“My Secret Stash”

            Occasionally, I purchase a special sweet treat to help me withstand various life trials. Last year, one mini-Milky Way sat on my desk in plain sight. Any tribulation that entered my day had to reach a “Sponge Worthy” status before I’d eat this small indulgence. I became Seinfeld’s Elaine, measuring my distress just like she did to before using her favorite birth control. My ultimate goal is to reshape the day’s strain into a manageable tidbit that saved my candy for an even worst calamity.

            My mini-treat, left uneaten, morphed over time into my way of celebrating my resilience. When our old hot water heater died an untimely death, I tacked onto a credit card unexpected debt. Problem solved enough to save the candy for another day. Massive layoffs at my husband’s company should’ve made me devour the bar plus every sugar laden item in our house. Instead, I maintained that the piece stay in place to celebrate not being unemployed. Illnesses and injuries plagued family and friends, but nothing ever comparable to Mom’s Huntington’s disease battle. The measure I used before consuming my Milky Way mini grew with each day I walked away from wolfing it down.

            At year’s end, I indulged myself with the treat.

            Starting this year, I have Milk Duds sitting on my desk. The little yellow box calls attention to itself in a way my demure Milky Way mini never did. Expecting a more turbulent year, I snuck a LifeSavers hard candy storybook in the bin below my desk and hid some Andes’ in the freezer. Yesterday’s news with withdrawing from WHO, trying to destabilize the Fourteenth Amendment, and pardoning those who brutally attacked police officers with the insurrection left me battered enough to raid one roll of my Lifesavers.

            My personal goal to have the Milk Duds sit uneaten on my desk by year’s end may be unreachable, but I’ll give it my best try.  

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

"Food for Thought"

           Saturday’s savory scents carry on the breeze. One neighbor, a chef at a Thai restaurant, fires up his grill and spices up the air. Our other neighbor, windows open to fall’s coolness, teases me with the fragrance of a baking cake. Sandwiched between the two homes, I raise my nose like a coon hound and sniff the scintillating aroma. My stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction, nagging me that baby carrots and tuna noodle casserole cannot compete with the tempting fragrance floating on the wind.

      “Why is it that other’s cooking always smells so wonderful?” I muse.

       I love cooking and baking. Once upon a time, friends and family looked forward to the holidays because of my homemade breads, thickly rich fudge, and nutty peanut brittle. My Hollandaise sauce dribbled over Eggs Benedict has delighted many discerning palates on Christmas morning. I can bake any bird: chicken, turkey, duck, goose. My pie crusts flake, and my cakes rise.

         When I first retired, I revisited my favorite cookbooks and searched the web for new recipes. I kept a little record of dishes I cooked or baked with notations:  takes too long, substitute something else for mangoes, simple and delicious. A star rating meant I’d make that recipe again, refine it to our taste if it needed any adjusting. I didn’t mind chopping, slicing, dicing and marinating if the end result meant discovering a wonderful new combination of spices for a delightful new taste.

         As my mother’s Huntington’s Disease progresses, I’ve noticed myself avoiding the kitchen. The more foods she cannot eat, the less I want to putter around the stove. I realized that I now do the old reliable dinners that I know won’t give her any trouble. I make huge batches of spaghetti and freeze individual servings for her. A Sunday pork roast gets divided into four tubs and popped into the freezer. She loves hamburger gravy on top of a baked potato, and can still manage meatloaf with our special baked beans. The other day after struggling with a minutely chopped chicken breast, Mom suggested I buy legs or thighs. She cannot eat the meat from the bone, so I haven’t purchased either one in a while. Tonight, though, we baked thighs with our own special sauce, deboned the meat, and watched as she ate everything effortlessly. The dark meat proved much easier for her to chew and swallow.

         As the holidays approach, I’ll look for something less traditional for our celebratory meals. The food I prepare won’t matter since the true joy comes from being together for another season. We may have a wide variety of side dishes that my mother can easily eat and enjoy. I do know that she’s still able to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie loaded with vanilla ice cream. Maybe we’ll just have desserts!

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Halloween Parties”

         A long, long time ago, before legislators decided children shouldn’t have parties during school hours. each holiday ushered in festivities that took weeks of preparation. The first major celebration found hallways papered with witches, jack-o-lanterns, and black cats with backs hunched in fright. Cut-out bats swooped from the ceilings and gravestones with ghosts peeking over them paraded down the walls of the hallways. Halloween meant mothers sent candied apples, popcorn balls, and cupcakes to school for the afternoon party. Everyone wore a costume for the day (and not some favorite character from a book). Some teachers played records with screeches and howls, and ghostly music while others read scary stories. Almost every year, one teacher would read “Little Orphan Annie” where “the Gobble-uns/ ‘at gits you/ Ef you/ Don’t/ Watch/ Out!” All of the students would march from class to class to trick-or-treat, and the day ended with a party back in your own room. Games like “Seven Up” and “Poor Pussy” kept us busy all afternoon.

         My teaching career began at a junior high school that encompassed seventh, eighth, and ninth graders—all too cool for wearing Halloween costumes to school, but still longing for some special way to mark the day. In those long ago days, teachers could still bring candy to school, and I’d hand out treats to my students. I’d drop the shades, turn off the lights, and delight my students with “The Tell Tale Heart.” Some classes would play “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board” where one student would volunteer to be our dead body while another would chant the spooky tale of death; and with the help of five other students, we’d levitate our “dead” student. Over a period of seven years, I never had a single parent complain that the activity exposed the children to Satan, witch craft, or paganism. Boy, have times changed!

         When I moved up to teach English and Psychology at our high school, I found myself back with students who longed to roam the hallways in costumes. Leaving behind the awkward pre-teen years, this older age group donned bold and creative outfits. Our day of celebration included all the favorite music, poetry and stories plus original masterpieces written by my students and shared with the class. Our studies ranged from Poe to Stephen King as students determined the elements of horror within a story.

         Somewhere along the line, some parents in some Texas town or city complained about the celebration of Halloween within public schools. Little by little our state legislature chipped away at the traditions I enjoyed in my own childhood. The same mentality that we can use standardized testing to measure the value of our students and our schools seeped into many of the small delights of teaching and learning. I am thankful that creative teachers and principals find a way to still bring Halloween celebrations onto some campuses.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman