Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Grandmother’s Ornaments are Still Hanging Around

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grandma's ornaments
Made by My Grandmothers

Decking the hall and trimming the tree are annual rituals I prefer to do alone. For almost four decades, I’ve gently unpacked the ornaments and centerpieces while playing my favorite music. Bing makes me happy with “White Christmas,” and the effervescent “Sleigh Ride” guarantees a jolly mood. But by the time Frank sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” I usually grab some of the wrapping tissue and wipe a few tears. I’m just a sentimental sap because “next year all our troubles will be out of sight.”

After all the festivities and hullabaloo are over, packing the decorations is a bittersweet experience best fortified with a glass of Cabernet, a plate of leftover fudge, and one last time with nostalgic Christmas music. I’m okay until Sandi Patti sings “Bethlehem Morning” and then I usually sit helpless on the floor surrounded by stray ornaments, a lost lamb from the Nativity set, and a cracked nutcracker while holding a scratched ball that says “Baby’s First Christmas 1980.”

The melancholy dilemma is brief, and I gulp the wine, gobble the fudge, and change the music to “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves followed by “Beautiful Day” by U2. I’m hollering “It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away” as I throw the last string of lights into the box and tape it for another 11 months. Depression averted for another year.

Part of my Santa collection.

This year I reminisced about my grandmother’s handmade ornaments given to me more than 30 years ago. Both my grandmothers were sturdy, stoic farm women. They used their hands to mold dough, make soap, sew and mend clothes, milk cows, and create Christmas ornaments. My paternal grandmother’s eyesight was failing in her last years, but she managed to thread yard around plastic patterns of Santa and Mrs. Claus. My maternal grandmother’s fingers were bent from years of hard work, but she tatted and crocheted intricate snowflakes and starched them for ornaments, each one different, each one made with love.

My grandmothers died decades ago, and I’ve only recently truly appreciated their gifts to me. They were widows, living on Social Security payments, and their quiet goodness was often overlooked. They didn’t know what to do with their noisy, spirited granddaughter, but they continued to give simple gifts from their hearts. I’m humbled when I reflect on their gentle gestures. This year, I wrapped their ornaments in the good tissue.

Now I’m a grandmother, and I hope I can be a good example to the little giggling girls that have come into my life. I want them to have the essential qualities of generosity, honesty, productivity, and joy. And if the music of their life is making them sad, I hope they get up and change it. Their great-great-grandmothers would approve.

 

 

Did the Shepherds Laugh?

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shepherds

I have several Nativity sets of various sizes and enjoy including them every year in my Christmas decor. For 15 Decembers, my children arranged the sturdy but beautiful pieces on the main set. Now their children design the scenes with the same creative concentration. As the family gathered to feast and celebrate this Christmas, my 7-year-old granddaughter carefully moved every animal and character until she was satisfied with the arrangement. Then she asked a serious question.

“Did the shepherds laugh?”

I scrambled to think of an answer and came up with, “Of course they did. After all the little sheep were asleep the shepherds sat around the campfire and told stories and laughed. The same thing happens when your family goes camping.”

I thought that would suffice, but second-graders are known for asking multiple questions just to see if adults can provide multiple answers before their heads explode.

“Have you ever seen a shepherd?”

My mind raced to think of any shepherds I could remember. The first thought was of the scene in The Godfather movie when Michael Corleone is banished to Sicily to live among the shepherds so he can escape being murdered by the mafia. That scenario wouldn’t work. Then I thought of my Basque friends. Perfect.

“Yes, I know some funny shepherds,” I answered. I could tell she was pleased, but she waited for more details. “Idaho has a large population of Basque people,” I said. “Many of them raise and tend sheep, and all the Basque people I know are happy. They love to get together to dance and sing and eat delicious food, and of course, that brings laughter.”

She turned back to the Nativity scene and moved the shepherds closer to the manger. I quietly moved away, grateful that I had avoided the shameful disappointment of not having an answer. But, it was too late.

“Tutu,” she called. “Did Baby Jesus laugh?”

I couldn’t remember any verses or stories about Baby Jesus laughing, so I briefly considered the easy excuse of saying, “Go ask your mother.” But, I decided to answer the question with a question.

“What do you think?”

She took no time to ponder but quickly declared, “Of course he did.”

That ended our Q and A session and she ran off to play with her cousins. I glanced over at the Nativity set because I thought I heard a soft giggle. Maybe I imagined the sound because of the fine wine the adults had been sharing. Or, was it something else? I needed to go ask a child.

Recipe for Pecan Pie and Keeping it Real

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M beater

 

Pecan pie with real whipped cream has little nutritional value, but it makes my family happy and I’ve made the same recipe for the past 30 Thanksgiving feasts. An added pleasure is to see the joy on my granddaughter’s face as she licks the beaters, just as her mother did decades ago.

I use Dear Abby’s Pecan Pie recipe with real whipped cream. If you’re going to blow 3,254 calories on a pie, you might as well top it off with the good stuff. Besides, have you read the ingredients found in the most popular frozen whipped topping?

