The Spill…

What is it that keeps us tethered to the earth when all around are reasons to float away?

It’s early morning and the sky is still dark. A time of magic when all the unknown possibilities a day might hold lie waiting like secrets infused into dew-laden leaves. These liminal moments are fleeting. All too soon the sun will enter the theater and strip away the mysteries under its glare. The shadows will disappear, the stage for imaginings will dissolve into the machinery of a new day … but not yet.

I am comfortably nestled into my corner of the old brown dog couch named as such from years of unspeakable fluids spewed on it along with wet dog feet and hair laced with all manner of dirt ground into the fibers. I am the only family member who dares recline on this sofa even though I cover it with a relatively clean throw. As the couch’s sole human inhabitant I have a right to claim a particular corner as my own. Laptop open, I’m eager to attempt capturing the fragile musings in last night’s dreams … all of which are at risk of fading away with the dawn. Some of these hazy images and feelings will filter down through my fingers onto the page while others remain in the shadows, resisting being tethered to language.

Closing my eyes I draw in a deep breath attempting to remember what came through my dreams, to pull back the curtain. This morning it doesn’t work. The aroma of coffee and the smell of my wholesome canine keeps me anchored to the moment. Zoe is pressed up against my side. Her still sleepy warm body lets loose a scent holding the stuff of coyote footprints, grasses scented by every passing deer and rodent she encounters on our daily walks. Zoe is 85 pounds of long legs and crazy playful energy. But in this early morning she is 85 pounds of companionable, loyal love managing to condense her large chest, massive head and long tail into an impossibly tight ball to get that extra bit of sleep. I can feel the steady expansion of her lungs. It’s perfect, except for one thing. My mug is empty.

Not wanting to disturb our cozy arrangement I am about to call out for my husband Dan when he just happens to walk into the room.“Would you please refill my coffee?” I ask. “Sure,” he replies, and returns minutes later mug in hand. “Did I get it right?” he asks? I almost say, “Yes.” However, it issn’t right, and no use pretending. “It needs just a scooch more cream.” “How much?” he asks. “I need it quantified.” “You know, just until the color turns a little more like soft caramel,” I answer knowing full well he probably won’t understand. Never Measure conjoins with Always Measure.

When I was growing up I was fascinated by my grandmother’s kitchen. Grammy lived with my aunt and her family in a small brick house in a Slovak neighborhood in Chicago. Reliably my first impression when I walked into the kitchen was the irresistible aroma of the Sunday chicken soup simmering on the stove. I can still smell it. My grandmother, her apron covered in white flour could be found working a massive lump of dough that would become her soft eggy noodles to adorn the nourishing weekly ambrosia.

The small house in the melting pot neighborhood close to Midway airport was the hub of my large extended family. On Sundays it was full to the brim with moms, dads, aunts, uncles, and cousins plopped down wherever they could find a place to sit and dig into large bowls of steamy chicken noodle soup. At the heart of it all, my rosy cheeked, twinkly eyed, pleasantly chubby and surprisingly strong Eastern European grandmother.

Sundays were the highlight of my week leaving the erratic days in between as something to endure. Mom was chronically depressed, almost invisible, and Dad was undiagnosed bi-polar, leaning toward the manic side most of the time. To spice it all up he was also a charming con man, a gifted communicator who could cast spells over his victims accompanied by an endearing smile. A positive outcome from those years was simply that I got a lot of practice at being creative. I was building the muscles of my imagination finding ways to navigate my sometimes monstrous home life.

My young life was something akin to picking my way across a glacier field in pitch black. I never knew when I’d slip and fall into some uncomfortable and dangerous place. But there was always Sunday to look forward to even if I had to endure the boring tedium of church in the rare mornings when Mom could get dressed in time. I could hang on through the hymns that made no sense and were always at a pitch I couldn’t sing. Then there was the continual standing up, sitting down, prayers that never ended, and the smell of stale paper. Knowing we were going into the city to Grammy’s I could endure. 

My grandmother was my North star. In the stormy sky of those young years she was the reference point that righted my internal compass. When Grammy saw me she would open her amply muscled arms wide and in I’d go for the embrace I lived for. “Nanka!” she would cry out. When I heard that, I knew everything would be all right. I remember each little thing about her … the way she moved her arms when she kneaded bread dough, the fat pink yarn she would tie in a bow at the top of her head to hold her soft silvery gray hair back while she was in the kitchen. The way she always smelled soapy clean, her half Slovak half English speech whose meaning I understood even though I didn’t comprehend every word. 

What I did know more than anything in those early years is that my grandmother loved me, and when she looked at me I saw something special reflected in her grayed cloudy eyes. Her caring kept me intact and anchored my spirit to life when too much of the time all my child heart wanted to do was float away. I clung to everything about her, and when it came to cooking she reigned supreme.

