Crème de la Crème Brûlée

Posted on November 28, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Angels on Earth, Courage, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Depression, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, humor, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living on through Food, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Mental Health, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Recipes for Life, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sibling Death, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Support Group Resources, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability, What you resist persists

“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.)

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.

Curry Pumpkin Coconut Soup in Honor of Marshall

Ingredients:

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!

Losing the Best Generation: A Tribute to My Dad — and Others!

Posted on September 26, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, hope, illness, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Parent's Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Unsung Heroes

Last week, after I wrote about Harry and his sad death, my dear fellow blogger Karla’s comment really resonated with me when she wrote, “Only to have known Harry…we’re losing the best generation.”

Her comment made me think not only about Harry, but also about my dad, whose birthday was yesterday. He passed away in 2000, but if he had lived, he would have turned 119! After thinking about my dad, his barber, Tony, came to mind, because it occurred to me how he also fit into the “best generation” league.

I’ve mentioned before that even though my dad didn’t have a formal education under his belt, he was the smartest man I ever knew. Wise beyond words. He always told me that I would understand things long after he was gone, and he was right. Between my personal grief and my entrance into the final chapter of life, my perception has widened, and it feels as if I am comprehending the world in a deeper, wiser way, just as my father had said I would one day. That being said, as I pondered these old-timers, a realization dawned on me about Tony, but before I go into that, I have to give a bit of a background.

My clean-shaven dad was also a hair fanatic. He never lost his hair, but, instead, it seemed like someone had poured Miracle-Gro into it. Ninety percent of the time, or maybe even more, his barber Tony gave him a number 2 buzz cut. The other cuts were Marine flat top cuts that made him look as if a runaway lawn mower had zipped over the top of his head. My dad didn’t ask for that style specifically, but I think Tony gave him the style just to break things up and make things interesting.

Whenever my dad took my young son to the barbershop in his old jalopy, he always got the same type of number 2 buzz cut for him. I’m sure his grandfather’s (Gido’s) influence led my son to continue the tradition of the number two buzz cut after adolescence, which he cut himself to save money.

Gido was frugal too, actually cheap. He never gave Tony more than three dollars cash for a haircut. My dad had decided that was what his haircut was worth, regardless of inflation. Period. No tip. No nothing. No raise either, even after 20 years, maybe more, of going to Tony’s on a weekly basis.

Before my dad died of emphysema, he was frequently admitted into the ER and then the hospital. There was no time for his traditional buzz cut even though in less than a month’s time, his wired hair stood up and performed endless rows of jumping jacks.

I always picture his team of nurses, running their fingers through his pure white hair, saying, “Your hair is beautiful.”

To my dad, though, his hair was a mess, out of control and unruly. Every time we were about to call Tony to come and cut my dad’s hair, a medical crisis interrupted our plan. Stubborn Dad wouldn’t let anyone else cut into his white mane, no matter how high the strands stood in attention.

It wasn’t until after my dad died that we called Tony to cut his hair one last time. We did it in honor of our dad, who was so adamant about his clean-shaven face and buzz cuts. How could we allow mourners to come and see him in his open casket when his hair was the opposite of what he, and everyone else, loved?

I was so wrapped up in the wake and funeral and losing my dad that I never formally thanked Tony, nor had I seen him ever since. But suddenly, after reading Karla’s comments about how we are losing the best generation, it brought to mind my dad and then Tony, and I started to see the light, wondering how it must have felt for Tony to leave his barbershop, tools in hand, travel to a funeral home and approach the casket where my dad was laid out in his best suit, which he had bought for the occasion long before he was even ill.

I’m sure there were plenty of plugs in the wall to connect his shaver, because even though my dad had always shaved himself, Tony was willing to do it. In addition, his hands must have been shaking as he held his scissors. Sure, he could do a buzz cut in his sleep, but how could he concentrate on doing it on a corpse? Had he even seen a corpse before? Additionally, how could he focus on the task at hand when burdened with grief? Looking at my dad’s face must have flooded him with two decades of memories, recalling the curmudgeon of a man he loved unconditionally despite his cheapness. My dad was the only customer who got away with paying three dollars for a haircut during all those years, while the barber still gave him a smile and a lollipop for his grandson.

It wasn’t about money or the bottom line. The bottom line back then was about humanity, humility, and never bottoming out of character while holding onto dignity, doing the virtuous thing even if it felt morbid. They were men of faith who had faith and hope in simple things like hard work and doing the right thing.

It’s easy to picture my dad, Tony, and Harry, too. Members of the best generation that you could count on because they made you feel like you counted. We ARE losing the men and women of the best generation, but their legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew them.

Thank you, Tony, your act of kindness and compassion in giving my dad one last buzz cut is a reminder of the power of human connection, even in death. You reminded me of the importance of doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world, even in the midst of sorrow.

Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how age widens perception, like a zoomable flashlight, and helps us to see not only the dirt and debris in life, but also the fairy dust.

Mundane Mondays

Posted on March 15, 2022 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, Courage, Crisis, Damage Control, Death, death of a child, Denial, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, illness, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Relationships, Safe Space, seasons, Sibling Death, sorrow, Soul Food, spiritual, Struggles, Swamp of the soul, Total Control, transparency, Turmoil, Veterans, Vulnerability

_{Photo by Max Vakhtbovych on Pexels.com}

Twenty years ago on March 8th, the towering rustic pine did not diminish my brother’s six-foot tallness underneath it. Alongside Mike, the sunshine glistened on the natural cork color of his Labrador mix, KO. The initials stood for “knockout.” In boxing, “a knockout (KO) is when a boxer stays down for a count to 10 from the referee, at which point the boxer loses the match to his opponent.” My brother borrowed the initials to name his dog, but they stood for a different kind of “knockout” — extremely attractive, striking, beautiful.

The tree on my property that framed KO and my brother together for the last time before my brother was gone did not weather the harsh winters and was beyond repair. I delayed the inevitable yard work for five years. Last spring, I finally hired tree removal professionals. I avoided watching the process and sought refuge in the kitchen on the other side of the house.

“Crack! Thump!” The fierce sounds cut through my iPod’s blaring music. After the tree fell and pounded its finale into the good earth, I stopped the music and soaked in the silence. In the sunlight’s stream of dancing dust particles, stillness, sadness, the mundane morning movement of the kitchen intermingled with the refrigerator’s hum. The digital clock’s glow. The overhead light’s buzzing whisper.

Two decades earlier on that ordinary Friday, March 8th, I walked into my kitchen. KO greeted me with an electrified wagging tale and slobbering mouth. Mike, bent in the corner, tinkered with the electrical socket. It was my brother’s modus operandi to drop by and randomly “fix” things. Many of the things he fixed, in fact, didn’t need fixing. A natural-born engineer, he loved to repair, rewire and rework household gadgets.

This time, like a kid opening a bag of early Easter chocolate eggs, rainbow-colored jellybeans and marshmallow Peeps, he beamed when he revealed a handful of brand-new gadgets.

“Wireless phone jacks! They go right into the power outlets. You just plug them in and you can have phones in every room now!” he explained.

Mike sounded as if he had just discovered a new cluster of stars in the galaxy, and I did not have the heart to tell him we didn’t need phones in every room nor did we have the money to purchase them.

As the afternoon waned, we roamed through the rooms testing the wireless jacks one final time. He promised me he would return with additional ones. I followed him and KO outdoors.

We were both raised Catholic. We never discussed religion, but for some strange reason I asked him if he had gone to confession during lent. Catholics are required to receive the sacrament of reconciliation or confession once a year and lent is “an especially penitential season.”

“No,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone as if he were reminding me that it was just another Friday afternoon. Suddenly, I realized he had not been a practicing Catholic for decades. He had escaped our Catholic upbringing without the slightest indication of guilt, remorse, regret or fret. He was who he was, an independent person who was not influenced by anyone or anything. I admired him for that, and that is when the pine tree framed him and KO permanently in my mind.

Two days later in my kitchen, poring over my Market Day order that I picked up at the children’s elementary school, Brother Paul called from my mother’s house. I heard her cries in the background. He broke the news calmly, “Mike’s in the hospital. He had a stroke.”

“Stroke? No way.”

We were about to enjoy a microwaved casserole with vegetables, a seamless dinner without guesswork or prep time that night. Counters clean. Floor washed. How could I have received this shocking news? Day after day, week after week, year after year, I made it a point to fold my family into the safety of complete calm of mundane Mondays.

I got off the phone while my emotions melted like the frozen dinner left on the spotless counter. In the children’s bathroom, I retrieved the TUMS bottle that Mike had left behind on his last visit. My brother suffered from acid reflux all his life and always carried TUMS.

“He’ll be back. He needs his TUMS.” I pep talked myself until March 18 in 2002, when I learned of his death at the veteran’s hospital. Sixteen months after losing our dad to emphysema, I intercepted my brother and mom at the hospital’s elevator, forced to break the unbearable news.

Since 2000, after my dad died, my family’s fate is a permanent eclipse season.

TUMS, phone jacks, easy-to-prepare frozen dinners, no matter how tidy things are, even on spring’s cusp, I cannot shake death’s dirt off my heels. The images of Russia’s invasion in Ukraine brings the reality front and center, an attempt to dissimilate mundane Monday’s electrical circuit.

Fortunately, it isn’t a total solar eclipse. In the remaining light, faith illuminates our path. We reckon with our fate, one that is without a clear sense of control or direction. We muster enough strength to limp along on unsteady feet, consume the quiet circumfluent air, dependable light bulbs overhead.