Cool Whip Original is made of water, hydrogenated vegetable oil, high fructose corn syrup, skimmed milk, light cream, sodium caseinate, natural and artificial flavors, xanthan, guar gums, polysorbate 60, sorbitan monostearate, and beta carotene. The aerosol version also contains nitrous oxide as a propellant. Why would you want to give this to your family?

For perfect whipped cream, all you need is a carton of whipping cream, a splash of real vanilla, some real sugar, and a mixer. Refrigerate a metal bowl for a few hours and then whip the cream for several minutes with the mixer. As you mix, add the vanilla and sugar. Beat until it’s thick enough to smother a piece of pie and then give the beaters to the kids and watch their happy faces. And, there’s not a lick of sorbitan monostearate to be found!

Here is Dear Abby’s Pecan Pie recipe:

One pie shell for 9” pie – make your own or find one in your grocer’s refrigerated section.

In a large bowl, mix together:

1 Cup of white corn syrup

1 Cup of dark brown sugar

1/3 Cup melted butter

3 eggs, mixed with fork

1+ Cup of pecans (I always add more pecans)

Splash of vanilla

Pinch of salt

 

Sprinkle both sides of pie dough with a bit of flour and place in a 9” pie pan. Cover edges with foil so they won’t burn. Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees, removing foil 10 after 35 minutes.

Cool and serve with real whipped cream.

For brave cooks who want to make pie crush from scratch, here’s Grandma Evelyn’s recipe for a 9” pie:

Combine 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/3 cup oil. Mix with fork until crumbly. Add 2 tablespoons ice-cold water. Mix lightly. Form into a ball and roll out on waxed paper. Lift paper over pie pan, make fluted edge, fill, and bake. To bake unfilled, prick bottom of crust and bake 450 degrees for 10 minutes.

This Thanksgiving season, I’m grateful that my family came together to share laughter, hugs, and good food. We continued important traditions for our children and their children, and we ended the festivities with pecan pie and whipped cream. Now, I have a year to work off the calories so we can do it all over again. Just keeping it real.

 

 

Midlife Cabernet: Learning from the World’s Great Chefs

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Making Sand Pies  (Click on this cute video)

elaine italy cook tour crop (2)           brooke sand box crop (2)

A few years ago, I traveled on a cooking tour of Italy and learned how to make authentic dishes with acclaimed Chefs Antonia and Giulianna at the Villa Serego Alighieri near Verona. The property, surrounded by vineyards, olive trees, and fruit orchards, has been in the family of the great Italian poet Dante Alighieri (Dante’s Inferno) since the year 1353. This week, I learned how to make sand pies from chef Baby Boo in her parent’s back yard surrounded by a tree fort, miscellaneous mismatched shoes, and assorted toys. She has inspired creative recipes since 2012.

I treasured both experiences, but I must admit that the concoction presented by Baby Boo was less fattening and easier to fix than the elaborate Tuscan Cappelletti we made with fresh pasta, artisan cheeses, and red sauce that required several hours to prepare. The distinct advantage of the Italian cuisine is that the meal was paired with a luscious Amarone wine. The sandbox pies only need water and a towel. And, my son and daughter-in-law gently suggest I forgo wine while I’m tending their precious daughter.

Watching my wee granddaughters at play brings moments of delight just as enjoyable as a grand feast on a linen-covered table set in a European orchard. The little girls continually erupt with laughter as they create spontaneous inventions: a large scarf becomes a baby carrier for a stuffed owl, a wooden fort transforms into a sailboat navigating the open sea, and a sprinkler on top of a sheet of plastic causes a giggle-factory. Rumor has it that Tutu (the name they call me) is good for telling tale tales and bringing real cookies, so I’m included in the fun.

The little girls enjoyed this summer outside – camping in the Idaho Mountains, splashing on the Oregon Coast, and boating on an alpine lake. They brought along their parents just to drive and pay for everything. The girls also know how to do a Google search to download an app and store it in their personal folder on my cell phone, but they are just as happy exploring the world without electronics. For that, I am grateful.

On another cooking tour to South Africa, I learned how to use exotics spices to duplicate the rich and flavorful food of Cape Town with Chef Cass Abrahams.  She taught the value of fresh herbs and spices, including cinnamon, garlic, cloves, cardamom, nutmeg, fennel, mustard seed, saffron, turmeric, curry, and ginger root. My granddaughters are just as dedicated with their creations and prefer to mix light sand with dirt, pebbles, twigs, stray bugs, and water from the hose to form a paste that is almost impossible to remove from under their fingernails. But, their devotion to their art is just as serious as that of the grand chefs mastering their cultural cuisine. I can only smile with gratitude when handed either a grilled kebab marinated in garlic and chutney sauce or a sloppy mud pie.

The vibrant chefs I’ve met love to cook, and their exquisite recipes are their gifts to their families, to the community, and to the world. They celebrate the noble feast and know that life is better when breaking bread with friends. My granddaughters have taught me the simple pleasure of making sandbox pies and mud cakes. They, too, share an exuberant appreciation for creative play and wholesome activity. They nourish my soul.

