Answering Rena: Secret Subject Swap

 

 

Today's post would normally be our monthly Secret Subject Swap. The way it works is that bloggers pick a secret subject for that month, send them to me, I put them in my sorting hat, and send them out to another participant. We each get a unique subject to write about or question to answer.

Although still a Secret Subject Swap, for this post, we each have individual prompts, not sent in by each other, but submitted by just one person.

For the past 8 years, our friend Rena had participated in this and many of the other challenges I run. Rena died unexpectedly in the middle of March. I was finally able to write about it just a few days ago, I hope you'll check it out, here's the link to Rena: Mourning to Missing.

When Rena died, she'd signed up for this Secret Subject Swap challenge through the year. I had 9 of her prompts sitting in monthly documents waiting for assignment to different friends. I could not get myself to delete those prompts, it just felt callous, disrespectful. I thought I might address them, over time, in my own blog posts, but then realized that maybe some of her other friends would like to join me. Some did.

Rena took the time to ask some questions. Today her friends are taking the time to answer some of them.

So, each of us have a subject, prompt, or question, sent in by Rena. We're answering in memory of a friend, a collaborator, a valued and missed member of our blogging community.

I have Rena's August prompt, and my subject is: If you could go back to school to become anything you'd like, what would it be and why? 

I'm going to start with the two guesses I think Rena, well probably all of you, would have made.

Then I'm going to say WRONG! 

First, writing. Truth is, I thought a lot about it. I had a middle school teacher who, after I'd turned in a writing assignment, suggested it. I even took over running my dormitory area newspaper for a while in college. But, when it comes to writing, I do best when I feel the stories, when they almost pour out of me. I'm not sure how I'd handle a career of being assigned the story and having to make a deadline. Sometimes, yeah. As a side gig, yeah. But daily? I don't know.

Truth is, I wonder if all of that structure, of the subject matter being out of my hands, whether it might diminish my love of writing. Or maybe it would actually hone my skills, provide focus and growth. Hard to say. 

So how about being an author, writing fiction? I love a good mystery. In fact, I did start my own book. I wrote the first sentence. That was 10 years ago . . . Still got that sentence. Nothing else, though.

OK, so you're thinking along the culinary lines.

Perhaps I'd want to be a chef, or a baker, or both. Maybe work privately, or even open my own restaurant.

I could apply to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Or more locally, both MIT and Harvard have culinary arts majors.

But the food industry is grueling. Chefs are, for the most part overworked and underpaid and, unless they can afford to go out on their own, unable to nurture their own creativity.

Truth is, my recipe development often comes from a place of stress relief, a creative way to get out of my own head for a while. My recipes tend to be more pedestrian. My creations are always geared towards the specific tastes of my family. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

BBQ Pork Corn Chip Nachos

I'll tell you about one thing I have loved my whole life, as far back as I can remember, and still to this day. It's ballet.

If I could, I would love to be a ballerina. Yes, it's a difficult life, both physically and emotionally, but I'd make the sacrifice. Any and all of them.

NY would be the place to go. Although some colleges do offer dance programs, it's almost true that by the time you get your degree, you're almost too old for the industry. So Julliard, Joffrey, School of American Ballet are where I'd be battling to be accepted.

One problem, though. Well, there is the whole talent issue. But more than that is the constraint that's insurmountable by effort, and practice, and guidance, and even luck. 

Seems I've been unable to change the fact that I'm only five feet tall. 

I want to thank Rena for her years of support and friendship. And I want to thank everyone who wrote these posts today, for standing by my side as we honor a friend lost way too soon. 

 

Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts in honor of Rena. 

Climaxed 

What TF Sarah 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom 

On the Border

BBQ Pork Corn Chip Nachos         

                                                                                      ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:
3 boneless pork loin chops

3/4 cup of my Blackberry BBQ sauce or the BBQ sauce of your choice, divided

2/3 cup canned black beans, drained

1 green onion, chopped

1 (8.75 oz) can corn kernels, drained

3/4 cup shredded sharp cheddar, divided

1/4 cup drained, sliced pepperoncini

1 bag (8 oz) scoop sized corn chips

NOTE: I often make barbecued grilled pork chops for dinner, making sure to have enough leftovers to use the next day for these nachos. If you're using leftover pork chops, you'll have to warm it before mixing with the other ingredients.

