Food, Family and Memory

My Mother Vina circa 1957

Instead of turkey, mashed potatoes, etc., stuffed grape leaves (along with shish-kabob and pilaf) is the traditional centerpiece of our Christmas dinner.

Disclaimer:  Every script I’ve ever written is overly descriptive and too long, so no doubt this recipe will be, too.  Apologies in advance. 

During the seven years in which I lived in Boston, I was completely safe from the specter of camping. My friends and acquaintances went to the Cape or Nantucket in the summer, but no one talked about camping. I was also blissfully unaware of all camping-related issues during my childhood years. We spent many summers in a cabin in Maine which was in the woods, had no television or telephone, and required the hauling of drinking water in jugs, because the taps were supplied by the lake. It was rustic, to be sure, but I slept on a mattress, had a dresser and a lamp, and saw a bright-line distinction between being "indoors" and being "outdoors." If I wanted to use the small, but clean and regularly accoutred bathroom, for example, I could go "indoors," and close the door behind me. If I chose to be among the trees or swim in the lake, I could go "outdoors." There was no confusion between the two locations, particularly relative to bathroom usage.

When I became a parent, and met all kinds of other interesting parents, it became clear that people around here camp with great relish, and that they feel that others should enjoy the experience. They speak with great love about being surrounded by nature, getting closer to family, and the fun of cooking over an open fire. Early on, I deflected all attempts to bring me into the Cult of Camping with a polite smile, a shake of my head, and a speech along the general lines of "I would not, could not, in a tent/I would not if you paid my rent/I do not like dirt, Sir or Ma'am/a stolid urbanite, I am!"

Last fall, a neighbor of mine called to say he had a small Guernsey cow, which wasn’t producing enough milk to keep her spot in his herd. Since she was already bred, he hated to send her to slaughter, so he said he’d give her to us. 

She could hang out with our cows and if she had a heifer (female) calf in the spring we could then sell the calf for a few hundred dollars, which would more than pay for the hay Rufus, the cow, would eat over the winter. Plus, since Rufus didn’t produce a lot of milk, the calf would drink it all and we wouldn’t have to milk her, so we agreed.     

Spring came and so did the calf; only it wasn’t a heifer, it was a bull.  Now what?

After 3 days of steady rain the outside temperature on the ground was stuck at 32 degrees and warm air was still sandwiched aloft causing the precipitation. I was nervous and so was the Weather Channel. I checked the icicles on the wires outside my kitchen window regularly - they are my predictor. My lawn was covered with birds out heavily feeding - not a good sign.

Maine was on the verge of serious trouble - perfect conditions for a severe icing event. By noon on Monday ice was collecting on top of the wires but the hanging icicles were still growing longer. That changed by early afternoon. ‘It’ was starting just as they predicted. The temperature was dropping and the icicles started to flip-they no longer hung straight down. Ice formed on top of the wires, freezing instantly and no longer dripping. Ice was forming the minute it hit any surface. When ice forms just on the top of wires it grows quickly heavy and the hanging icicles weighing less, literately flip. My icicles had rotated more than 45 degrees. This is so not a good thing.

Everything became encased in over an inch of heavy, clear ice. The weight of that much ice is more than anything can tolerate; electrical wires break, trees bend, limbs snap bringing more limbs with them and roofs collapse. It was too dangerous to leave my home and too dangerous to stay, but it’s didn’t matter anymore. I was staying with the ship.