For years, I believed in a cosmic vending machine. You put in your prayers, your good deeds, your unwavering faith, and out popped the desired outcome: a healed loved one, a landed dream job, a world free from strife. It felt logical, a system I could control. But then, the universe asserted its power until I gasped for air.
The loss of my 26-year-old son shattered the illusion of the cosmic vending machine, a wish dispenser. Grief, in its crushing honesty, revealed the illusion of my control. My desperate prayers richocheted off the heavens and went unanswered. My cosmic vending machine turned totally defective and inoperable.
My beautiful friend, Michelle, ever the optimist, saw things differently. A solid Christian woman, every morning, she told me after she became a sudden widow, she now prayed for one very important thing, actually a number of them, dozens, in fact: donuts. She prays for donuts! Not a grand plea. Small enough to grasp in your hand – and in your mind. The more I thought about it, the more I saw how the simple request symbolized something profound.
It took loss to understand the fundamental truth my friend embodied. I didn’t have to give up on my faith, only realize I wasn’t the one responsible for the weather that I had no control over from the get-go – but I could pack an umbrella – maybe one big enough that I could even sweetly share.
Just like the twelve steps of recovery teach, I learned to let go and let God (or the universe, a higher power, whatever resonates with you). In this way, the stress alleviated. I didn’t have to demand, only release myself to the mystery of life and surrender to the flow, whether it meant a gentle current of a river or a maelstrom in an ocean or sea.
Don’t get me wrong. My cosmic vending machine is still a very cool-looking device that is a fun fantasy. It’s a healthy escape, but not a blueprint of a reality. It’s different now. My words form donut prayers, always asking at the end for the strength to pick up the scattered crumbs on the counter.
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Beyond whispered sweet nothings over candlelight dinners, chocolates and bouquets of roses and all the feel-good-stuff associated with Valentine’s Day, which is tomorrow, let’s delve deeper into love’s transformative power, particularly its ability to mend the shrapnel of trauma, as well as war’s brutal scars.
Two weeks ago I wrote a blog post about George, a combat marine veteran, and mentioned his dedication to fellow vets.
But what about his own wounds? Those battlefields that weren’t confined to Vietnam. PTSD, an unseen enemy, gnawed at him, and at another friend, Mike, a combat army vet, for decades. In fact, Mike supported my own brother, Mike, who passed away in 2002, for numerous years through his own PTSD from Vietnam. A community of brothers.
Anyway, George and Mike returned to Vietnam, not with weapons, but with open hearts, decades after their service in Vietnam. That trip, fueled by a desperate need for closure, turned into an unexpected journey of healing.
Mike paints the story, saying that during their stay, the two men had reserved two rooms at an upscale resort in Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon. Unable to sleep during their first 24 hours there, it was four in the morning when they found themselves sitting outdoors in front of the resort.
“What the hell are we doing here?” As they looked at each other, the words ricocheted between them, each syllable a deafening shot.
Over the time span, the familiar sights, smells, sounds – initially triggers for nightmares – became catalysts for forgiveness. Four different trips, four chances to confront the ghosts of war, hand in hand, not as combatants, but as brothers bound by shared pain soaked in the balm of love.
Not to minimize the undeniable charm that exchanging Valentine’s Day greeting cards hold, but the most transformative power of love lies in venturing into the darkest corners of our own souls. Armed with nothing but self-compassion, we confront our demons, not with clenched fists, but with arms outstretched, ready to embrace every shadow, every scar. This is where forgiveness blooms for the wounded parts of ourselves. The process, as both George and Mike attested to, is far from painless, but we are able to emerge and, as a result, forgive. In the end, the metamorphosis of love does not contort us, but transforms us. Only then can our giving unconditional love become a routine sacrifice.
And faith? Faith isn’t only about blind belief in a distant deity. It’s the necessary starting point that jump started both men in their first journey: believing in the inherent goodness within us, even when buried beneath layers of pain. It’s about trusting that love, like sunlight, can penetrate even the most hardened hearts, coaxing forgiveness and healing to bloom.
This Valentine’s Day, let’s reimagine love’s battlefield. We needn’t travel 8,810 miles as these courageous men did on their return trips to Vietnam. Sometimes, the hardest acts of forgiveness lie not on distant horizons, but right under our own roofs. Those closest to us, navigating their own internal battles, might unknowingly leave emotional minefields in their wake. But remember, beneath the surface, they too might be hurting, carrying invisible wounds from their own experiences. In these moments, victory through dominance is impossible.
Let our weapons be kindness, our armor vulnerability, and our victory measured not in conquests, but in the quiet bonds of compassion forged. A listening ear, a gentle touch, a heart overflowing with love – these are the silent artillery we bring to bear against the residue of past hurts. Love becomes our exposure therapy, dissolving the scars and ushering in a future bathed in the golden light of reconciliation. Even if you’re the sole bearer of the white flag, remember, this isn’t about waging unwinnable wars; it’s about mending the tapestry of a wounded soul.
❤️Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️Whether you celebrate with loved ones, cherish quiet moments of self-love, or simply reflect on the power of connection, may this day remind you of love’s transformative power. May your heart be filled with gratitude, compassion, and the courage to share love in all its forms.
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Life, isn’t it a curious thing? One moment, basking in the warm hum of sunlight, the next, trudging through knee-deep burdens and sorrows. Shoulders that once held dreams become stooped under the weight of worries, the ache in our hearts echoing the echo of unanswered prayers. We carry loved ones lost, dreams delayed, anxieties that whisper tensions into our ears.
That’s how I feel often, like a melody stuck on repeat, minor key and somber. Even the sunlight seems to carry a nameless weight that is all too familiar. Then, in the midst of that personal symphony of despair, on my way to George’s funeral mass, a song washed over me, unexpected and pure. “Only Passing Through,” it whispered, sung by voices I didn’t recognize, The Taylors, they called themselves.
Since I first heard it that morning on the radio, I’ve been listening to it, a gift of faith in the midst of mourning. I haven’t looked the group up, purposefully. This song, it carries no dogma, no sermons veiled in melody. Metaphorically, you can say that it simply sings of journeys and departures, of resting places beyond horizons. You can say that it speaks of life as a passing train, each stop a pause, a goodbye laced with the promise of a hello.
When the darkness presses in, the chorus of “Only passing through” rises, a gentle reminder that this isn’t all there is.
The song helps me to get through the noise, take a moment, close my eyes. Listen. I find peace in knowing that I am just at another bend in the track, leading me closer to that final, glorious station, bathed in the light of eternity.
P.S. Maybe one day I’ll look up The Taylors. But for now, I’ll pass. Clear mind, open heart, and a whispered ‘all is well’ at the moment.
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It’s not often a funeral mass leaves you with a heart full of warmth and a smile tugging at your lips. But then again, George wasn’t your average man. He lived a life etched in humble heroism, a canvas painted with the vibrant hues of love and duty.
A few weeks ago, we gathered to bid farewell to this gentle giant, a 75-year-old veteran who wore his service to his country and his fellow veterans not as a badge of honor, but as a thread woven into the fabric of his being. He fought as a marine in Vietnam, bearing the physical scars with a stoic grace that mirrored the silent depth of his compassion.
George wasn’t a man of many words. He wasn’t one for gossip or grand pronouncements. His eloquence resided in the steady gait of his helping hand, with a quiet resolve etched on his features, to assist in the best way he could when faced with another’s despair. The priest, delivering a homily that seemed spun from the very essence of George himself, reminded us that God asks only one question upon our arrival at the celestial gate: “How have we loved?”
And oh, how George loved! In his younger years, he loved his country, serving it with unyielding courage and an unwavering sense of duty. He loved his fellow veterans, dedicating his later years to easing their burdens and mending their shattered souls. In his later years he also embraced those lost to addiction, offering them a guiding hand and a glimmer of hope in the abyss, participating in a supply chain of love, passing on what he had been given.
His love wasn’t flamboyant, it wasn’t performative. It was a quiet river, carving its path through the hearts of those around him, nourishing them with its unwavering flow.
So after George’s funeral mass, I ran into many old friends. One of them was my friend Lisa and her husband, both of whom I haven’t seen for nearly a decade. After many shared memories, Lisa and I inked a future calender date for a get-together. The following is an excerpt from her text to me that I received later that evening:
“Hi Stacy!!! I can’t stop thinking about the amazing day I’ve had saying a proper goodbye to George at that beautiful service and reuniting with YOU and seeing so many of my core group. I didn’t realize how much I miss you all! I am so grateful for today … Even in death George carries the message.”