Directions:

*Marinate the pork chops in 1/2 cup of the BBQ sauce in a resealable bag for 24 hours, turning now and then. 

*Grill the pork chops until completely cooked through. Preheat the oven to 300 degrees. 

*Heat the beans in the microwave for about 1 minute, just until warm. Chop the pork into very small pieces, mix with the beans, green onions, corn, and 1/4 cup of the cheese, then toss with 3 TBSP of the remaining BBQ sauce. 

*Place in the center of a round baking dish. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese, then the pepperoncini. Surround with the chips.

*Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until the cheese melts. To serve, drizzle with the remaining TBSP of BBQ sauce.

Rena: Mourning to Missing

 

A month and a half. It has been 45 days.

Not that I've been counting. Not in the literal sense, anyway. But when I started this post, that number at the top had been 3. It had been 3 days.

I wasn't ready.

Day after day, I changed the number and moved this draft to a further date on my posting calendar.

Friends sent me messages, asked if I'd be writing something. I told them the truth. I wasn't ready. 

I was starting to think I might never be ready. Maybe I couldn't do her justice, or maybe I just couldn't face it head on, the finality. But it nagged at me, the feeling that I would regret never having acknowledged her loss, paid tribute to who she was, and just how much so many of us have been cheated of experiencing with her in the future. So I set a date. Today. Forty-five days to gather my thoughts and do my best.

I've moved through some of the stages of grief, others linger. I'm not mad at her any more, but I can't get past the regret. The wanting a do-over. For her, of course, but for me too. Because I should have pushed harder.

Rena and I had been friends in the blogging world for about 10 years. She joined in almost all of the challenges I ran, but our bond was about so much more. We bounced ideas off of each other, helped each other with projects, shared our lives and our thoughts and our secrets with each other.

Rena died on March 18th. 

The day after she died, I posted our last conversations in a private FB group full of mutual friends.

I said:

{{Through the tears, I've given this a lot of thought and decided to share here because I know that in this group, Rena was loved and supported. She was a sharer, I believe she would have approved.}}

Friday morning 3/17:

Me: How are you this morning? Did you sleep?
Rena: Not too good last night, I had to cancel hip doctor, wasn't up to it. Very shaky and weak today.

Me: Low blood pressure?

Rena: Yes 80/68

Me: Did you eat?

Rena: Yes.

Me: Take it slow and easy. Did your doctor assess whether any of your anxiety meds could lower your blood pressure?

Rena: I'm going to doctor at 3 and I'm going to pack a bag for the hospital.

Me: I hope it doesn't come to that. Let me know what happens when you can.

Friday afternoon:
Rena: I'm at home. They pushed my oxygen up. He wants me to go back in the hospital.

Me: If he wants you to go back in, maybe you should. It will take a while to work out the right mix of oxygen and meds, and that is best done in the hospital where you can be closely monitored. I know you don't want to go, but think it through, talk to your husband, make a medically sound decision.

Rena: Probably go in the morning. We will see. That's exactly what he said. We had already packed a bag.

Me: I'm surprised you didn't go, I assumed you packed the bag because you planned to go if the doctor recommended it. I want you to just get this over with. Get the conditions under control, the meds and oxygen at optimal levels, and be able to move on. I don't think, if there are issues, you are better off at home, scaring yourself and scaring and stressing your husband. I think you're better off in the hospital until you are stabilized. Did you just not want to go today because it's Pat's birthday? I kinda get that.

{{it's eating at me, how much I want to take that last part back.}}

Rena: Yes, and it's cold and rainy. I was freezing and just wanted to get under my blankets. It's been pouring all day. Mostly because it's his birthday, and I know he's been waiting on KY to play tonight.

Me: Please take it easy.

Saturday morning 3/18:
Me: How are you this morning? Any decision about the hospital?

{{Rena died way too soon. But she died in her own home, in her own bed, and with the man she adored for over 30 years. That's going to have to be enough. Not today, but some day, for all of us who have loved her, that's going to have to be enough.}}

Rena and I talked almost every day. And the day before, we also had a conversation. One I'd like to finish now.

