JoCoWrites

By LeAnne Hansen

Filled

We sat in my kitchen and talked about children, our national cultures, and food. Tamar had recently transplanted from Israeli to Kansas City soil. I made space in my busy schedule and kitchen for her, and over muffins, cookies, and conversation a friendship bloomed. A year later, before she and her family moved away, she gifted me her recipe for Cholent, a stew traditionally served on the Jewish Sabbath.

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Cholent This stew is cooked on low heat overnight in the oven. There are a million ways to prepare Cholent, so adjust it to your family’s taste. To start, soak 1 cup each lima beans and kidney beans overnight, or put them in boiling water for 30-60 minutes. Drain.

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My dad was a man of simple tastes. He loved fast food, driving his truck, my mom, Johnny Cash, and cowboy poetry. He passed away four years ago. My siblings are scattered from Virginia to Oregon, but on December 1st, Dad’s birthday, we gather in our respective Costco food courts for his favorite lunch, the All Beef Hot Dog & 20 oz. Soda (with refill). We raise our hot dogs in remembrance and snap a photo to share with each other and Mom. A hot dog and soda become the seed from which memories of Dad bloom, and we breathe his love and gentleness all day long.

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For your Cholent, use a large enamel stew pot that can be used on the stove top as well as in the oven. Sauté 2-3 chopped onions in olive oil until soft. Add 2 pounds stew meat and 2 marrow bones to the center of the pot. Arrange 6-7 potatoes, peeled and cut in half, around the meat.

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In Hanoi, Dalton and Hau invited my husband and me into their lives. Dalton is my daughter-in-law’s brother; Hau, his diminutive, inquisitive, fearless Vietnamese wife. We savored their company and a delicious meal in a little Vietnamese restaurant Dalton nicknamed “Communist Hot Pot,” for the photos of past government leaders displayed on the walls. We ate Xoi Xeo—mung beans, dried pork cooked in soy sauce and sugar, and crispy fried shallots nestled in a glutinous cloud of rice, wrapped in banana leaves and purchased from a street vendor. We had Pho for breakfast with a raw egg cracked into the steaming broth, its yoke a sunrise. Years later, during their trip to Kansas City, Dalton grilled pork meatballs on our patio. They smelled of shallot and lemongrass. When they were cooked, their outer layer slightly caramelized from the flames, he placed them on a plate alongside the lemon balm and spearmint leaves Hau picked from our garden, and morning glory she’d brought from Vietnam to make Bun Cha for my family. We gathered eagerly around her while she ladled a sweet and tangy broth, simmered with fish sauce, into bowls already containing fresh rice noodles. We carried our steaming bowls with their precious contents to the deck, where we packed them with greens and meatballs. While we slurped that sweet and salty elixir, my grandchildren and their beautiful son scampered among the toys and trees. As we talked and laughed, generations and relations blended.

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Add the rinsed beans, ½ cup barley, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 teaspoon pepper, 2 teaspoons paprika, and cayenne to taste. Stir. Add 6 whole eggs, uncooked and rinsed.

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Grandma Anderson had a dairy farm. The milking barn contained a huge tank which kept the milk cold until the Meadowgold truck came to collect it. My older and taller cousins pulled a milk can next to the tank and helped me stand on it, then lifted the lid so I could peer into that creamy white pool. A mechanical paddle stirred the milk from time to time, creating glistening ripples, and sometimes we could pluck little pieces of frozen milk from the top layer. It melted on our tongues and ran down our throats, sweet and satisfying.
Memories of my grandmas are steeped in the food I ate in their homes. Grandma Anderson was creamy milk in a tin cup and homemade wheat bread. Grandma Bingham was ice cream, popsicles, and soda pop. I had grandpas, too, but even as a young child I knew the givers of treats were the grandmas—their love and attention a reservoir, stirred and glistening in my heart.

** Add water or chicken broth to cover, and boil on the stovetop for about 30 minutes. Heat oven to 210 degrees, and transfer the pot to the oven. Cook for 8 hours. Check occasionally, adding water to keep ingredients covered. You may also add cinnamon and chopped dates for sweetness or cumin for savory.