Reflecting on the tapestry of his life, it dawned on me: not on battlefields nor in fogs of self-importance are victories won, but in the heart’s quiethaven, where love’s embrace melts fear’s searing touch and doubt’s whispering shadows, a sanctuary of faith blossoms, a gentle rose amid thejungle’s harshclasp.
Rest well, dear George. Your love echoes in a friend’s laugh, a soldier’s courage, and ripples of kindness, whispering your name in heaven on earth.
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Today, my blogging community welcomes my little faith-based blog into their personal worlds, and what better way to celebrate than by singing the praises of a woman who shines brighter than any launch party sparkler – my dear friend, Camille (or Ethel, as I, the Lucy to her Ethel, know her!).
Photograph in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Camille, where do I even begin? Life has thrown you some hefty curveballs, the kind that would leave most people curled up, defeated. But that’s not you, Ethel. You’re the epitome of grit, a true warrior.
We connected after you lost your son, Robert, my son Marshall’s best friend in 2011. He was your sunshine, and you were his unwavering rock. And when the world tilted on its axis for me over eight years later after I lost Marsh, you, Ethel, were there with a steady hand and a fierce “Mamma Bear” spirit that chased away my shadows and ignited my faith.
I remember your kindness, the quiet gestures, the shared tears, the unspoken understanding that only two mothers who’ve walked through that fiery furnace can truly share.
But oh, Ethel, to me, you’re so much more than just sorrow-shared. You’re a firecracker, a laugh that spills just when you need it during a dry spell and an insight like no other; actually an insight that duplicate’s your intuitive son’s. You’re fiercely loyal, with a heart that could hold a universe of compassion. You’re the life of the party, even when all you want to do is crawl under a rock.You are who you are. You wear your scars like badges of honor, proof of battles fought and won and, yes, lost too.
And yes, Ethel, you can be a pain in the Lucy! We wouldn’t be Lucy and Ethel without our little spats and quirks. But even then, I know, deep down, that your fire comes from a place of love, a relentless desire to protect those in your orbit.
So, on this day, as our little community welcomes my little blog, I celebrate you, Ethel. I celebrate your birth, your life, your love, your unyielding spirit. You are an inspiration, a testament to the human capacity to not only endure, but connect deeply.
Photo by PhotoMIX Company on Pexels.com
May your birthday be filled with laughter, sunshine, and sweet cake. And may the year ahead be your brightest yet, paved with joy, renewed hope, and the unwavering knowledge that you, Ethel, are loved beyond measure. Happy birthday, my friend!
Imagine this: a cherished ceramic vase, shattered into a hundred pieces. Grief hangs heavy in the air, mirroring jagged shards scattered across the floor. However, instead of discarding the wreckage, you choose Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. Using careful hands and a patient heart, you join the pieces, each gilded seam tracing the story of the vase’s fall and rebirth.
I mentioned the art form in last week’s blog. Kintsugi, meaning “golden joinery,” is more than just a repair technique; it’s a philosophy. It celebrates the idea that brokenness is not an ending, but rather a new beginning, infused with unity and strength. In the same vein that I wrote about last week, what if we applied this philosophy to our own lives, especially when they feel tragically broken and faith seems like a distant dream? Especially when we believe our brokenness defines us.
How do we apply kintsugi in our own lives? The first step is to stop pretending the cracks don’t exist. Ignoring them only prolongs the suffering. Let the tears flow, let the anger roar until it dissipates. Then, with courage, reach into the depths of your pain, your vulnerabilities, your struggles. Only then, through this act of bravery of facing what hurts the most, can the healing begin.
The next phase of the process is to embrace the imperfections. I get tripped up in the fact that our society often glorifies the “perfect,” airbrushed version of life. But Kintsugi reminds us that beauty lies in the authentic, in the unique imperfections that make us who we are. Embrace your scars, your stumbles, your quirks. They are the gold that makes your story shine.