Thursday, March 16:

Rena: I'm concerned, my BP is 90/64 today.

Me: Be careful getting up. Did you call the doctor? Is the nurse coming in today?
Rena: No, I go to the doctor tomorrow. My daughter told me to eat something. I want to take a shower.

Me: I'd eat something, then wait a bit, I'm not sure standing in the shower is a good idea at this point.

Rena: I have a seat. I'm out now, it's up to 97/62.

Me: Better. Maybe you should leave something beside your bed to eat in the morning before you get up.

Rena: That's a good idea. Some club crackers or something.

Me: One of those packets of peanut butter crackers might be a good idea.

Rena: I hate peanut butter. Don't like chocolate, coffee, or cheese.

Me: What? I was thinking peanut butter for a bit of protein. Maybe get a package of individually wrapped protein bars that don't have any pb or chocolate in them. My son has an oats and honey flavor, but there are many other flavors too, just be sure they are the protein ones.

Rene: Ha, ha, don't like oats either.

Me: Who ARE you? 

She didn't answer, of course. She wasn't meant to. But today I'm going to try to answer for her. 

Rena was a woman of passions, her family was first and foremost. 

Alzheimer's awareness was another. Rena and I both lost a parent to Alzheimer's, but she nurtured, protected, and took care of her mother for years as Alzheimer's progressed inch by inch. Awareness was so important to her that she started the blog The Diary of an Alzheimer's Caregiver. 

The third was her mission to empower women through helping them spotlight their voice. She started a business supporting people in maximizing and perfecting their vision for their blogs. But more than that, if you weren't a client and had a question, she answered. Period.

Rena often told me I was her closest friend on line, but (to myself) I laughed, betting she said that to many people. Because Rena's superpower was supporting, spreading warmth, sharing her love with everyone in her world.

She had a moral compass that was unwavering, was furious about the division in this country, the state of our politics. But most of all, she was offended by the bigotry, the hatred, the lies, the abuse of power, the moral degradation and manipulation. And she ranted against it. Loudly. Often.

Rena was a genuine person, she worked hard to overcome, but never to hide, a painful childhood and a life altering accident as an adult. Despite physical limitations and emotional trauma, she made the choice to be a person who spoke the truth, grew and changed, helped where she could, railed against injustice. She shared unabashedly, reached out when she knew she was in needed, and returned the favor without question.

I grappled with whether or not to include a recipe today. But Rena, who confessed to not being a cook (and having inherited that from her mom), had, over the past few years, started to embrace the kitchen. And the garden. She was growing her own fruits and vegetables, more every year, and had started to see the fun in playing with recipes.

So for today I did decide to develop a recipe. Lemon Blueberry Crinkles. They're bold and soft, sweet and tart, complex and simple. My tribute to a friend who was all that and so much more.

Lemon Blueberry Crinkles

 

The day Rena's daughter offered me her sympathies, I broke a little. But I also broke through. 

I now accept that I will always miss her, may never stop saying to myself "oh, I can't wait to hear what Rena has to say about this . . ." Like trump's indictment, oh, how she would have loved that! But in order for me to do justice to our time together, to the memories and to the friendship, I need to stop associating those thoughts with pain, and accept them as the results of the gift of her friendship.

So, who was Rena? 

She was an empath. She didn't feel FOR you, she felt WITH you. 

Rena was a woman who loved with all of her heart. 

And I would know, I can feel it still.

Lemon Blueberry Crinkles         

                                                                                      ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:
6 TBSP butter

1 box lemon cake mix

1/2 tsp lemon zest

1/4 tsp lemon extract

2 eggs

1/4 cup blueberry jam

1/3 cup powdered sugar

Directions:
*Melt the butter. Set aside to cool slightly. Mix together the cake mix, lemon zest, lemon extract, and eggs, then mix in the butter.

*Whisk the jam to loosen it a bit. Pour over the batter and, using a knife, cut in, just until barely incorporated into the dough. Don't completely mix in.

*Enclose the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for an hour.

*Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cover baking sheets with parchment paper. Pour the powdered sugar into a bowl.

*One by one, using wet hand as the dough will be sticky, form the dough into 30 balls about 3/4 inch in diameter. Roll around in the powdered sugar, and place onto the baking sheets. Leave room, the cookies will spread.

*Bake for 12 - 14 minutes, until the cookies have spread and are set. Allow to sit on the baking sheet for 2 minutes before removing to cool completely.

 

 

Jewels

 

 

Friends are the jewelry that adorn us. They add color, vibrancy, and sparkle.

As we go through life, we gain friends, retain friends, and unfortunately lose them. Sadly, over the last four years in this country we've expanded the number of ways in which we lose friends. Politics doesn't only make for strange bedfellows, but for wide divides, amplifying some pretty consequential differences.

Today I'm talking about two friendships, and about two diametrically opposed states of loss. I hope that when I've got this out, put this jumble of feelings into concrete sentences, I can begin to come to terms with what's been haunting me for almost two months now. 

 

Because I'm also talking about the ultimate loss, death.

At the beginning of this year I had two friends I no longer have. I met them both at almost the same time, back in the very beginning of 2013. They both found me through the blogging challenges I run. We grew our connection through the blogging community created as a result of those challenges. Both friends participated regularly over the past 7 years. And the community, a safe place to share, built our trust and connection.

 

One of these women wrote a very right wing blog post back in June. She told me that she knew her stance wouldn't be popular with our group, but that everyone has the right to say what they think. I agree. But apparently to her, "everybody" meant only her. She was hurt by her blog comments from our group expressing opposing viewpoints. She told me privately that she was sure I wanted her to leave the group, that she no longer felt welcome in the group. I supported her, told her that I didn't want her to leave, and that she has every right to express her political and social position on her own blog. 

 

She also expressed a desire to participate in an upcoming group post but thought she wouldn't be well received. I told her she was as welcome as always (she did end up signing up, then didn't honor her word by not participating). It declined from there, she got passive/aggressive taking down graphics I'd spent a lot of time and effort making for her without saying anything to me, I backed off in order to keep from saying anything I couldn't take back, she told me I wasn't her friend and she wanted nothing else to do with me or our writing group.

That situation is resolved. I have no regrets, feel no remorse. I offered support, it was rejected, and I have no problem living with her decision.

But the other loss, that loss is none of the above. There is regret. There is remorse. There is guilt.

And it was a candy cane, of all things, that brought it to the surface, what I'd been tamping down, avoiding, for months now. I guess the candy cane was the trigger because Christmas was important to Jules, she was deeply religious and was even semi-raised by a chosen mom (it's very complicated) who was a former nun. So, at this Christmas time, I finally need to talk about Jules.

 

Candy Cane Cake

   

As I said, I met Jules via blogging 7 years ago. I encouraged her participation in our writing challenges and she joyfully joined in most of them. Through the group and then through private messages we got to know each other better.

But Jules had problems. That's an understatement. She was a mess, physically. I don't even know where to start, from Crohn's and a myriad of autoimmune conditions to benign growths on her brain to throwing blood clots to, well, you name it. She was constantly seeing doctors and oncologists, was a medical enigma, they were forever just trying to keep her in a state of stability. 

She started having me edit some of her posts, remind her of deadlines, and she made me an administrator on her blog. As time went by she got more comfortable with the group and shared some very personal and difficult truths. With her permission, I wrote a blog post about it called Silent No More. She wrote a companion piece, which I edited for her. I went into her blog dashboard yesterday searching for it, but she'd deleted it. She didn't want anyone's feelings hurt, which is so Jules.

 

I don't know when she began sending me private messages at all hours of the night, but we'd talk for hours. Trying to follow her line of thought could be exhausting. I'm sure it was because of the tumors and the meds, but she'd start conversations assuming things she's actually never told me, relay a conversation with a former father in law (in name only, it turns out) I never knew she had. She'd talk about people I'd never heard of, and she'd make definitive decisions that, the next time I talked to her, not only had she not followed through with, but she seemed to know nothing about. She'd talk about new medical decisions or conditions, parenting struggles, Chad, Andrea, Whit, Kateri, Molly, her mom, her "mum", her landlord, knowing her father was fading, and then her feelings when he died. I talked with her through it all, Jules was an unwaveringly kind, moral, honorable and honest person and I cared about her so much. But honestly, it was emotionally draining.

