Jan

18

What I Miss Today

Often what I miss about our year away is that closeness as a family.

Yes, it could get annoying to be surrounded by my people 24/7. Claustrophobic even. But after we came home, life swept us back into its current. Though we make an effort to stay tight, I think a certain degree of separation is inevitable over the years. I suppose it’s natural to let nostalgia color that time. “Remember when we were together so often that going to the bathroom seemed like a little vacation? Yeah, I miss that.”

These days, Sam is heading into the tween years. Jim and I are glimpsing a new teenager attitude in our smiley-faced boy. It’s not offensive so much as it is a sign: Someday he will leave us and go his own way. Same with Zadie. It’s the natural progression of life, I suppose. But it can sure make a mama melancholy every now and then.

These photos were taken on a family hike just outside the village. One of the weird and wonderful adventures in Mrkopalj that is on my mind today—and not just because we got lost and thought we might have to eat someone in our party.

Posted by
Croatia / Family / family travel / Jennifer Wilson / Mrkopalj / Running Away to Home
| 0 comments
Dec

17

Get Signed Copies from Me

If you’d like a signed copy of the book for a holiday gift, just email me. jen@jennifer-wilson.com.Running Away to Home

Posted by
Jennifer Wilson / Running Away to Home
| 0 comments
Dec

17

I Love You So Much (With Food)

foodI just finished a segment on Iowa Public Radio with that awesome blossom Charity Nebbe. She and I and a passel of other guests discussed recipes we pass through the generations.

It was a really great talk, but I left wanting more.

Now, more than ever, we need to share the warmth and love of our old recipes, passed down with generosity of spirit by our grandmothers, our aunts, our neighbors, our dear friends.

Food can heal, and home-made food is a powerful peacemaker. Another guest, Beth Howard, is doing that right now, as she bakes pies for the grieving residents of Newtown.

Will you share with us what you’re cooking or baking this holiday season? How will you pass the love along this year, through the nurturing spirit of food?

And if you’re inspired, snap a pic of that recipe card with your cell phone. I’ll put it up here on the blog, too.

I’ll leave you with a quote from Judy Stark, another guest on today’s show:

“Serve these recipes with a smile, a servant’s heart, and unconditional love.”

Posted by
antique recipes / Croatia / Family / genealogy / Running Away to Home
| 3 comments
Dec

01

Let Us Remember Midget Wass

Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #6. Epitaph by @ammatte and  @KyleMunson. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

Here reposes Midget,

a curious poetic mix

of playfulness and wisdom

Yet she but three and six.— @ammatte

Daughter of Pearl the Bearded Lady and Ed the Sword Swallower: Midget Wass was a miracle just for being born the moneymaker act she was. It allowed them to stay in the show. They loved the girl, they loved each other, but mostly, they loved the work that allowed them to live freely and without shame.

Circus life was the only halfway comfortable one for freaks, what with Pearl’s scrubby face and all the holes in Ed’s neck. It was the only home they knew.

The circus train was Midget’s lullabye, and it was assumed by all that, though she was a wee thing, she’d end up with the handsome (and admittedly short) Rodney, son of Steve the Lion Tamer. Rodney and Midget played together mostly behind Pearl’s tent, which was pretty safe considering all the creeps hung out at the booby-show. But when they were over at the lion tamer’s, Pearl and Ed worried. That tiger wasn’t exactly tame. He was almost fully mature when they snatched him from the steppe. Plus, the circus wasn’t a big-dough business; the owners scrimped on meat.

It was terrible the day Rodney grabbed the ball and pushed Midget playfully, she’d fallen right through the tiger bars and into the sawdust. The lion moved like the flash he once was, and Midget lie in shreds.

They shipped what was left back home in a shoe box, trusting her granny (the one who carried the midget genes) would find a suitable resting place. Somewhere with a little space, where she could hear the trains at night.