“Never measure Nanka,” she said while cupping her hands to fill them with just the right amount of flour, yeast or salt while teaching me to make Buchta or Kolache. She felt her way through baking never using measuring cups or spoons, only her hands, and the results were magical. I would stand on a chair to see what she was doing, studying her every move. I fancied myself her apprentice. Grammy had me feel the noodle or bread dough by taking my hands and pressing them into the warm rounded lump. It felt so good under my fingers. It felt like home. 

She taught me to use my nose to add spices to a pot of soup, or chicken paprikash on the stove. Grammy would fan the flavorful steam toward her face inhaling deeply before throwing in more garlic, caraway or peppercorns. Just remembering those Sunday mornings in her kitchen I can conjure up the smell of roasting beef, pork loin, or her roast duck with golden brown potatoes. These were meals that could bring anyone to their knees and she did it all by smell. This culinary technique remained a mystery to me for many years even though she did her best to train me in the trade. But as time passed I found myself ‘sniffing’ my own cooking. I haven’t had many complaints, but I do recall a nasty turkey curry. 

I learned very well at a tender age to ‘never measure.’ This principle, so deeply engrained in my psyche grew to an all encompassing life mantra bearing mixed outcomes. It really helped me develop my artistic intuitive side and not so much my algebra and chemistry side. I think some of my teachers gave me passing grades out out of a deep sense of charity. 

It stands to reason that ‘Never Measure’ would meet and partner up with ‘Always Measure.’ The universe loves complementary balance, and apparently so do I. My husband Dan measures everything. He takes scrupulous notes on procedures that involve meticulous details from the humidity in his cigar humidor, firing up the emergency generator, bromine balance in the hot tub, and all things computers. He fills pages with carefully produced numbers down to minute fractions. He’s the kind of guy who would work at NASA and be responsible for the exacting precision needed to launch a space shuttle. We truly do revolve in different orbits and somehow it works. Mostly he gets the cream in my coffee to the right color and he does it with a measuring spoon.

There were other more subtle things my grandmother passed on to me, or perhaps awakened in me.  She was a bit clairvoyant, spooky in a bohemian, gypsy, old world way. Knowing things she ‘shouldn’t’ really know. I came to visit her when I was in college; a crazy wild time for me. Finally I was extricated from home and with vigor set about attempting to shake off the toxic fallout of so many years of familial imprisonment. Unfortunately, and predictably, I made poor choices succeeding only in accruing more damage to my already shredded soul. 

I walked in through the kitchen door fully expecting her to turn around and beam that loving smile I so depended upon. But this time she did not turn around to greet me. My grandmother stood, her back to me, stirring a big pot of soup on the stove. “Nanka, I watching you,” she said, still not facing me. Her voice was a cold arrow that pierced my heart. I was chastened, knowing full well that she was aware of my wild ways. Only four words and nothing else needed to be said. 

I was still in college when my Grandmother died. The night before she passed I had a dream. Grammy appeared to me and spoke, not in half Slovak, half English but in another strange mumbly language that somehow I understood while dreaming. She was earnestly getting my attention and when she had it she threw something like a glowing gossamer net over me and I felt her warmth and love permeate my body. Then she slowly faded into the background. 

I called home when I woke up to learn that at 98 years old, and in good health other than the typical aches and pains of the elderly, my Grammy had passed in her sleep. Although I can’t say for sure that I understand all she was trying to tell me I believe she came to me as she lay dying to say good-by and to give her little Nanka one last embrace.

My grandmother grounded me in this life with a sense of belonging beyond the confines of the troubles in my early years. She gifted me with a heritage deeply rooted in the soil of the forested hills of Eastern Europe. Her life overlaps mine, the spark of recognition between kindred spirits. She also touched my life in a way that awakened rich horizons beyond the physical with ears that could hear whispers in the woods, and dreams that have shined a light on my path. 

These days, when I work a lump of dough, walk through our little woods, see the full moon in the night sky, wake remembering one of ‘those’ dreams, or hear the wind speak through the branches of ponderosa pines covering our hillside farm I feel her life flowing through mine. My grandmother still anchors me to this life … my North star continues to shine.

The sun is cresting the mountain. Time to get up and be about the day. Zoe senses the shift in my energy and uncurls her length letting out a long groan. She’s a world class groaner. I give her a bit of doggie massage as Dan walks through the room. “You’ve been writing for a while,” he notices. I look up and smile. “Can I refill your cup?” he asks. “Yes, please,” I say, “Oh, and don’t forget to measure the cream!” He laughs, “As if I could.”