She'd told me over and over again that she would die young but with every setback over all of those years that she overcame, it just stopped registering.

 

I heard about Jules' death last month from Penni (the daughter of her "mum Rosemary"), posting to Jules' FB page. Even while both in shock and grappling with a stabbing sympathy for Chad, Andrea, Molly, and her daughter Whit, the guilt set in immediately. 

 

We'd lost touch. Not completely, but the late night personal conversations had become few and far between. She got a job and stopped blogging, spent more time on her FB page communicating en masse than individually. 

 

Some of the last few private conversations are now quite painful to read. Some of the bits and pieces:

 

Jules: "I miss you. I've just been barely surviving these days."

Me: "Hang in there, it'll get better. It always does."

Jules: "I absolutely agree. I know in the end it will be okay."

and a piece of a conversation as the reality of the pandemic set in:

Jules: "I cannot wait for us to all be safe again. I need us to be safe. I said Trump would kill us all I genuinely wanted him to prove me wrong. I love you. Stay safe."

and from one of our last private talks:

Jules: "I trust God. I really do. But sometimes I feel like he's filming candid camera."

 

I didn't feel badly about the dwindling of individual conversations because we did still stay in touch. I actually, in a way, felt relieved. 

 

That insensitivity is where the seeds of regret, remorse, and guilt lie. What I wouldn't give to be able to have more middle of the night conversations. Even the ones where I was completely lost, had no idea what we were talking about.

 

I continue to struggle with the guilt, probably always will. But I am fortunate enough to have had those conversations, they are the reason I know that Jules' 37 years were well spent. I know, for instance, that she could barely walk, but participated in charitable marathons, no matter how long it took her. Jules had ongoing issues with food and digestion, but volunteered regularly at her local food bank. She was dealt an unimaginable hand physically, but she always expressed gratitude. She often had severe issues with memory, but it didn't stop her from remembering to tell me she loved me.

 

Jules had a name for herself, the one she used as her twitter handle. She called herself Broken Jules. And she was, in so many ways, broken. 

 

Yet in infinitely more meaningful ways, she was, like all jewels, most perfectly formed.

 

Candy Cane Cake

                                                         ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:

6 TBSP canola oil

4 TBSP butter

1 1/2 cups sugar

3 eggs

1 cup milk

1 1/2 tsp peppermint extract

2 1/2 cups flour

1/2 tsp salt

2 tsp baking powder

1/3 cup finely crushed candy canes (or peppermint hard candies)

1 can (12 oz) vanilla marshmallow frosting

1/2 tsp peppermint extract

1/3 cup finely crushed candy canes (or peppermint hard candies), divided 

 

OPT: peppermint hard candies for decoration

Directions:

*Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a 9 X 13 baking pan.

*Beat the canola oil, butter, and sugar until smooth. Beat in the eggs, then the milk and 1 1/2 tsp of peppermint extract.
*Add the flour, salt, baking powder and 1/3 cup of the crushed candy canes. Spread evenly into the baking pan.

*Bake for 25 to 35 minutes or until the center springs back to the touch. Cool completely.

*Mix the frosting with the remaining peppermint extract and about 1/4 cup of the crushed candy canes. Spread over the cake. Sprinkle with the remaining crushed candy canes.

*OPT: decorate with peppermint hard candies.

 

In the Process of Losing

Loss is a subject often discussed. Losing is not.

Loss is a permanent state of depletion. Losing is a prolonged torture. 

I've written about loss before. I don't make any attempt to define it because words are just not enough. Especially when it's new, but even many years later thoughts still have the ability to rip our hearts. Grief, at some level, is never-ending.

There are many kinds of loss. Sudden, no matter when it happens is always too soon. Expected. no less painful. I don't claim that one is better than the other. It all sucks, leaves us changed, in some ways diminished.