The circus freaks didn’t judge Pearl and Ed for sending away their daughter for burial in a place they didn’t even know. Freaks don’t leave the circus without considerable trouble, and Midget was a circus baby. She knew, in that place beyond that the show had to go on without her.

Join me @WriterJenWilson Sunday Dec. 2 at 12pm-1pm EST (11 CST) and you’ll be featured on the Twitter Fiction Festival Page– four grave images per hour and you tweet the epitaphs. Use the #TwitterFiction hashtag. Let’s make stories together … and tweet the dead. 

Posted by
cemeteries / cemetery / collaborative fiction / graves / Running Away to Home / Twitter Fiction Festival / Uncategorized / writing
| 2 comments
Dec

01

Let Us Remember the Infant Albert

Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #5. Epitaph by @archman9. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

They said one had to go, that both wouldn’t make it, your momma died to, she just couldn’t take it.

“Ma’am, I’m very sorry,” I remember telling her. “There isn’t enough time.”

For a doctor, “I’m sorry” is shorthand for what you can’t say. Like the word “God” is shorthand for anything people can’t understand.

Really, there’s nothing of comfort for a woman who is carrying twins, and who can deliver only one. Like it was a race to the birth canal, and she had to pick a winner.

“You’ll have to choose,” I said. But she knew that.

I left the room to give her time. Left her in that room full of glass and sharp things.

Then she did choose.

“Oh, Lillian,” I sighed. I’d bought the stone myself. They hadn’t anyone else to look after them.

“What have you done?”

I put my hat back on, buttoned my coat.

“I’m sorry,” I said one more time, and turned to go.

Join me @WriterJenWilson Sunday Dec. 2 at 12pm-1pm EST (11 CST) and you’ll be featured on the Twitter Fiction Festival Page– four grave images per hour and you tweet the epitaphs. Use the #TwitterFiction hashtag. Let’s make stories together … and tweet the dead. 

Posted by
cemeteries / cemetery / graves / Running Away to Home / Twitter Fiction Festival / writing
| 0 comments
Dec

01

Let Us Remember Lora May Harry

Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #4. Epitaph by @karasw and @michelledaug. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

Lora May Harry was a teacher, a writer, a lover of books; tho sadly not fast enough to outrun evil crooks.—@michelledaug

They called her the lady in gray.

She swished to the country school every morning, wire-rimmed glasses on the tip of her sharp nose: she was a reader in a town of farmers. An air of class followed her everywhere. Unfortunately, no air of warmth or welcome, and she was alone when she returned from the schoolhouse to start her small warming fire to eat her supper of bread and cheese, maybe some tea on the weekends or a particularly cold day. But tea was rich, and a spinster was not.

Her buttons were so shiny, and her gray flannel dress pressed and tidy. Her grandmother willed the house to her, forseeing her smart little favorite lonely and poor. Because the young ones didn’t remember that, she’d gotten a reputation for being well-to-do.

When the men knocked, she answered.

They found nothing but a bookish woman and her tea. They took one and dumped the other in the Raccoon River. Those who remembered her teaching mourned. But mostly, people don’t remember much.

Still, on cold nights, when the bums build their trash can fires under the bridge, some say they still see Lora May in gray, tall like a post near the warming fire, a dainty flowered cup full of river water in her hand.

Join me @WriterJenWilson Sunday Dec. 2 at 12pm-1pm EST (11 CST) and you’ll be featured on the Twitter Fiction Festival Page– four grave images per hour and you tweet the epitaphs. Use the #TwitterFiction hashtag. Let’s make stories together … and tweet the dead. 

Posted by
cemeteries / cemetery / graves / Running Away to Home / Twitter Fiction Festival / writing
| 0 comments
Dec

01

Let Us Remember the Turnipseeds

Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #3. Epitaph by @Archman9. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

Our beloved parents, Momma had drowned, but Daddy was never found.—@Archman9

“David, we’re not putting a date.”

