A rediscovered treasure

Our daughter Abby has been making greeting cards since she was a kid. Using colored markers, glitter, stickers, and more recently photos, she creates cheerful, heart-warming messages for birthdays and various holidays. I sometimes come across one that I used as a bookmark, but mostly they are with the cache of cards that I've been consolidating, little by little, in my office.

In 1996, when she was a sophomore in college, she used her card-making skills to create a Christmas gift. It's a display piece that features cut-out illustrations of some of my favorite activities: gardening, baseball, art (or does that one represent lounging?), theater, fishing, and Christmas. It, too, has been in my office, but like everything else it was packed away while the ceiling was being repaired. I just pulled it from the box moments ago.

I love that the photos still represent my interests, except of course for the grandkids. But then I read and rediscovered the poem. It was lovely at the time. It's even greater now.


The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe
by Joyce Johnson

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
And all her grandchildren played there too.

She laughed at their jokes (when they were funny)
And kept a green jar of bubblegum money.
She rode with them on the carousel
And played Monopoly very well.

She taught them to paint and how to bake bread.
She read them riddles and tucked them in bed.
She taught them to sing and how to climb trees.
She patched their jeans and bandaged their knees.

She remembered the way she'd felt as a child,
The dreams she'd had of lands that were wild,
Of mountains to climb, of villains to fight,
Of plays and poems she'd wanted to write.

She remembered all she'd wanted to do
Before she grew up and lived in a shoe.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
And lived in the dreams she'd had once too.
She told those she loved, "Children be bold.
Then you'll grow up but never grow old."

 And that is exactly the message I want to give to those I love. 

The most clever birthday gift ever

One night last week as his family drove home from the baseball game, Augie announced that during the game he had thought of a great birthday gift for Pa. (His parents had been working on the idea of getting something the birthday person would like, not something you would like.)

"We should give him his own copy of Pretend Soup (a children's cookbook) and all the ingredients to make Number Salad." Augie has his own copy but had never made this recipe. He was sure Pa would enjoy it.

His parents and sister agreed that was a wonderful idea. (Mom and Dad also marveled that he'd kept this exciting secret to himself while we were all together at the game.)

He proudly presented the gift on Sunday, and on Tuesday Augie and Vi made two batches of Number Salad for lunch at our house, sharing with Pa, me, and their mom (Dad was working).

The recipe begins with one handful of coconut and two tablespoons of orange juice concentrate. "Handful" is a subjective term; Augie pulled out at least 1/3 cup while Vi daintily withdrew about a tablespoonful. The beautiful thing: It doesn't matter!

Then you cut, count, and drop in 3 orange sections, 4 apple slices, 5 cubes of cheese, 6 banana slices, 7 pieces of melon, and 8 grapes. (Having put in the specified number of pieces, or any number you like, you can eat the excess.)

As you stir ("9 times"), the coconut and orange juice concentrate form a dressing - a pretty clever idea if you like coconut (we liked it more than the kids did).

The kids dished up Number Salad for lunch. Two batches was more than enough (we were still full from breakfast) so Pa and I had the rest with dinner.

We have many other wonderful recipes to try, as we continue to enjoy Pa's birthday gift. Timing is perfect; Peter had just mentioned that he wanted to involve the kids more in meal preparation this year.

Pretend Soup, by the way, is by Mollie Katzen, author of Moosewood Cookbook, and Ann Henderson, a preschool teacher. All recipes are kid-tested. Grownups do the difficult steps; kids use table knives for any cutting they do. They participate in lots of cooking at home, and they are very proud of their efforts. I wish I'd had that opportunity as a kid, but more than that, I love that they do.

The guy who taught me to fight City Hall

When people grow up in New York and then move to Minnesota, they sometimes can't avoid stepping on people's toes. New Yorkers are used to interrupting, moving fast, talking loud, and having a certain boldness that Minnesotans often perceive as pushy and arrogant. 

If they use these traits well, they can get a lot of things done. In the recent past, two such men became mayor of St. Paul, one was chosen as president of the University of Minnesota, two went to the Senate, and one saved a historic carousel whose horses were already removed and scheduled to be sold at auction.

Peter and Augie at Cafesjian's Carousel, 4/2008

The latter is my husband, Peter. He used his New York skills, occasionally tempered by my "Minnesota nice," to negotiate the purchase on behalf of our nonprofit organization. Then he used his story-telling talents to raise nearly $3 million to pay for the carousel, restore it, and get it situated in St. Paul's Como Park. We were not rich, famous, or powerful. Instead, we did our research, made proposals, forged partnerships, drove the message through dozens of media interviews, and took on a huge amount of volunteer work while doing our regular jobs. I would have given up several times; his will-power kept us going.