From that vantage point, it’s easier to lift your head high and seek out the light. Do you not see it? I remember over 39 years ago, I could not see beyond the darkness, and the world around me seemed equally eclipsed. As fate would have it, my journey of crafting my own kintsugi began when I panned in the rubbish. It wasn’t the fear of judgmental stares that fueled my courage, but rather a community of open hearts, unjudging ears and warm embraces. People who saw my worth, not my cracks. Slowly, like moss finding purchase on a weathered rock, self-compassion aided me to recognize the shimmering parts of my life’s inventory, like gold dust on the wind. Accepting my fractures became the catalyst for healing. I gained a new set of eyes to see myself not as a broken vase, discarded and forgotten, but a work of art in progress.
My kintsugi journey is far from over, and, I’m guessing, neither is yours. As the new year unfolds, let us walk this path together and continue to share stories, tips and resources. Let’s kintsugi together, one shimmering piece at a time.
Finding Faith and Empowerment in the December Night Sky
No matter where you live or what traditions you hold dear, I invite you to take a special moment this Monday, December 25th, when many celebrate Christmas, to simply observe the vastness of the night sky.
Above, twinkling like diamonds scattered on black velvet, are countless stars. Each one, a testament to the incredible power and mystery of the universe. Some, long extinguished and no longer with us, yet their light continues to shine. Their existence reminds us that even in the face of death, something beautiful and enduring can remain.
As you ponder the celestial dance above, allow your mind to wander beyond the limitations of our earthly existence. Imagine the countless galaxies and planets swirling through the cosmic void, each harboring untold stories and unfathomable wonders. In this vastness, we can find not only a sense of humility, but also an exhilarating sense of possibility.
So, under the watchful gaze of the night sky, take a moment to reflect, to marvel, and to find strength and inspiration for the journey ahead.
This Monday, let the stars inspire you to believe in the impossible, to dream bigger, and to reach for the light of faith.
Even when doubt whispers and darkness looms, remember your own light within you. The smallest spark can ignite a fire like the loneliest star that can guide a ship to shore. Dim or bright, unearth your light, and let it rise. Be the beacon that guides your own journey, and in doing so, illuminates the way for others lost in a starless night.
Note: I mentioned this artificial Christmas tree experience in last week’s blog post.
The attic stairs groaned under my weight as I lugged the artificial, five-foot Christmas tree down.This year, decorating it was my mission, but it turned into a stark reminder of what had been and what was no longer.Over four years had passed since I had last touched it, the weight of tragedy replacing the joy and family healing it once symbolized.
As I set it down in the living room, I remembered way back to 2009 when the economic recession hit. Despite the hardship, our four-member family had weathered the storm. As per tradition, my then husband, two children and I had brought home a freshly cut tree that year. The next day when I had stood back to marvel at the tree I had finished decorating by myself (no one else liked decorating), the entire tree had toppled over on me! It was a strange, almost foreshadowing event, a prelude to the emotional avalanche that would engulf our lives just a year later. My sudden divorce, husband’s abandonment, the financial ruin, the loss… it all came crashing down the following year in 2010 like that heavy Douglas fir.
My soon-to-be ex-husband’s breakdown also had shattered our family in that year, leaving just me and my two adolescent children to face an uncertain future together. During that sad Christmas season, in the gaudy, multi-colored artificial tree we found at Walmart, my daughter and I saw a reflection of our broken selves, along with a flicker of determination to rise again. And rise again the three us us did, against all odds. Despite its disco ball appearance, the artificial Christmas tree symbolized strength, and we had purchased it, replacing our usual fresh tree that year. When we looked at it, it filled us with faith in the future, and we enjoyed it every year until 2018.
But then came 2019, the year that shattered what remained of our world. My daughter and I spent Christmas in front of greasy cartons of Chinese take-out food, the bare house echoing with sorrow. Holiday decorations lay banished in the attic, mere ghosts of past joy. In 2020, I ordered a three-foot “pencil” tree and a few handfuls of decorations that became our new holiday tradition.
This Christmas, stroking the Walmart-bought tree, memories of 2019 washed over me, the sharp sting of grief still fresh after all this time. The idea of decorating it with its own ornaments, relics of childhood Christmases, which I had also fetched from the attic, exasperated my silent ache, a reminder of the son I’d lost too soon. The once joyous act of decorating the family tree now felt like a painful, unbearable ritual, each ornament a monument to a life that was stolen from us. I opted for the familiar comfort of the pencil tree and its decorations.