 

 

Midlife Cabernet: Bad Grandma

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My two granddaughters, ages 6 and 4, came to play with me while their parents were out of town. The first ten minutes were splendid. No screaming, no urgent demands for gourmet food, and no poop on the dining table. Then all hell broke loose. Mr. Bill and the Waldorf doll opened the Crown Royal, the Potato Head cowboy seduced Ms. Carrot with chocolates and wine, and the runaway bunny ran away but his mommy didn’t care.

The parents were gone less than an hour before the playroom resembled the aftermath of a violent tornado, a chaotic cavalcade of cups and carving knives covered my kitchen floor, and a bag of reward treats mysteriously disappeared. I considered calling the airport to stop their airplane, but the older child had taken my phone, locked herself in the bathroom, and was downloading game apps while the younger girl climbed the plant stand to pull off and eat all the leaves from my prized Christmas cactus. I glanced at my watch: only five hours until bedtime. Could I endure?

We played for hours and made crafts, read books, and enjoyed a tea party with the teddy bears. After dinner, we all got soaked as I attempted to give them a bath. The evening ended with story time and rocking the little one. As they snuggled into bed, I turned on the lullaby channel on the Pandora station and expressed gratitude that no blood had been shed. Studley slipped me a glass of wine and we quietly celebrated. Day one, mission accomplished.

Over the next few days I followed my daughter’s two-page, detailed schedule with instructions for medicine dosages, organic and gluten-free foods, pre-school times, and where to catch the bus for elementary school. Occasionally I can follow directions so both children were fed, dressed, and transported to the appropriate places, giving me time to go home and stand in a hot shower until my eye stopped twitching.

By the fourth day, playtime was less structured, dessert came first, and I lost my daughter’s instructions. My activities probably wouldn’t be sanctioned by the local mommy clubs, but we laughed ourselves silly telling knock-knock jokes and staging antics with the toys. Who knew the Waldorf doll was such a scamp?

(Note to my daughter: None of this is true. Well, the part about poop on the dining table really happened, but the person involved and the table have been cleaned.)

By the end of our time together, we had listened to the theme song “Let it Go” from the Disney movie Frozen approximately 836 times. The song was more than three minutes long, so it provided the perfect bribe and distraction for combing through wet hair. That tactic was nicer than having them bite on pencils while I untangled the mess.

The parents returned and brought me fresh bread and fine wine from San Francisco. I really should reward them because it was a great time and I love those little girls with all my heart. Now the house is way too quiet, but I’ll adjust. So until next time, Pumpkin and Sweetie Pie, keep singing and don’t forget that Tutu has more stories to tell. You’ll never believe what those naughty teddy bears did today!

Today’s blog was fueled by a vibrant and luscious 2008 Black Tears Malbec from Argentina. At $90 a bottle, it should be saved for special occasions, such as when the house is quiet and you don’t have to wear pajamas. Join the wine club at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle and it’s only $60 a bottle. You’ll save $30 to help pay for shock therapy to get the Disney song out of your head!

Midlife Cabernet: Posing for Pumpkin

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luciya art_0_1Pumpkin, my darling six-year-old granddaughter, came over for the weekend, and I promised her mother I wouldn’t open any wine until after everyone was asleep. However, I didn’t promise anything about sweet treats, so we soon enjoyed a tea party with a few teddy bears and a pink platter piled with chocolate chip cookies. Everyone had a glorious time, except the bears weren’t hungry so we ate their share. Later we settled down for some serious art projects. I can’t draw a box without a stencil, probably because I’m clumsy, easily distracted, and have no artistic talent. Pumpkin is quite the little artist and she created a magical scene complete with rainbows and butterflies before I had sketched a crude replica of a skull and some bones. She won that round. Then she told me to sit still so she could draw me. Of course, I sucked in my stomach and looked dignified. Her rendition resembled a young woman with thick hair, happy eyes, and a smooth complexion. She captured my chubby cheeks, but without the wrinkles. And, I can live with having only one nostril. I loved the artwork and we immediately taped it to my refrigerator. “Thanks for the artwork,” I gushed as only a grandmother can. “I like your vision of me.” “I think you’re funny,” she said. Then she started another project. As she worked on the new production, I contemplated her comment. She’s only been alive for six years, so what does she know about human traits? What does she see in this older woman who gives her extra dessert, tells tall tales, and allows her to stay up late? Does she comprehend that I am her mother’s mother? It’s all too complex for my aging brain. But I’m just tickled princess-pink that she thinks I’m funny. My grandmothers were not humorous. They were serious farm women who worked from sunrise to sunset and then sat down to work some more. I vaguely remember helping them in the kitchen or picking vegetables and berries from their gardens, but there was not much laughter. Not even a simple giggle. Life was hard for my grandmothers. So, here I am at the table with a precocious, precious little girl who comes over with her little roller bag, her worn blankie, a book of craft projects, and her spunky attitude. She arrives with confidence and isn’t shy about saying what she wants and doesn’t want. I know she will shine in the coming years, and I want to be there to witness how she climbs over obstacles and tackles life. And as she grows older, I hope she’ll still come over for cookies. I’ll try to be funny.