Traditions, Souffle, and Soup

There are a few family traditions that without them, it's just not Christmas.

There's the big, bright pink ornament on the tree that says "Baby's First Christmas 1980" that marks the year I was born, that usually hangs somewhere near a foot long pencil that my mom has been hanging on the tree since she was a little girl. Those two are staples from the Christmas trees of my youth that now hang on my own tree.

Over at Dad's house, there's Betsy's collection of ornaments that she buys one of every year, noting something significant about the year on the bottom in gold paint marker, and the hand beaded ornaments from her grandmother. This year there was an addition of the Christmas ball from Betsy's dad's dad, making it over 100 years old. Such a simple ornament, a bright cobalt blue, solid glass ball, about 4" in diameter.

Not surprisingly, a lot of my Christmas traditions are food.

Grandpa Spong's pizelles are one of them. After he passed away, I asked Gram if I could borrow the pizelle maker so I could continue the tradition. I didn't know where the recipe was, but I'd find one, and make it as close as I could to his.

To my excitement, when I opened up the pizelle maker that year, there was his very simple, and not very well defined recipe. I teared up at his handwriting, and broke out into laughter as I read the ingredient list and came to "anise". You could always tell were Grandpa was in the pizelle making progress based on the amount of anise you tasted when you bit into them. He would make pizelles for weeks before Christmas, always trying to refine the flavor of the anise. There were some that you just couldn't bite into because the anise smell hit your nose long before it even reached your lips. There were some that were burned beyond recognition. There were some that were dusted with powdered sugar.

And then it would happen. About a week before Christmas, he would make the perfect batch. But then, because he wouldn't write down any of the measurements, we'd be back to square one.


We also have the carrot souffle. Dad scored the recipe for this from Chasen's Restaurant in LA probably 15 years ago. Chasen's has long since closed, but the souffle recipe comes out twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I have the recipe somewhere, I could make it any time I wanted, but no. I wait. It's Dad's thing. We have souffle two times a year, and we savor it. There have been separate batches made, just so we have left over souffle. We like the souffle. We LOVE the souffle.

Last year, we introduced my niece Emma to the souffle, just two days shy of her first birthday. She loved it. She had it everywhere, on the tray of her high tray, on her, in her hair, in her eyebrows. She was IN to the souffle.

We lost power on Sunday, and one of the first things I thought about was how there was leftover Christmas souffle in the fridge. How it was going to waste. How it would be sacrificed. I damn near wept. I went to the fridge, and with hands on the doors, contemplated opening it up and rescuing the souffle, but then thought of everything else that wouldn't fare well if I did.

(The power came back on. The souffle is fine.)


Lastly, there is the garlic mushroom soup. It's not any garlic mushroom soup. It's Sweetie's garlic mushroom soup. The soup.

There is always a traditional Polish Christmas on Christmas Eve on Mom's side of the family. Pierogi, sauerkraut, kasha (barley), various types of herring (ew gross), bread and kielbasa that comes from Hamtramck, amongst a myriad of other things. Traditionally, this meal is called wigilia, and is supposed to be meatless. We cheat with the kielbasa.

But the centerpiece of this meal is always the garlic mushroom soup. You can smell it cooking in all it's mushroomy garlicky goodness. Some people are reminded of Christmas by the smell of pine trees. Me? I'm reminded of Christmas by the smell of soup.

It's a simple recipe really. Water, garlic, mushrooms. Boil. Add some flour to sour cream. Add broth to sour cream. Add broth/sour cream mix to broth (we don't want it curdling!), add salt and pepper, let simmer till it thickens. Serve over mashed potatoes.

The mashed potatoes are key.

Dad made it at his house on Christmas Eve, and we had our own little Polish feast there. Pierogi, kielbasa, and the soup. It didn't take long before that familiar smell filled the kitchen.

Even though it was a different branch of the family, and Sweetie wasn't there to share it, it was still the soup. It was awesome to share the tradition that I have been a part of my entire life with Betsy and Charles (her dad), and to have Dad so excited to make the soup.

This year has seen a lot of changes, but it's good to know that some things stay the same.

Like the soup.

Yager Road

For every family, there's one place that is the symbol of home. A place where you all gather to share laughter, tears, old memories, and to make new ones. A place that is steeped in traditions and history of generations that have come and gone.

For my family, that would be the farm on Yager Road. It has been in our family since the 20's, and has been a source of wheat, corn, soy beans, and for a while, oil. I couldn't tell you how to get there if I tried. It's like a beacon, you just know where to go to find it.

Above and beyond that, the farm is family.

Every year, since sometime in the 40's, the family has gathered on or around July 4th to celebrate the holiday, but also as a family reunion, and there is always a theme. The Farm has served as the back drop for a reenactment of the crossing of the Delaware in 1976, a hoedown complete with square dancing, various Olympic events, parades, and political conventions.