Yet, returning those old treasures to the attic felt impossible. As tears welled up, a spark of something else flickered within me. While the pain of being a survivor remained, the memories of other past Christmases reminded me that the same decorated artificial tree had weathered countless storms alongside our one-time family of three, and had become a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of fleeting life.
And that’s when I knew what I had to do. I decided to let it go. I posted an ad online, offering the Christmas tree for free.
The first two responses led to disappointment, but then came a message that tugged at my heartstrings. A single mother, struggling to make ends meet, desperately wanted the tree for her four-year-old son. My heart softened, and I did the unthinkable. I decided to give her not only the Christmas tree, but almost all of the rest of it — the lights, the ornaments, even the memories they held.
In that moment, I knew this was more than just giving away holiday decor. It was about passing on a flicker of hope, a spark of joy that could illuminate someone else’s holiday season.
“My son would have wanted your son to have it,” I explained after informing her of my decision, her profuse thanks still ringing in my ears.
Final Letting Go …
Since I was going out that evening, I left the bundle outside my garage door for her to pick up. Before pulling out of the driveway, I took a final photo of everything. A wave of bittersweet emotions washed over me. Sadness for what I had lost, but also a sense of relief and liberation.
This Christmas, like the last four before it, my home may not be filled with the familiar sights and sounds of our pre-tragedy celebrations. But in my heart, I know that the spirit of Christmas lives on. It lives on in the kindness of strangers who lend an empathetic ear, in the joy of a child, and in the quiet strength that allows us to rise from the ashes and stand ourselves tall, like a noble fir.
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My friend Denis M., now long retired, was not just a lawyer, but a champion for justice and certainly a pillar of support in my personal life. To this day, I consider him an important mentor who imparted invaluable lessons that have guided me through life’s turbulent waters.
I will always remember his sharing about the morning when his brisk walk to the courthouse was abruptly halted by a foul odor. His eyes darted to the source, and there, amid the manicured lawn, lay an unsightly pile of human feces. His shock was quickly replaced by a surge of anger that coursed through his veins. Fists clenched tightly, he paced the grounds, his heavy footsteps echoing his fury. With each turn, his face grew flushed, his burning desire was to identify the culprit who had dared to defile his path.
After about ten minutes of scouring the courthouse grounds, he was so emotionally shaken that he sat down on a bench to try and catch his breath. As his heart rate slowed and his breathing steadied, his thoughts turned to the perpetrator of this vile act. He wondered what kind of person could commit such a senseless, disrespectful deed. The more he pondered the individual, the more empathy he felt. He envisioned a life devoid of self-respect, a soul trapped in a state of emptiness, incapable of comprehending the degrading nature of his or her actions.
Rather than condemning the individual, Denis felt a surge of compassion. He saw a lost soul, a human being in desperate need of guidance and understanding. His anger gradually gave way to a sense of melancholy, a realization that the true tragedy lay not in the act itself, but in the desolate state of mind that drove it.
As Denis finished recounting his tale, a wave of understanding washed over me. It was like a door in my mind creaked open, allowing in a flood of light that dispelled the shadows of long-held, rigid perceptions. Forgiveness, once a distant concept shrouded in judgment, suddenly felt attainable, even desirable.
This newfound clarity manifested itself in subtle yet profound ways over the years that changed my life. Take last Sunday, for instance. I found myself drawn back to the familiar pews of my childhood church, a place I usually avoid since our family tragedy in 2019, especially when I feel emotionally exposed.
As it went, I found out that one of the parishioners, a woman in her 70s, had lost her husband, about the same age as herself. After the liturgy, my sole desire was to offer my condolences. My heart ached for her, and for her son, a man I hadn’t seen in 20 years, who stood beside her in the church hall, his grief a stoic shadow. I approached them, eager to offer comfort, and not only to share the simple truth of her son being a fine young man, but knowing how it was to lose a father when I was around his same age.
But before I could utter a greeting, the woman descended upon me. Her words tumbled out like a torrent, each one a sharp stone flung at me. “Forty-four years, that’s a long time. I had my husband for a long time,” she rasped, her voice cracking like dry leaves. “That’s a long time. But a child? Losing a child…nothing compares. It’s the worst thing, the absolute worst…”
Her son, his face etched with sorrow, simply watched.
My tiny voice, unfamiliar to my ears, piped up, “All grief is justified.”
The woman ignored me as she continued, her black eyes flickering. “I don’t know how you survive. How you get out of bed each day.” Her tirade was like a broken record. “I don’t know how you go on. How you face the day.” Her gaze, raw and accusatory, pinned me like a butterfly under glass.
“Should I just self-destruct then?” I almost retorted with a bitter humor. The thought of crumbling in front of her, offering myself as a sacrifice to her anguish, felt perversely tempting.
Her son, shoulders slumped under the weight of the woman’s emotional meltdown, his own grief shoved to a backseat, simply shook his head compassionately at me. His apology, whether for his mother’s behavior or for my being plowed over by her words, hung heavy in the air.
The air crackled with her sudden curiosity. “How’s your daughter?” she asked, her voice like a spark.
“Great!” I barked.
Leaving a house of worship should be an act of renewal, a shared understanding that even in the face of darkness, there’s a flicker of light, a whisper of hope. But this woman, she seemed to believe the very walls of the church were a shield, a fortress against the inevitable.
As I settled into the familiar embrace of my son’s car, my anger simmered. In a flash, I remembered: a leopard-print shirt, skin-tight pants, spike heels, the stage lights blindingly bright. My stand-up days, a time when humor was a shield, a weapon even.
So I channeled that young, brash 20s version of myself, the one who in the 80s faced hecklers and self-doubt with a joke and a wink.
“I don’t know how I survive, lady?” I imagined myself saying in a comedy routine, a mischievous glint in my eye. “Well, let me tell you, two days ago, I brought down the Christmas tree and old decorations. Post-tragedy stuff that had been dorment in the attic for four years, mind you. And revisiting the holiday time capsules attached to so many poignant memories, I couldn’t bare the thought of surviving one more day. And with people like you around, even the luckiest among us will feel driven to ask Santa for a stash of spiked eggnog to keep the holiday spirit bright. Cheers to surviving another season of crazy crazies, uh, I mean, Christmas cheers!”
Hardy har har.
Some say the funniest people are the ones who’ve hopped through fire. Now I understand why. But it’s not funny, really. It’s a wound, a gaping hole in the soul, masked by a thin veneer of laughter.
But this time, something felt different. A newfound strength, perhaps, or maybe a flicker of Denis’s own empathy, guided me through, while the barnacles of disdain began to loosen their grip. Forgiveness, once an abstract notion, morphed into a tangible practice. It wasn’t about condoning the actions of others; it was about releasing myself from the shackles of resentment.
I wouldn’t call it an overnight transformation, but a seed had been planted, nurtured by Denis’s example, and so many others like them over these years, along with my own mental capacity and willingness to open the door to compassion and follow the examples of my past mentors.
As I arrived home, the sunlight felt a little warmer, not just on my skin, but on my soul. The woman’s words still stung, but they also sparked a different kind of fire within me – a fire of defiance, of refusal. I wouldn’t let her define me, wouldn’t let her armor-plated judgment cast a shadow over my journey toward forgiveness. I would just see her as another soul trapped in a state of emptiness; her despair spilling over and soiling the lives of those around her.
The echo of “All grief is justified” resonated within. Her son, too, carried the weight of losing his father, yet I could discern in his compassionate gaze how he held space for empathy. And maybe, just maybe, that was the key.
Maybe, just maybe, I could carve out my own space, reclaiming the ability to laugh, not at the absurdity of life, but with it, despite it, even in the face of the woman and so many like her that I’ve encountered.
So, yes, the woman may have left a mark, but it won’t be a scar, it will be a tattoo. A reminder of the day that led me to decide to rise, to laugh, to forgive, to be in Denis’ league, and a leopard in the pews, not afraid to show my spots, not afraid to offer a hand to the woman drowning in her own inconsolable darkness.
Because in the end, isn’t that what true faith is? Not the absence of hardship and tragedy, but the unwavering belief that even in the cracks, even in the shadows, even in the face of the woman with the black eyes, we have the power to choose love. And that, my friends, is a story worth writing, a story worth laughing at, a story worth living — at least for one more day, just one more day.
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“Take a second mortgage on the house and get one of those … It’s a vanilla bean; they’re expensive.”