“We are. When she died, he died.”

“We don’t know that, brother.”

“We do, Alice.”

I sighed and looked around the funeral director’s office. It was a nice place. Comfortable. Everything mauve and smelling like violets.

Mama drowned that day they went boating. Sure. We saw her. Blue and gaping and weeds on her dress.

But the men never found Pop.

“We won’t put a date, David. He’s not found yet.”

“You think he survived that, sister? You think he really could? Live in reality, woman! Don’t be afraid to grieve him.”

I just felt it. The women in our family. I knew Pop’s burdens. Had heard those quiet and mincing commands Mama was always giving him. How he dreamed of owning a cabin and building a duck blind and putting up a deer stand up north where it was quiet and free and smelled like evergreens.

I looked at the funeral director. A single man, like me. I wondered if he, too, lived with his sister. Alone.

“They should have the same death date, sir,” I repeated.

The director nodded his head imperceptibly. Alice rose and minced from the room. I’d hear all about it. For the rest of my life, probably.

I looked out the director’s window. Swore I caught the flash of old Pop’s silver-tipped cane in the trees.

I rose and left too.

Comes a time when a man needs to drown his troubles and head north.

Join me @WriterJenWilson Sunday at 12pm-1pm EST (11 CST) and you’ll be featured on the Twitter Fiction Festival Page– four grave images per hour and you tweet the epitaphs. Use the #TwitterFiction hashtag. Let’s make stories together … and tweet the dead. 

Posted by
cemeteries / cemetery / collaborative fiction / graves / Running Away to Home / Twitter Fiction Festival
| 0 comments
Oct

01

A Scoop of Sweet

Lots of savory dishes have made their way onto the recipe waterfall of this blog as we’ve gotten ready for the paperback version of Running Away to Home, released tomorrow on October 2, including both antique recipes and travel photos.

How time has flown! Just one year ago, I was anxiously wondering what would happen when this book that had been my life for so long would be released for others to see. I hoped people would be kind to this third baby of sorts. I was entirely unprepared for all the good will, family connections and outpouring of love from readers that Running Away to Home would bring back to me.

Way back in Draft One, in Rovinj … probably a little cup up super-crank hot coffee just outside the frame here. Note all the terra cotta tiles outside the window. And the little orange post-its that would turn into plot points someday.

I thank everyone for such glad returns. I would like to thank you today with something sweet.

It’s time for a dessert, something Croatians are particularly good at.

This recipe was Josephine Golick’s. Anyone know if that’s the same Golick from Mrkopalj, the family that ran the store across the street from my family on Novi Varos? I’d love to know.

Enjoy this funky little dish with hot coffee on a crisp fall morning as the leaves are turning. Here’s how you do it: Put Sterc in your favorite bowl and set in the middle of the table, scooping up spoonfuls and dipping in your coffee or milk.

Love to all of you!

CRUMBED COFFEE CAKE (STERC) by Josephine Golick and Delores Sisul

1 c sugar                                                                      1 ¼ c Crisco

3 eggs                                                                           1 c milk

½ t salt                                                                        1 t baking powder

3 1/2 -4 c flour                                                           1 t vanilla

 

Measure flour and baking powder. Set aside. Cream shortening and sugar, add vanilla and salt. Add eggs and beat until well blended. Add flour and milk alternately, beating well until dough forms a sticky ball and holds its shape.

In a medium hot pan, 10- or 12-in skillet, melt ½ c Crisco. Add dough and start chopping and turning at a steady pace until dough becomes of crumb consistency (your preference of fine or medium-sized crumbs). Watch dough carefully while constantly chopping or turning so it doesn’t get too brown. Lower heat if necessary. About 35-40 min.

Posted by
antique recipes / Mrkopalj / Running Away to Home
| 3 comments
Sep

24

Soon It Will Be the Season for Making Sausage.