** In Russia, my family ate Okroshka with a woman my son calls Mama Tamara—so named because she’d “mothered” him while he lived there. At her invitation, my family joined her sons and their families in her tiny apartment living room. Mama Tamara spoke no English, and I spoke no Russian, so we used our sons as translators. When the meal was ready, her sons brought tables and every chair they owned into the living room. Mama Tamara brought in bowls of cubed boiled potatoes and passed around chopped hard boiled eggs, diced ham, chopped dill, and diced cucumbers. Finally, she walked around the table with a large bottle of kvas, a Russian beverage made from fermented bread and poured it over each bowl to the level she deemed “just right.” It was delicious—tart, starchy-sweet, ringing with dill and sour cream, filling, refreshing, and infused with the kindness of a confident and generous woman in humble circumstances. We talked and laughed, Russian mingling with English, and were filled. Before we left, Mama Tamara and I embraced as friends, belly to belly.

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Cool and peel the eggs. Mash or slice and stir them back into the Cholent. Serve with gratitude and love to hungry people. Enjoy both!

By Louise Brigance

HOW OUR FAMILY USES FOOD TO CONNECT

We’ve all heard the quote, “Food is the ingredient that binds us together,” and as Julia Child used to say, “People who love to eat are always the best people.” That is so true when our four generational family gets together, heads for the Farmer’s Market to pick out something we haven’t tried before, then back where the ladies gather in the kitchen to cook up the food. Now that we are the Great-grand-parents it is usually at our home and may mean anywhere from nine to twenty-seven family members may be there for an event. Some of our friends will say, “Why do you go to all that effort?” or “Isn’t it time consuming?” or “Wouldn’t it be easier to eat out?” The many times our family has gathered to sit down and share a meal has been some of our happiest and most memorable moments. Prior to eating together is a joyful time of preparation, laughter, and aroma, filling the kitchen. Is it worth it? We think it is one of the best investments we can make in the lives of our children.

A recent Gallup Poll states that most families dine together and that 53% of families eat at least six meals together each week. The number is edging up, which tells us that many people are seeing the value of spending that time together. Sometimes we learn from each other in unexpected ways while dining. Just a couple months ago, lingering over our Christmas dinner together, our great-granddaughter Emelia, was constructing a gingerbread train with our daughter Patti, who is Emelia’s Grandmother. Patti was checking the picture on the package to make sure every little piece of candy was put in the right place. Emelia said, “Grandma, you don’t have to do it just like it shows there. Let’s do it the way we like.” Last month she won the “Creativity Award” in her second grade class. Her teacher said that she shows intuitiveness and thinking outside the box. Eating dinner together is a non-threatening time when important things are discussed, timid ones are validated, children are given a voice and joking and laughing are interspersed with compliments of the delicious food being passed around.

Is food the ingredient that binds people together? It certainly would seem so based on the Gallup Poll which stated that most families dine together, and we know so from first-hand experience. We treasure the time when our family can be together to sit down and share food that we have so lovingly prepared, share stories from each of our lives and just plain enjoy each other’s company.

By Heidi Marcinik

My recent mid-life opportunity involved learning how to farm. Though I live in a typical, cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood, I wanted to apply what I learned as a farmer’s apprentice to my own budding farming life so I created an (sub)urban farm on our corner neighborhood lot.

It didn’t take long into the growing season to witness first hand how sharing locally grown food connects people, facilitates community. I met neighbors I’ve lived by for 10 years and had never met...until tomato season when I sold tomatoes in my front yard. Many of my neighbors stopped by on a Friday evening to pick up tomatoes for a BLT supper.

My first growing season was very successful as a first year of growing and getting the word out that I’m now working towards establishing a neighborhood food hub—or hosting a farm-to-table block party to encourage the feeling of community in the neighborhood.

Let the good times grow!

By Bob Ervin

Seeds

Taking license with the notion of connecting through food, an interpretation of our “daily bread” begets a metaphysical connection. Nourishment is attained through truthful words, reliable information, the lifting and stimulation of the human spirit, and trust – trusting one another.

The context for “seeds” in this perspective is “the genesis of the formation of something.” It can be as simple as a new awareness. For examples, consider perhaps a heartening fact about family genealogy, or hearing a great speech, or learning how the disciplines of dance or yoga — or boxing, can be helpful in managing Parkinson's Disease.

A new awareness can also spring hope from a contentious pretext, like learning how to talk to your teen or, conversely, why delivering a great speech is not a good means to a strong bond with your teen.

Specific and germane to foodstuffs, the production “Seeds” brings to the stage a compelling awareness. One may be surprised to learn the origin of certain specific seeds and the selfish greed in the incorporation of their supply. The intent is to advance a false perception about what is healthy, a malpractice practiced with impunity, and widely distributed. As members of the library community, it is with pride that this initiative is received and its awareness fostered.

By Mary Silwance

My neighbor gives me poop.

From her ducks, that is.

She gives me duck poop smeared straw, the perfect winter blanket for my garden beds. Duck waste breaks down in my garden, nourishing the soil in preparation for planting. My harvest, in turn, helps nourish her egg laying ducks. I give her greens from the garden or what’s headed to compost in exchange for duck eggs. My neighbor and I are eager for the summer when we will herd her ducks over to my vegetable beds for an all you can eat insect buffet.

Though I never gave them tin cans, at first I thought ducklings were like cartoon goats, able to eat anything-rotten vegetables, moldy bread. This is not at all the case. My patient neighbor created a duck menu for me so I wouldn’t kill her fuzzy dependents with my ignorance.

When we take collards and carrot tops to the ducks, my daughters help feed them. Having observed them from chick to duckling to practically grown now, we’ve watched their personalities unfold. Also in my ignorance, I had thought only people and pets had distinct personalities. Now I wonder what other species have personalities.

Have you ever experienced duck eggs? Harder to break than chicken eggs, the shell’s hues vary, delicate blues and pinks. They also differ in size, surprising if you’re accustomed to uniform store bought eggs. The yolk is bigger, summer sun orangey and the whites are more viscous. The flavor is strong but does not linger the way store eggs sometimes do.

There isn’t a rule saying you can’t bake with duck eggs but I do not want them absorbed into something else. They are for frying. And smelling. Tasting. Savoring.

I know the journey of these eggs.

My neighbor rearranged her life and backyard to accommodate a dozen ducks. She went through hoops with the city to get permits as well as addressed one neighbor’s fear of smell and noise. She had to train her Great Danes, used to the backyard as their domain, to share space with beings they could easily use as chew toys. She enlisted the help of a handy neighbor to design and build their enclosure. She had to figure out how to protect them from predators and below zero weather. I value her efforts and am motivated to grow enough veggies to share. I even consider which kitchen scraps the ducks would find delectable and divert them from the compost, delighting in their delight.

I am now connected to my neighbor. We each have something the other needs and wants. For years, she and I had only waved to each other in passing. Because of her ducks and my garden we have a friendship, slowly evolving beyond eggs and greens. And poop.

When I hold my neighbor’s sturdy, pastel pink and soft blue duck eggs in my hands, just gathered and still warm, I am grateful.

This is communion.

Our new prompt (through Feb. 26) is: How do your friends, family, and community use food to connect?

Your response might win you two free tickets to Seeds, a show presented this Spring at the Carlson Center at Johnson County Community College. Seeds is a dramatic reenactment of the seven-year battle between a Saskatchewan farmer and biotech corporation Monsanto Inc. This documentary play leads us through a suspenseful labyrinth of legal conflicts around patent rights, scientific debates about genetically modified food, and property clashes between farmers and the biotech industry.

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The posts below were responses to our Fall 2019 prompt: How has writing helped you through difficult times?

By Paula Anderson

Photography to me is like writing is to an author. My camera is my pen. It enables me to be able to share my viewpoint with the world.

When I am on a photo safari, my husband looks for the big picture, something that interests him. Rusty vehicles, old buildings, landscapes with undulating roads disappearing into the horizon.