Eventually, the New York-born mayor at the time tried to wrest control of the carousel and place it downtown, where it would have died a lonely death. We fought City Hall, and we won. Among the things that made us effective were Peter's vision, determination, intense preparation, hard work, and, oh yes, being willing to offend a few people along the way. He told people the truth as he saw it and did not worry about being liked. When the mayor summoned us to a meeting, rolled out maps of a revitalized downtown, and waxed poetic about his vision (for which he intended the carousel as a centerpiece), Peter said, "Well, Mr. Mayor, not everyone shares your vision." There were gasps around the table.

As a Minnesotan raised to be a people-pleaser, I learned from Peter to speak up for myself and to take a few risks to accomplish something important. As I became braver and more confident, he smoothed his rough edges and added new strategies to that of confrontation. Collaborating on one cause or another, we get a kick out of how well we work together. We call it "Being Peter and Nancy."

Augie learns to love stories 12/2007

Way back when we were getting to know one another, he told me, "Lots of adults don't like me much, but children love me." Well, lots of adults like him, too, but he was right about the children. At Saints' games, for example, children would regularly come to chat and ask him to read them a story. He always obliged, only pausing to mark each batter's activity in his scorebook.

Maybe all of that was practice for being a grandpa. He is a great one. It was his idea to provide daycare until the grandkids are in school. As with the carousel, I took my cue from him and now we are a great team. Peter and Nancy. Pa and Grandma.

In the summer, when the kids are not here every weekday, it's Pa that they ask to see. For example, just the other day ViMae was getting weepy at the breakfast table. "Mom," she said, "I miss your dad." (Yes, they've been working on figuring out extended relationships.) They called so Vi could talk with her grandpa, and then they came over for a play date. 

Pa and ViMae swim together 8/2011

When Peter was 19, he was diagnosed with lymphoma. Doctors told his mother she'd better have his big "turning 21" party a year early because he wouldn't live to 21.

Today, August 14, 2011, he turns 63. Or, as he put it the other day, three times the age he wasn't supposed to see. It turns out he didn't have lymphoma at 19, although he did have it at 58. We were lucky; surgery took care of it. I'd like to say I hope we have at least another 21 years together, but we are a little superstitious about "watching what we wish for," so I won't say that.

Happy Birthday, Peter. I'm so glad I met and married you...glad we are Peter and Nancy, Pa and Grandma. I hope you and I have many more years together, and that we enjoy them all. It's because of you that I am a blissed-out grandma.



 

Deciding what we eat

As I approached the grocery store dairy case, I saw what appeared to be a mom and her teenage son, both gazing at the yogurt shelves.

Their body language spoke volumes. She had her feet planted and hands on her hips as she peered at every carton on the shelf. He was a step behind her, bouncing on his toes like he really wanted to leave.

“Face it, Mom,” I heard him say. “That’s how they make it now.”

I didn't hear her response. What I want to know is, who decided? Who decided that 95 percent of the space formerly given to perfectly good fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt is now devoted to (1) Activia and its imitators and (2) something called “Greek” yogurt?

Activia I understand, sort of. Jamie Lee Curtis is all over the airwaves promoting the stuff, so even though I don’t eat it, I am willing to believe that others have been persuaded to do so.

But Greek yogurt? I have yet to see a single ad telling me what it is and why I should eat it. I’m pretty sure I didn’t just happen to miss them. And I am oddly insulted by this. I feel as though it suited somebody’s business purposes to create this stuff and – what? People would just start buying it?

They may be right. After not being able to find our regular Dannon yogurt in flavors we wanted, or an acceptable substitute, I tried Greek yogurt. It was richer than Dannon, and I liked it. Peter did not. I tried another brand; same results. As I write this, I’m trying a third brand, which I dislike intensely. I won't even suggest it to him.

Somewhere along the way, Peter and I Googled Greek yogurt. Wikipedia says the generic term is “strained yogurt” and that it’s produced by straining out the whey, making the resulting product thicker, richer in protein, and lower in sugar and calories.

Also from Wikipedia: Most of the recent growth in the $4.1b yogurt industry has come from the strained yogurt segment. The term "Greek yogurt" has become synonymous with strained yogurt due to successful marketing by the Greek Fage brand, though strained yogurt is a staple in many countries besides Greece, and most yogurt in Greece is not strained. "Greek-style" yogurts are similar to Greek strained yogurt, but may be thickened with thickening agents.

I wasn’t even going to try this stuff, until my store included it in a promotion they’re doing and, ahem, by trying these new brands I could get more chances to win a prize in a so-called Monopoly game.

Bottom line, I like some brands of Greek yogurt well enough (especially Chobani), and it seems that with more protein and less sugar it’s better for me than the Dannon I had been eating. But why did it just sneak up on us? Why are we inundated with Activia ads but had to use Google to learn about Greek yogurt? And what will Peter eat, now that nobody carries Dannon peach-on-the-bottom?  

Like the teeager said to him mom, "That's how they make it now." And then he added, "You'll just have to get used to it."


P.S. I just found a story saying that Chobani has become the market leader thanks in large part to social media, and that they are hiring a new advertising agency, presumably to reach non-tweeters like us.