Seventh in a series of antique family recipes—from myself and others—celebrating the paperback release of Running Away to Home on October 2, which will include recipes from the village and photos of our journey. 

Drazan’s smokehouse. He’s boiling head cheese in that kettle.

We ate some version of sausage or bacon at most meals in Mrkopalj. Drazan Horacek had his own smokehouse—Mario helped make it, and we wish they’d come to the States and build one for us—and he’d smoke hams and prosciutto and boil head cheese in there after the November pig slaughtering weekend. I had to ease off the meat for a while there, because on our tight budget I couldn’t afford new pants.

However, now that we’re home, and my YMCA membership is again up and running, I’m back on the meat train.

Here’s a recipe for making your own fresh kielbasa. It’s surprisingly easy. You can either get a sausage stuffing kit (which you can use for your spring zelodac, too) or cut a 2-liter bottle in half for a makeshift stuffer.

Any other tips from those who have made sausage out there?

 

FRESH KIELBASI by Helen Bubenyak

4-5 lbs pork shoulder

1 T salt

1 ¼ t pepper

1 t marjoram

2 cloves garlic, chopped very fine

½ c water

Grind meat and add remaining ingredients. Blend well and put into casings. To cook, barely cover with water and simmer for 1 ½ hours.

 

Making blood sausage at Zjelko and Andjelka’s house.

 

Sausage making day in Mrkopalj. Always first weekend in November.

 

Drazan getting the prosciutto and ham ready.

 

Hooves!

Posted by
antique recipes / Croatia / MEAT / Mrkopalj / Running Away to Home
| 3 comments
Sep

13

Recipes You Don’t Cook: An Art Project

I'd like a crack at those bread and butter pickles, Mrs. Clinkenbeard.
Sixth in a series of antique family recipes—from myself and others—celebrating the paperback release of Running Away to Home on October 2, which will include recipes from the village and photos of our journey. This post comes from Jeneane Moody, mom of Zadie’s BFF, and good friend.
          Since my family has no real culture or ties to our roots, I am not really able to respond to your request for old family recipes in a way that links to family ancestry in the spirit of your book. (Sad, I know).  Still, I love the concept and am sharing a photo in case you need any visual fodder for the project.
          It’s a collage I made of index cards from my grandma’s recipe box, all in her handwriting, which makes them priceless to me. The cards are under glass on a serving tray that leans against the wall on a shelf in my kitchen where I see it every day.

I’d like a crack at those bread and butter pickles, Mrs. Clinkenbeard.

          When we were sorting through my grandparents’ house following their deaths, I grabbed several index cards from her recipe file which embodied Belva Clinkenbeard, the homemaker. I don’t have a personal memory of most of them; however, many are a perfect snapshot of a time and place that make me smile.
          While I have yet to make the “Original Maxon Manor Orange Rolls” or “Des Moines State Fair Ice Cream,” I could. Maybe 2012 is the year that I put together “Mom’s Christmas Punch,” which starts off with four bottles of Burgundy and serves in Grandma’s punch bowl set (which has never seen real action and just sits in my dining room hutch).
          Some of my favorite recipes are not for human consumption but rather are instructions for homemade cleaning elixirs that include a great deal of sudsy ammonia. One that holds a special place in my heart is her potion for deterring animals from grazing in her beloved flower garden. The secret ingredient is urine, and my sisters confirm with a smile the memory of a jar of urine (donated by Grandpa) in the back of the refrigerator, clearly labeled and at-the-ready to be put to work in the garden. I have never washed and starched a set of curtains, but I am equipped with the necessary information should the occasion arise.
          I love that you are putting these together and will definitely check out what you are collecting and sharing. (Note from Jen: Keep those recipes and ideas coming, friends. This is fun!)
Posted by
antique recipes / Family / genealogy / roots travel / Running Away to Home
| 3 comments
© Copyright Jennifer Wilson
WordPress Development by HTML Marketing