In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, Chef Jean-Pierre’s melodious French accent echoed through our house. My partner, Mark, was deeply engrossed in one of the chef’s YouTube videos, determined to master a recipe for crème brûlée, as a tribute to my late son Marshall, who loved the delicate custard dessert.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, and sweet, as well as curried, aromas blended seamlessly with the roasted turkey and simmering gravy, filling our home and mingling with the bittersweet scent of memories. As my daughter, her BF and my life partner and I gathered around the table, our hearts held a mixture of gratitude, sorrow and unwavering love.
This Thanksgiving, our fourth without Marshall and his wry humor and roll-up-your-sleeve helping attitude, was a poignant reminder of the profound impact he had on our lives for his brief 26 years on earth.
Inspired by last weekend’s conferences, I hoped to rekindle the warmth and joy that Marshall brought to our Thanksgiving gatherings by not only making one of his favorite desserts, but also his signature curry pumpkin coconut soup.
I had special-ordered white ceramic dessert dishes, only to be baffled by the sudden appearance of a crystal clear one in the sink that no one could account for. (Later, it was revealed to me that the dish was my dear childhood friend, Anna’s.)
Marshall Matters
This was the first holiday that I decided to set a place at the table for my son. To my astonishment, Marshall’s photo slid out from the cutlery, as if guided by an unseen force. Immediately, I knew to place the photo from 2008 front and center on his designated chair. The place setting was a simple gesture, and it brought a sense of comfort amid our grief.
The meal was a symphony of flavors and memories. It began with the creamy, aromatic soup that evoked Marshall’s infectious laughter and his love for curry in each sip and ended with the velvety crème brûlée, nesting in its delicately caramelized crust that reminded us of his sweet tooth and his insatiable curiosity for new culinary experiences. Marshall mattered, and so did my mom, dad and brother Michael. Although they were no longer physically present, their spirits were woven into the very fabric of the gathering.
As our stomachs filled so did our hearts. In the quiet moments between laughter and tears, there was a sense of peace, a gentle acceptance of the inevitable.
This past Thanksgiving, though tinged with sadness, served as a testament to the enduring power of faith, love and the resilience of the human spirit. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always light to be found, and that love’s embrace extends beyond the confines of mortality, like the lingering aroma of a cherished spice.
1 tablespoon olive oil 1 medium onion, finely chopped 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 tablespoon ginger, grated 1 tablespoon red curry paste 1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes 1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree 1 (13.5-ounce) can coconut milk 2 cups vegetable broth 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1 tablespoon lime juice, plus more to taste
Garnish(Optional):
Fresh cilantro leaves Pumpkin seeds
Shredded Coconut or Coconut milk Lime wedges
Instructions:
Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic, ginger, and curry paste and cook for 1 minute more, until fragrant.
Stir in the diced tomatoes, pumpkin puree, coconut milk, vegetable broth, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Using an immersion blender or a regular blender, puree the soup until smooth.
Stir in the lime juice to taste.
Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish, if you like, with cilantro, pumpkin seeds, shredded coconut, coconut milk and/or lime wedges.
Chef Jean-Pierre’s Recipe for Crème Brûlée in Honor of Marshall
Ingredients:
4 whole eggs ½ cup granulated sugar or ¼ sugar and 2 ounces white chocolate 12 ounces whole milk 12 ounces heavy whipping cream 1 pinch salt 1 tablespoon pure Tahitian vanilla extract or imitation vanilla extract
Equipment:
4 ramekins or small baking dishes Large saucepan Mixing bowls Whisk Fine-mesh sieve Culinary torch or broiler Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 325°F (163°C). Place the ramekins in a baking dish and set aside.
In a saucepan, combine the milk, cream, white chocolate and vanilla extract. Heat over medium heat until just simmering.
In a mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and salt until well combined.
Gradually whisk the hot milk mixture into the egg mixture until fully incorporated.
Strain the custard through a fine-mesh sieve into a clean bowl to remove any impurities.
Divide the custard evenly among the prepared ramekins.
Carefully fill the baking pan with hot water to reach about halfway up the sides of the ramekins.
Place the baking pan in the preheated oven and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the custards are set, but still slightly jiggly in the center.
Remove the ramekins from the water bath and let cool completely on a wire rack.
Refrigerate the crème brûlée for at least 2 hours, or preferably overnight.
Enjoy your Chef Jean-Pierre’s Crème Brûlée in honor of someone you love!
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WTF? (Where's the faith?) 