Half Runner Beans and Broken Hearts

The end of August is the herald of heartache in my life. For 11 years it's been a bittersweet time, as within a 48 hour span I am handed the anniversary of my beloved niece's birth and the death of a close friend. Add to that the events of last year and frankly, I could skip the end of August ad infinitum. If I could just jump from say, oh, August 20 to around September 4 or so that'd be great.

We recently drove up to the farmers market that's up near the mountains (but not quite IN the mountains) and everything reminded me so much of our huge gardens when I was little.

By the time Matt was born the huge gardens had gone by the wayside. But when I was little my grandparents, parents, and all of my grandparents neighbors all grew gardens that were about a half acre or more in size. They were massive to plant, massive to keep up, and massive to harvest.

It was a normal course of the day to be handed a basket and sent out to the garden to pick food for dinner. I can distinctly remember being shocked to learn, at about age 7, that you could also buy these things at the store. My grandmother had a basement that ran the length and width of her house which had a fruit cellar at one end. It was full of Ball jars with our vegetables for the year.

The farmers market reminded me of those days, when my Mom was young and not dying horribly or dead. She was younger than me, by quite a bit. Those days were so long. The hours in the gardens were interminable, hot and bug laden. I didn't really enjoy them one bit, if I'm honest. I would grumble and stomp around barefoot up and down the aisle, seeking the zucchini that I knew I would be required to eat, or pulling off some tomatoes that I knew I could talk them out of making me eat. Muddy, dusty feet, the smell of earth and green life growing all around me coupled with my mom calling me to hurry up were a theme of my childhood.

It seemed like those days were never going to end, and now I look back and they were forty years ago and I am confused about how that happened exactly. I don't think I could tell you how to can vegetables, or how to tell what's ripe enough to pick.

But I used to know. I was a different person then.

Half Runner Beans and Broken Hearts

The end of August is the herald of heartache in my life. For 11 years it's been a bittersweet time, as within a 48 hour span I am handed the anniversary of my beloved niece's birth and the death of a close friend. Add to that the events of last year and frankly, I could skip the end of August ad infinitum. If I could just jump from say, oh, August 20 to around September 4 or so that'd be great.

We recently drove up to the farmers market that's up near the mountains (but not quite IN the mountains) and everything reminded me so much of our huge gardens when I was little.

By the time Matt was born the huge gardens had gone by the wayside. But when I was little my grandparents, parents, and all of my grandparents neighbors all grew gardens that were about a half acre or more in size. They were massive to plant, massive to keep up, and massive to harvest.

It was a normal course of the day to be handed a basket and sent out to the garden to pick food for dinner. I can distinctly remember being shocked to learn, at about age 7, that you could also buy these things at the store. My grandmother had a basement that ran the length and width of her house which had a fruit cellar at one end. It was full of Ball jars with our vegetables for the year.

The farmers market reminded me of those days, when my Mom was young and not dying horribly or dead. She was younger than me, by quite a bit. Those days were so long. The hours in the gardens were interminable, hot and bug laden. I didn't really enjoy them one bit, if I'm honest. I would grumble and stomp around barefoot up and down the aisle, seeking the zucchini that I knew I would be required to eat, or pulling off some tomatoes that I knew I could talk them out of making me eat. Muddy, dusty feet, the smell of earth and green life growing all around me coupled with my mom calling me to hurry up were a theme of my childhood.

It seemed like those days were never going to end, and now I look back and they were forty years ago and I am confused about how that happened exactly. I don't think I could tell you how to can vegetables, or how to tell what's ripe enough to pick.

But I used to know. I was a different person then.

Making the Pie of Our Homeland

I've always been envious of people with deep seeded ethnicity who would pull out their centuries old recipe for this or that at holidays. You know, that recipe for lutkefisk that Tante Anna hid in her shoe on her way to the new world. Or that special cake with super secret ingredients that can't be discerned and no one in your family will divulge because it's been in your family for 200 years?
Being Hoosier........we're rather......well.
Plain. We don't like a lot of wild or fancy things and we're all mostly German Irish but somehow washed most of that out of ourselves except during Oktoberfest when of course we're all German even the Irish.
So you can imagine my joy when I realized that we did indeed have something PURELY HOOSIER that I could make for Thanksgiving. My favorite pie in the world, that I have sought in every grocery store at every holiday since we moved away from Indiana in 1999.
THE SUGAR CREAM PIE.

It's roots are Amish and/or Shaker (we've had both in the Hoosier state) and folks.....it is now the STATE PIE. HAHAHA. Cuz you NEED A STATE PIE.

So, the husband picked up the ingredients and I lassoed the boy into assistance - he might've been born in Kentucky but his DNA is 100% Hoosier.

It's ridiculously simple to make, and now after reading about it I realize it's the pie you make when you only have a few things around on the farm and WANT a pie.

Waddya know, we've GOT A TRADITION!

We choose the first recipe from a list we found - from someone whose Grandmother's recipe it was, as it said her grandmother was Quaker and that rhymes with Shaker so I figure we'd go for it. If it's not exactly the way we want it, we'll go to the next one on the list.

The bits that bubbled over while it baked tasted delicious by the way.

While it baked, the big boy did another one of our traditions that is a new one - started by his teacher last year, he made place mats for the Holiday. He actually had one at school to bring home but he had to leave school early because of my amnio appt and didn't get to bring it home. But he's such a cheery boy, he didn't care and excited made new ones.

We're ready for Thanksgiving with our Hoosier Pie and our home made place mats! Now- BRING ON THE TURKEY!