When we have had a loss, friends, neighbors, even acquaintances cocoon us. There are social and religious conventions that kick in, they come to our homes, bring meals, join in religious rites, call, text, email, send cards. Our community place their hearts with our as we take those first steps into grief.

Jamaican-Style Grilled Chicken

Going through the process of losing is altogether different: the cancer that took my brother and the Alzheimer's that stole my father were traumatic. On a daily basis. Having to watch someone slip away is nothing short of torture. 

Because when you are in the process of losing, you are actively moving towards loss. You know how this story ends, that agony is ahead. Your brain and your heart scream at you "turn back, don't go there" but the thrust forward is completely out of your control. You cannot turn back. You cannot even stop and catch your breath. 

And during these long, drawn out, devastating times we are not cocooned, we are book-ended. When that prognosis is first delivered we hear words of compassion and encouragement from friends, neighbors, acquaintances. Then, when the journey ends in the eventual loss, we are supported by all of the societal and/or religious rituals of mourning. But in between we frequently walk alone. By alone I mean as a family, of course, but they are as emotionally and physically diminished by the unremitting assault as we are. 

I have a friend, one I've never met, whose young daughter recently went through a year long cancer regime. Let me just say now that this is not a story of losing (well, a lot actually was lost, but not a life), her daughter is currently back home and in remission. But there is a correlation to be made through this example, and it's what got me thinking on these terms to begin with. 

When her daughter was first diagnosed, her family was surrounded with warmth and good wishes, hopes and prayers. And through that lifetime-long year, whenever she posted pictures or updates on social media they were met with an outpouring of love. I am many miles away, but I checked in with her privately on a regular basis, not only to see how her daughter was doing but ask about how she herself was coping. You know what she told me at one point? She said that she appreciated my checking in on a personal level, that I was one of very few who still did. 

I was shocked.

I do understand that when those around us are going through a long term crisis it is hard to reach out to them for a multitude of reasons. First of all, we fear we don't know the right thing to say, or what it's OK to ask. We are afraid of bothering them, that it's not the right time, or that they don't want to be forced to talk about their pain. Second, it brings us absolute terror. We put ourselves in their place and for even that one minute we just cannot deal, even hypothetically.

In many cases it's much simpler. It's that our lives go on, they are hectic and complicated. It's not that we forget what they're going through, we just don't focus on how quickly time flies by for us. But minutes, for them, move at once both excruciatingly slowly and with unbearable speed.

I'm not saying that those suffering through a prolonged period of losing don't have any support outside the family at all, of course they do. But between the diagnosis and the loss, it's not constant and consistent, it's spotty at best. And during this time it is not some level of compassion that's needed, it's all of it.

I have a few other friends, also ones I've never met, who are currently in the process of losing. I am committed to making sure that they are not just book-ended.

Because I now realize that if we have enough of a connection with a family to reach out at the beginning, and we know them well enough to support them in the end, then we should consider making the ongoing effort to be there to help fill the middle.

Jamaican-Style Grilled Chicken

                                                              ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:
4 bone in chicken breasts
3 TBSP vegetable oil
2 TBSP Jamaican jerk marinade
2 cloves garlic
1 TBSP brown sugar
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp cumin
1 tsp paprika
1/4 tsp red pepper flakes

Directions:
*Rinse chicken and pat dry. Place chicken pieces into a gallon sized resealable bag.
*Mix together all of the remaining ingredients. Pour into the bag with the chicken and massage to be sure that all of the pieces of chicken are completely coated. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours and up to overnight, turning the bag now and then.
*Heat the grill to medium and grill the chicken, turning once, until the chicken is fully cooked and the juices run clear.

Daddy's Girl

 

I took each letter out of the mailbox noting who every one was from, which were junk, which were holiday cards. And then there was the one that jolted me. I stuck it on the bottom of the pile in my hand, but the whole way into the house I knew it was there. And I knew what it was.

After the cards were hung and the junk mail trashed, it sat on my counter. And it sat.

From an attorney in my home town. Not a surprise really, or at least it shouldn't have been. I had, after all, returned from a whirlwind trip there less than a week ago. Just a legal formality, I shouldn't have opened it. I wasn't ready. But I did. And there it was. Filled in on the line labeled "Estate of". My dad's name.

Relationships are fingerprints. No two are alike. 

People who have lost a parent say that they know how I feel, and to some degree they do. And to a large degree they do not. Because although my new normal is that I have a parent who's gone too, to a great degree my loss is just so completely different from theirs. The fingerprint of our history totally unique.

On the outside, my dad was a successful man. He owned his own business, had a beautiful home along the reservoir, a successful marriage, went on fun vacations.
 
What was on the outside was not what was on the inside.

Cherry Cola Cookies

Dad's core was shaped by his upbringing. He grew up poor, with a mother who was pushed to her limits and with no real male role model. From what I hear his father had diabetes, was diagnosed so late that he had gone blind from it. He spent his life on the couch feeling guilty for not providing for his family, for being a burden. He was a broken man.

My grandmother was resentful. She had to work at a time when women really did not. She also had 2 children to raise, a husband to care for and special meals were required. She had to be constantly exhausted, completely spent.

When his father died, my dad was in the service and on a boat to Europe. He was sent home where he arrived after the funeral.

Looking back, it seems to me that dad really sort of raised himself. Bonding wasn't something he learned to do, relationships were not his forte. Money was an issue, anxiety, a way of life.

Dad had help along the way, but he also helped himself. He joined the service, went to college at night while married and, with help, started his own CPA firm. He even, years later, while running a successful business, went back to get his Master's Degree in Taxation. He also was able to join with my uncle in real estate ventures. And he spent time serving his community as a member of the town Retirement Board, advocating for public retirees for over 30 years.

And, third time's the charm, married successfully. A marriage that saw him grow as a person in ways I would never have thought possible. 

My relationship with dad was close, not as most people would define close, but in the only way he was capable. He was defined by his personality but, I believe, severely limited by his upbringing. Money was always an issue. He was generous if it was on his terms, unsolicited. Like the day I came home with my brand new driver's license to find a car in the driveway. And not just any car, a convertible.

But, even though I'm not one to ask for help, whenever I did go to him he wouldn't say "no" but whatever I needed, I always got less.

We had ups and downs. There was so much I'd have loved to have talked out with him, so very much unresolved in my mind and heart. But dad wasn't one for emotion, baring souls, heartfelt conversation. I always thought "some day, maybe" until Alzheimer's robbed us of that possibility. By the time I knew that it would be too late, it already was.

But I was always "daddy's girl". Despite the limits of the relationship, that was never in doubt.

Weeks later it came. No fanfare, just a plain envelope. With a check inside. Not even an explanation, his name not mentioned. But I knew what it was, dispersion. The ledgers had been reconciled.

The fingerprint of this relationship remains on my heart, which also harbors ledgers that all the money in the world cannot reconcile. But where there remains unconditional love. 

Which I know was returned.

I miss you, Dad. I always will.

Cherry Cola Cookies

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Printable Recipe

 
Ingredients:
1 1/2 sticks margarine, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup cherry cola, room temperature
1 tsp juice from cherry jar
1 egg, room temperature
2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
36 maraschino cherries

3/4 cup powdered sugar
2 TBSP plus 2 tsp cherry cola
1/2 tsp juice from cherry jar

Directions:
*Reserving 1 1/2 tsp of the juice, drain 36 cherries, gently pat them dry and allow them to sit on a paper towel.
*Beat softened margarine, sugar and brown sugar until smooth. Beat in 1/4 cup of cherry cola, 1 tsp of the reserved cherry juice, then the egg.
*Mix in flour and salt.
*Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate about an hour.
*Remove dough from the fridge. Dough will be sticky, so use wet hands to roll into 36 balls. Flatten each with your palm and carefully work a cherry into the center forming a ball again, with the cherry completely enclosed. Place back in the fridge for 1/2 hour.
*Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Cover two baking sheets with parchment paper.
*Bake for 22 minutes. Allow to sit on parchment paper ubtil cool.
*Whisk together the powdered sugar, other reserved 1/2 tsp of cherry juice and the 2 TBSP cherry cola. If needed, add more cola, 1 tsp at a time until you have a thick drizzle topping. Drizzle over completely cooled cookies.