I, on the other hand, look for the invisible. The small bug on a leaf, a flower, the pattern of bricks making up an old road. I watch the sky for clouds and birds, no one notices those while rushing to and fro. This past weekend, I heard what sounded like a young bird calling for its parents. Upon closer examination, I saw a tiny squirrel poking its head out of a hollow knot on a tree sounding a warning there were intruders. I must have taken thirty pictures of the little guy, hoping to capture one in perfect focus and with a spot of light in his eyes. Success! I got three excellent portraits to share with my friends!

By Polly Alice McCann

Poetry has helped me through difficult times. It has saved my life more than once. When I discovered poetry through a regular 101 class, the professor made us analyze a poem. I chose one about a potato that was thrown onto the compost pile. It was by Jane Kenyon. I was able to write 5 pages about a poem of hardly 20 lines. When I cracked open that poem and discovered so much about this person, and so many possibilities, I was hooked.

I took the poetry writing class next. During that period my grandfather died and we flew to Kansas City for the funeral. When I wrote a poem about the walk to the funeral home from my grandmother's house, something happened. I wrote how the flower seeds inside my pocket sprouted and grew sunflowers as large as cabbages how crows began following me as I walked. The poem broke open and unreal things sprang to life. The poem was magical. The poem was fantasy but the poem was truer than reality.

This January I will have been writing poetry for 20 years and each time I try to break open the poem and find that magical kernel of being that is truer than it is real. I've written over 500 poems and my goal is to write as many as Emily Dickenson, but not as many as Pablo Neruda. How did poetry help me through difficult times? Because it taught me the truth about myself and my situations, my relationships, the truth about my emotions, and my spirituality, and the magic of everyday adventures. To me, every day is a trip to Disneyland or down the Amazon. Because even just throwing out a potato, or driving past a carton of strawberries could be the answer to the universe, or at least my answer for today. Poetry helped me to friend myself. And that is what I hope writing whatever genre you feel drawn to, will do for you.

By Renee Franklin

Writing can serve the same function as hot soup on a winter’s day. When you have a void inside, the world can also seem cold and uninviting. Putting your thoughts down can renew your sense of completeness. It can lift your spirits and give you a warm feeling. That little bit of emotional assurance can get be enough to get you through.

By Cheryl Morai-Young

I would say that writing has helped me through difficult times my whole life. Born a sensitive, middle child into a no nonsense military family, I often retreated into books before I knew I could write. Written words on the page made life easier. Stories were possibilities. Books were my shield, my escape. I would spend hours reading. In the car, in my room, outside in a tree, in the middle of a group of people. I always had a book. My whole family were readers so this was encouraged. We'd often spend part of dinner talking about books and what we were reading. My mother read to us before school most mornings when we were young. Books helped me cope with our way of life. Moving every two to three years, and having to start over in a new state, town, and school was hard. I hated being introduced as the new girl. I could feel the kids' eyes boring into me, sizing me up, evaluating. Who is this new girl? This was in the days when, if you were new, you would have you go up in front of the whole class and introduce yourself. Usually, because we were coming from another part of the country, my accent from different, my clothes were different, what had made me fit in before was different. In essence, I was wrong. Naturally introverted, the only way I could cope with this intense scrutiny was to cry. With tears as my go to coping mechanism, I knew I had to find another way to survive. Writing about my feelings in journals became my outlet through these painful years of having to continually start over. I loved writing and it came naturally to me. When I was a freshman in high school, I wrote about my Grandma Lee, how she had lost her youngest child to a brain aneurysm, and her husband to stomach cancer, and yet she had still found a way to move forward. I remember reading what I had written outloud to my parents and when I was through, how they had sat in silence, and when they spoke they said: You have a ways with words. You made us feel. Keep writing. I had found my way to make feelings okay, and exploration on the page of these feelings, acceptable. I kept writing, majored in English and worked as an editor, a contractor, an associate in a bookstore, and currently, the library. All of my professional jobs have centered around books and writing. I have a Writing Practice group that meets every other month. We write for 20 minutes and then read outloud what we have written. And then we do it again and again until our two hours are up. This is life blood for me, connection through words. Experiences made whole. Feelings honored. I have published a few times, but it's not about publishing for me. It's about being in the moment with words. It's about being brave, being seen, being heard, and understood. And, finally, standing up before a group, and excelling. It's life. And I'm grateful.