There is much food, much laughter, much silliness, and occasionally costumes. You talk, you catch up, you are reminded of what's really important.

Uncle Johnny, who's 94, sits over there talking about the woes of health care and medicine costs to anyone who will listen. There is much discussion going on about Becky's upcoming wedding, and who is making the trek to Pennsylvania. Uncle Dave has started up the tractor and is pulling it around to get ready for the hayride. Over a little bit farther, there's a pickup baseball game going on. A group of the younger girls have gathered in one of the trees to talk quietly about whatever it is that 10 year old girls talk quietly about. The little boys are running, chasing, and tackling. Margie is setting up the games for the kids, just as she has for at least the last 20 years.

And then there's Josie. Sweet little Josephine Marie.

One of the newest members of the next generation, she is my cousin Pam's daughter, experiencing her first 4th of July on the farm, in all her 8 month old glory. I watch as she's passed from family member to family member, the smiles, the cooing, the close talking to this little wonder. I watch the way Uncle Dale takes her, his first grandchild, and laughs with her. I watch as Pam takes her and walks with her in the grass, the same way our parents did with us almost 30 years ago.

This little one has no idea the history that surrounds her as she walks across the lawn with her tentative little steps.

Aunt Eleanor & Sweetie, at the farm, sometime in the 40's

I started writing this at the end of July, and shortly after I started it, my grandma, Sweetie, passed away. Many of my memories of the farm involve Sweetie, and the 4th of July picnics. The stories she would tell from when my mom and her brothers were little, and the times that were had then.

It was only fitting that after all the hubub of Sweetie's funeral, the family gathered at the farm to decompress and just...be. As we made that turn onto the dirt of Yager Road, and saw the familiar silos, and the crops, and essentially the same landscape I've remembered my entire life, there was a sense that something was missing. It was still family, it was still home, it was still familiar, but there was that small element that was missing.

That afternoon, as it often happens, the women gathered in the kitchen, with the food (and the wine), munching, having chit chat, and sharing family gossip. The men circled themselves in the garage, talking cars, farm equipment, and politics, all the while trying to solve the problems of the world.

There was much laughter and few tears. It was the perfect afternoon. There was a small rain shower, just long enough to send everyone running for cover, and I truly believe it was Sweetie's way of letting us know she was there.

It was a time to sit back, take it all in, and remember what is truly important in life, and to remember Sweetie, reminisce, and just take a deep breath. It is not lost on me at all that in order for us to do that, we came back to the farm.

It is our ground, it is our sanctuary, it is our home.

Bliver Cousins

It was July in 1991 or 1992, and my cousin Megan and I were riding in the back seat of our grandparents' Pontiac Bonneville, on our way home from the annual 4th of July Picnic/Family Reunion.

It was late, and dark, and we were zooming (or what we thought was zooming) along on a dirt road in the middle of farm land, and listening to AM radio. The topic of conversation that evening was cirrhosis of the liver.

At one point in the segment, Megan and I swore, and still do to this day, that the guy talking on the radio slipped and said cirrhosis of the bliver. We looked at each other like, "No, that's not right...is it?" And immediately broke out into a giggle fit, as 12 year old girls are wont to do. There was some stern talking to from our grandpa, and our giggles were a little more quiet.

After that, we referred to ourselves as The Bliver Cousins. Nobody else really understood why, but we did, and that's all that matters.

Fast forward 16 years and we still call ourselves The Bliver Cousins, which always makes us laugh. It's our own little secret society. Our own version of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

It's amazing how something so small, so seemingly insignificant when it happens, sticks around.

We are a far cry from those two girls, with bad mall hair, and even worse earrings, one living in California, one living in Texas.

We're now both almost 30, both at that pivotal point in our lives where we really start to question who we are and why we're here and what is the next step from here, and more importantly, how do we get there from here? Careers, further education, marriage, babies...where does it all fit?

We speak daily via profuse amounts of email, and almost daily via phone, and usually once a week, one will say to the other, "Get out of my head!", as our thoughts are often so similar it's eerie.

Even after a time where we weren't in each others lives, it didn't matter. We picked right back up as if we never missed a beat. There was no readjustment period. It was just BAM! here we are. The Bliver Cousins ride again!

She is my rock, my ground, and has a fabulous knack for hanging pictures in precarious places. I am her geek, who she lovingly listens as I go on and on about the latest gadget or car thing, when she could really could care less. Our paths, while completely different in some cases, will always cross in others.

I'm not sure how it always happens, but we don't have to go looking for trouble, trouble usually finds us first, and when it does, we usually break out into the giggles like 12 year old girls.

Why? Because we're the Bliver Cousins.