Making the Pie of Our Homeland

I've always been envious of people with deep seeded ethnicity who would pull out their centuries old recipe for this or that at holidays. You know, that recipe for lutkefisk that Tante Anna hid in her shoe on her way to the new world. Or that special cake with super secret ingredients that can't be discerned and no one in your family will divulge because it's been in your family for 200 years?
Being Hoosier........we're rather......well.
Plain. We don't like a lot of wild or fancy things and we're all mostly German Irish but somehow washed most of that out of ourselves except during Oktoberfest when of course we're all German even the Irish.
So you can imagine my joy when I realized that we did indeed have something PURELY HOOSIER that I could make for Thanksgiving. My favorite pie in the world, that I have sought in every grocery store at every holiday since we moved away from Indiana in 1999.
THE SUGAR CREAM PIE.

It's roots are Amish and/or Shaker (we've had both in the Hoosier state) and folks.....it is now the STATE PIE. HAHAHA. Cuz you NEED A STATE PIE.

So, the husband picked up the ingredients and I lassoed the boy into assistance - he might've been born in Kentucky but his DNA is 100% Hoosier.

It's ridiculously simple to make, and now after reading about it I realize it's the pie you make when you only have a few things around on the farm and WANT a pie.

Waddya know, we've GOT A TRADITION!

We choose the first recipe from a list we found - from someone whose Grandmother's recipe it was, as it said her grandmother was Quaker and that rhymes with Shaker so I figure we'd go for it. If it's not exactly the way we want it, we'll go to the next one on the list.

The bits that bubbled over while it baked tasted delicious by the way.

While it baked, the big boy did another one of our traditions that is a new one - started by his teacher last year, he made place mats for the Holiday. He actually had one at school to bring home but he had to leave school early because of my amnio appt and didn't get to bring it home. But he's such a cheery boy, he didn't care and excited made new ones.

We're ready for Thanksgiving with our Hoosier Pie and our home made place mats! Now- BRING ON THE TURKEY!

How We Got Here

We had to make a sudden Trip North on Friday of last week due to the passing of my husband's Father. We're terrible at timeliness, so despite our best efforts we didn't take off until evening, arriving in Southern Indiana in the early AM hours Saturday.
After the services we saw my husband's family at the requisite family meal and it was nice because my kids had never seen some of these relatives. I feel really bad because I'm realizing that we didn't get pictures, or as many as we should've with his family.
I don't really know why and now I'm feeling all bad about that. His sister took pictures so I am really hoping that she sends them to us.
But what I realized, laying in bed this morning was something rather odd about our trip.
We went a lot of places, saw a lot of people - and it almost seemed throughout the trip - that we were showing our oldest son (because the little ones didn't quite understand) WHO WE ARE and HOW WE GOT HERE.

These are the people we love, we were showing him. This is where we lived. This is where we
used to go. These are the things we love and like. It was a whirlwind of dunking our children into the ponds of our past. Starting with his family on both sides and then to see mine for dinner.

Here are mine with their 1st cousin Maddie at our favorite place to eat when visiting Grandma. THE PIZZA KING! This one has a train that delivers your drinks, which if you are little, is pretty much the coolest thing ever from what I can tell.

Besides the brilliant train and yummy pizza the pizza king has a train ride of dubious safety (they've had to bolt it to the wall) but the kids like it.

Here are the twins riding the train with their Grandma helping.


Of course the big boy and Maddie needed a turn as well.

My brother has a new baby that I got to see and kiss and hug for the first time as well. She's a chunky cuddler, I love big babies. They give the best snuggles.

This is what we do in Indiana, when there is death in the family. We eat meals together. First with his family, immediately following the funeral, and then this day we ate with mine. I'm not sure if it's some archetypal throwback to "eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we may die" or if it's just basic family bonding. Sometimes you eat at the house, sometimes you go out to eat.

But you eat. You definitely eat.

How We Got Here

We had to make a sudden Trip North on Friday of last week due to the passing of my husband's Father. We're terrible at timeliness, so despite our best efforts we didn't take off until evening, arriving in Southern Indiana in the early AM hours Saturday.
After the services we saw my husband's family at the requisite family meal and it was nice because my kids had never seen some of these relatives. I feel really bad because I'm realizing that we didn't get pictures, or as many as we should've with his family.
I don't really know why and now I'm feeling all bad about that. His sister took pictures so I am really hoping that she sends them to us.
But what I realized, laying in bed this morning was something rather odd about our trip.
We went a lot of places, saw a lot of people - and it almost seemed throughout the trip - that we were showing our oldest son (because the little ones didn't quite understand) WHO WE ARE and HOW WE GOT HERE.

These are the people we love, we were showing him. This is where we lived. This is where we
used to go. These are the things we love and like. It was a whirlwind of dunking our children into the ponds of our past. Starting with his family on both sides and then to see mine for dinner.

Here are mine with their 1st cousin Maddie at our favorite place to eat when visiting Grandma. THE PIZZA KING! This one has a train that delivers your drinks, which if you are little, is pretty much the coolest thing ever from what I can tell.

Besides the brilliant train and yummy pizza the pizza king has a train ride of dubious safety (they've had to bolt it to the wall) but the kids like it.

Here are the twins riding the train with their Grandma helping.


Of course the big boy and Maddie needed a turn as well.

My brother has a new baby that I got to see and kiss and hug for the first time as well. She's a chunky cuddler, I love big babies. They give the best snuggles.

This is what we do in Indiana, when there is death in the family. We eat meals together. First with his family, immediately following the funeral, and then this day we ate with mine. I'm not sure if it's some archetypal throwback to "eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we may die" or if it's just basic family bonding. Sometimes you eat at the house, sometimes you go out to eat.

But you eat. You definitely eat.