly attacked by the ferocious, invisible black flies. We also sprayed ourselves with that toxic fly and mosquito repellent stuff that probably deducts five years off of your life every time it comes in contact with your skin and travels into your body making its way into your bloodstream.

So, as you may have deduced by now, camping…. not exactly my cup of tea.

Back to what started this whole stream of thought, the yurt. Actually, the yurt tent does sound like a good alternative to buying a lot of expensive camping gear for what will probably be a one-time only camping outing, since one might expect that reason will probably be restored to my friends after one revisit to the wonders of the great, untamed camping, yurt, outdoorsy experience thing. Or, who knows, maybe they will have such a good time that frequent yurt stay-ins will become their holiday accommodation preference for many yurt times to come. I wish them lots of “yurt luck,” but would recommend that they keep their cell phones handy in case they decide to call the nearest town with permanent hotel accommodations and en suite indoor plumbing.

By Cynthia Nill