"Counting Blessings”

            For each day in November, many people write and post to their Facebook status something in life for which they are thankful. And although I know my life is full of reasons to feel grateful, this month marks the first anniversary of Mom’s final battle with her monster, Huntington’s disease.

            The first weekend of November last year, her tongue became an uncoordinated slug that thrust against anything we put into her mouth. She could no longer draw upon a straw to drink, nor could she pull soft foods into her. Dehydration robbed her body, making her skin pull tightly against her bones. Hours in the emergency room led to some relief when they started IVs to treat the dehydration. Nightmare days in the hospital began where the nurses gave up on trying to get medication into Mom, leaving the task up to me; where we followed Mom’s directives and refused tube feeding; where I made the calls to set up Hospice care.

            Last November slipped into endless days of coaxing miniscule amounts of food, and then water, into Mom. Within the first week of bringing her home, she stopped eating. Three weeks later, we could no longer get her to take the drops of water we offered through a syringe. Three days later, she died.

            Thankfulness comes wrapped in grief. Looking back, I recall spending hours in the rocking chair, reminiscing with Mom about long ago events. She could no longer speak, but often she’d smile. I knew at the time that she struggled to stay with us because of my brother’s promise to see her on Thanksgiving. No calendar marked the days, but her heart knew she needed to be with him one more time. When he entered the room, she raised her hands and took his in embrace. Her smile warmed the room. Whatever energy she had left, she’d siphoned off and saved in some secret spot, and she drew heavily upon these reserves in the day that my brother stayed.

            No one likes to talk about the vigils we endure as loved ones die. No one wants to admit to whispered words of release. For the next three days, I stayed with my mother and gave her permission to leave us. I assured her that we’d take care of one another. That the love she and my father had showered upon us would continue to hold us strong through the rest of our lives. I counted the blessings of our life together.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                  

"Beef in Stout"

 

            Comfort food. We all have those dishes that make us feel warm inside, and it’s not from the hot peppers! As a child, I loved my mother’s roast with mashed potatoes and homemade noodles. Give me a bad day, and I’ll pop a roast into the oven. I’ll crack half-a-dozen eggs into the bowl, mix in flour and roll out and cut the noodles. Even if the outside temperature matches the oven’s heat, my craving for comfort food on rough days overrides the desire for cold macaroni salad.

            Over years, the comfort foods have shifted. At one time, only fried chicken would suffice if I’d suffered through a horrendous event. The year my father died? I’d take an Ambien almost as soon as I got home from work since it knocked me out for twelve hours. If I took it too late in the evening, I couldn’t wake up the next morning; so I had to take it no later than five o’clock. I never stopped to think about it, but somehow, a Big Mac would find its way into my hands. I would rouse myself from drugged slumber just enough to scarf the burger down.

            Last year I discovered Beef in Stout when we visited Ireland. This easy dish shifted quickly to the top of my Comfort Food list. I hope you love this dish as much as I do.

             

 

 

“Beef in Stout”

Recipe from  Favourite Irish Recipes: Traditional Fare from the Emerald Isle

other recipe books aat www.jsalmon.co.uk

Stew that dates from the 19^th century

1 tablespoon oil                                   2 tablespoons flour

A walnut of butter                              Salt and black pepper

2 lb. stewing steak, wiped                  2 carrots, peeled and sliced

   and cubed                                        ½ pint stout

2 onions peeled and sliced                  1 teaspoon soft brown sugar

 

                Fresh chopped parsley for garnish
 

Heat the oil and butter in a large saucepan and cook the meat until lightly browned. Remove with a slotted spoon. Add the onions and fry until softened. Stir in the flour and seasoning, then return the meat to the saucepan with the carrots, stout and sugar. Stir well and bring to the boil, then cover and simmer gently for 2 to 2 ½ hours or until the meat is tender. Serve garnished with chopped parsley and accompanied by mashed potatoes and a green vegetable. Serves 4 to 6.

If desired, a half-and-half mix of Guinness and water can be used for the gravy and a few sliced mushrooms added to the stew. Alternatively, this dish can be cooked in the oven at 350 F or Mark 4 for the same length of time.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Twenty-four Hours"

Night   

            a black velvet cloak   

            that envelopes the Mother   

            cradles her in Heavenly splendor   

            offers her brilliant diamonds   

            in tribute to life   

Dawn   

            like a subtle warrior   

            creeps into the sky   

            wars against Night   

            a battle ground   

                        endless ebony   

                        royal purple       

                        burnt orange       

                        bleeding scarlet   

           spiking and spearing rays of the sun   

                        into Night’s flesh   

Morning    

            glorifies the Death   

            sings bright notes   

            crystal and clear   

            celebrating the beginning   

            with rainbow droplets of dew   

Day   

            at first fresh and young   

            a cacophony of life   

            vibrantly shimmering in blue pools   

            like reflections of eternity   

            in the waters of life   





Dusk   

            the faintly pungent aroma   

            of decaying leaves   

            burns across the sky   

                        soft crimson   

                        silky salmon   

                        deep violet   

                        boundless black   

          encompassing and evolving
          to the depth of twilight   

                        enveloping the Mother   

 Copyright 1994 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Cliff's Edge"

Defiant waves pummel and kick   

striking against soaring towers   

Mists and cold spray leave the edge slick   

siphoning my waning powers     

I stand alone on the cliff’s edge   

collapsing within my despair   

I crawl cautiously to the ledge     

where brutal winds whip at my cares    

My fingers bleed with razor cuts   

sliced by the terrors that grip me    

I desperately grasp at the ruts   

carved by the sea’s eternity   

I lay prone on the jagged ground            

in submissive subjugation        

My chest constricts as I look down            

at Death’s beckoning temptation        

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Starting a Tradition"

 

         I graduated from Texas A & M one Saturday afternoon in December and moved back to San Antonio the same evening. Neither David nor I had jobs, but we assumed we would each find something fairly quickly. As Christmas neared with both of us unemployed, our spirits sagged. My parents gave us an old aluminum tree they had in their attic, and we decorated it with the ribbons from our wedding gifts. We pooled our pennies and bought one album that we both liked. David landed a job the week after Christmas, but it took me almost six weeks more before I started working for a local law firm.

         By our second Christmas, I had returned to school and only worked part-time at a day care center. We managed to afford a gift for each of us, and we bought a few yards of thick white felt, red and gold sequins, green felt, and some red rickrack. Sewing together every night, we made our own tree skirt to tuck around a real Christmas tree.

        

      For Paul’s first Christmas, I decided to add to the tree skirt cutout pictures from one of the cute little outfits he wore that first winter. Across the little tummy of our favorite one piece skated adorable penguins. I took cotton to quilt the fabric and added more sequins around the edge. With that little addition, we began our first family tradition.

         Every year, as Paul outgrew his t-shirts, I’d set aside some of our favorites to cut and put onto the tree skirt. A pictorial record of Paul’s interests becomes a part of our holiday celebrations every year. I treasure remembering the Bert and Ernie and Cookie Monster phase. We have heroes like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, Batman, and Ghostbusters romping over the white felt. Pikachu reminds us of the hours spent building the perfect deck or hunting for that rare card. One Christmas, Paul designed the Christmas card we sent to family and friends, and we transferred it to fabric to add to the skirt. Even as a teenager, Paul would occasionally toss a much worn shirt my way and say, “Could you put this on the tree skirt?” Thus, we added a picture of a toaster and other odds-n-ends.

         I haven’t added anything to the skirt for many years, but I know there’s still room for additions. Perhaps we’ll leave spaces free for the next generation.

       

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman