That first pumpkin pie

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I've been thinking about how our family traditions have evolved. My husband, who is several generations removed from his European ancestry, brought to our marriage the assumption that you eat turkey, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and pumpkin pie for dinner, and also that the afternoon and evening are spent in front of the television set, eyes glued to a slippery football and hands glued to snacks. "Sounds like the American Dream to me," says John.

As a first-generation American whose parents were born in Germany, however, my family treated Thanksgiving very differently. First of all, Thanksgiving is known as Erntedankfest (a thankful celebration of a successful harvest) in Germany, and is not really a family holiday at all. It is typically celebrated at the end of September (when it is celebrated at all) with a church service, possibly a daytime procession ending with a coronation (Erntekrone, or harvest crown), and maybe a musical gathering at church, accompanied by dancing and food. There might also be a lantern procession (Laternenumzug), and perhaps another evening church service, followed by fireworks. Football? Sports? They pretty much don't enter into the picture.

The above picture of my paternal grandmother (visiting from Germany), my younger brother and I will give you an idea how Thanksgiving in my family was celebrated. We dressed in our Sunday best, and while the Thanksgiving Day parade marched on the black-and-white streets of Television Land, we piled into the family car to attend Mass at the local church. My mother, meanwhile, stayed home to prepare a noon dinner. We ate egg drop soup, turkey, dumplings and a vegetable. Instead of pumpkin pie, we had Jello or Kuchen (cake). No football games for us . . . we played board games when we were younger, and Canasta as we grew older. Midway through the afternoon, we took a Kaffeeklatsch break, which consisted of coffee and cake for my parents, and milk and cake for the children. And when evening came around, we all enjoyed open-faced sandwiches on thin, dark slices of Pumpernickelbrot.

When John and I first married and he learned that I had never baked a pie, in fact never ate pie at my parents' house on Thanksgiving or any other day, he volunteered his baking expertise. That first Thanksgiving (and his pumpkin pie) were memorable. He floured his rolling pin and shaped the dough for the pie crust, added a pumpkin filling and slid the pie tin into the oven. A little while later, however, instead of the sweet smell of a much-awaited dessert, the smoke alarm went off and the stink of burnt sugar wafted through the house. It turns out that John had unknowingly substituted powdered sugar for flour, with disastrous results. These days we buy our pumpkin pie at the local grocery store, mostly for John's sake, since I have still never baked a pie, and mostly, I don't eat it. So much for meshing customs from two families!

In the early years of our marriage, my husband enjoyed the typical Thanksgiving football fanfare, but apparently this is a game that is better appreciated when you watch it with someone who understands the rules. That wasn't and still isn't me. I certainly don't mind if John watches football, but I'm more likely to have my nose buried in a book while sitting in the same room. In a word, I'm not a very good cheerleader. As the years passed, John began seeking an afternoon Thanksgiving activity we both could enjoy. So, gradually, Thanksgiving afternoons instead became times when we played board games or watched movies. And in the evening, we enjoyed open-faced sandwiches on baked rolls.

To be sure, we spent our share of Thanksgivings at both of our parents' homes. When we lived too far away on the West coast to visit--and before our son was born--we celebrated with friends who were just as inept in the kitchen as we were. But as empty nesters today, we have gained a few cooking skills and can serve decent Thanksgiving fare to our son and his fiancee. We eat too much food, watch movies and play games, and eat some more. That eating part, at least, is like the typical American Thanksgiving. And it turns out that our son's fiancee likes pumpkin pie, so these days John is learning a new skill: how to share. "Sounds like the American Dream to me," I say.

© 2009 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved.  

The best Halloween ever

Fall has always been my favorite time of year, not because of Halloween, but because of the outdoor sights, sounds and smells of the season. The leaves cling to the branches in a kaleidoscope of colors—burnt orange, burgundy, gold and olive. When they waft to the earth, they create crisp piles through which young feet (or older ones!) like to shuffle. When you stroll around the block, you inhale the pungent chimney smoke rising into the air from the logs in your neighbors’ fireplaces. And if you’re lucky, you’ll also catch the deer at dusk, nibbling the sweet stems from summer’s remaining day lilies.

To me, Halloween marks the end of fall and hails the entrance of winter. Both here and in Wisconsin, where I grew up, Halloween is often so cold that you can see you breath mist as you traipse from door to door. Children wear long johns or sweat pants to keep their legs warm, hoping they won’t have to hide their costumes beneath coats or jackets. In our family, you went trick-or-treating when you were in kindergarten or first grade, and then you gave out treats at the door as you grew older. My brother Mark, like Peter Pan who did not want to grow up, had a rubber gorilla mask he donned one year while he attempted to scare our little visitors.

In any event, our family’s Halloween nights were for the very young. When I was 16 years old and announced to my parents that I wanted to host a costume party, I think everyone was ready for a change. My friend Pat, a talented artist, volunteered to design paper wall decorations and helped me hang them. My mother and I planned the menu and set a festive table, and my father and brother set up an acoustic system for a haunted house in the basement. Crepe paper streamers and spider webs were hung everywhere, along with lanterns. Everyone brainstormed activities. And, of course, we purchased prizes for all the guests.

When the big day arrived, everyone was appropriately dressed. There was Donna as Mr. Donut, Debbie the Barefoot Nurse, Pat the Rat, Bev the Washer Woman, Nancy the Pumpkin, Serenella the Indian, Luwanna and Teri as the Black and Pink Panthers, Sue the Farmer, Donna the Belle, and Marcia as Mickey Mouse. I guess I was the Queen of Hearts; regretfully I have no photos of myself, since I was the photographer. Before long, the foosball and checker tournaments were in full swing. In the darkened laundry room, my friends and I sat in a circle and joined hands for a mock séance, giggling nervously when pre-recorded shrieks and spooky sounds were piped into the space. I recall at least one silly skit that was performed. We played Pin the Bone On the Skeleton, bobbed for apples, and generally made fools of ourselves.

 

Today I wonder if the Halloween of 1972 is so memorable because it differed so greatly from most other trick-or-treat nights, or simply because it was so much fun to plan together as a family. That year, however, it was the best Halloween ever!

© 2009 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved. 

First stitches, first steps

My first Simplicity half-apron and gray kettle cloth jumper are decades behind me, but I still recall many of the items on Miss Banovich’s 7th grade sewing supplies list: seam ripper, seam gauge, measuring tape, pins, fabric scissors, sewing machine needles, thread, and a couple of clear plastic bobbins. Interestingly, it was my father—not my mother—who helped me collect these items. In fact, I still have my first sewing basket, a rather humble-looking box in gold-flecked white vinyl that dates back to the 1970s.

My mother, whose brief foray into sewing included a set of unevenly cut yellow curtains that she hoped no one would remember, did not enjoy sewing. She was horrified, in fact, when she returned to Germany to visit her mother, and those curtains were hung in a window in her honor. With relief, she passed on to me the darning egg in her sewing basket to mend my father’s socks, along with a stack of trousers that needed to be shortened for the summer. She was my sewing cheerleader, but it was my father with whom I held discussions about how to thread our Sears Kenmore sewing machine.  These days my father wishes he knew what happened to that old Kenmore, but I think it’s likely my mother gave it away when I went to college and bought my own Brother machine. She is no longer with us, so I guess that will remain her little secret.

The garments I sewed and the events of those early years are connected like buttons sewn on a sweater. My boyfriend (who became my husband) was a midshipman at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, so every winter and spring during college, I sewed a floor-length gown for the Navy R.O.T.C. balls we attended together. Likewise, I made some of the dresses I wore as a sales clerk while working at Gimbels Department Store during college. And when John and I married, I made my own bridal gown and veil.

In the early years of our marriage, we lived in southern California, where John was stationed as a Naval Weapons Officer. When we moved to the West coast, the sewing machine and cabinet—and all of my fabrics and notions—occupied a significant portion of the space in the U-Haul we rented, along with my numerous books. Eight years later, when our son was born, a Pfaff sewing machine had replaced the Brother, and I sewed many of David’s play clothes.

Today my sewing machine no longer occupies a corner of a bedroom or living room, but sits in its own dedicated space: a sewing room. Of course, that’s not the only place in our home where I create—John says that wherever you find horizontal surfaces is where you'll find my work—but it is nice to have a home base, of sorts! My sewing room is where my Pfaff Creative 7530 sewing machine resides, inside a solid oak Parsons cabinet.

This is also where I write. I love my Mission-style writing desk.

The closet holds quilting rulers and templates, specialty sewing tools, interfacing and stabilizers, and boxes of sewing supplies.Fabric is another story . . . no space in this room!

Along one wall is Dolly (my dress form), who wears a half-finished apron. I like to “dial her down” so that I can imagine what I might look like if I lost some weight!

In a corner of the room stands a chest of drawers for needlework supplies. Next to it is a small couch where I like to do hand sewing, or browse through how-to publications.

Projects are always spilling out of my sewing room into other rooms because my working space is no bigger than a child’s small nursery. Still, this is where many of my Etsy products are created. In short, it’s a cozy place to ponder, poke at fabrics, and produce!

© 2009 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved.