Some new traditions developed when we lived on the farm. The year was 1976, John and I were in year 7 of wedded bliss. Shannon was in kindergarten and Joshua had just turned 1. Of all the places we ever rented before buying a home, the 2 story farm house was one of the nicest. But also one of the most isolated. Hubs was working in Cedar Rapids which was about 40 miles away. This farm was several miles outside of Cascade, Iowa. In sticksville.

The farm house sat next to a smaller place (for the farmers hired hand), both houses surrounded by fields, a grove of fruit trees and swine. Lots of swine. And let’s not forget a nice herd of cattle and feral cats. All new to this townie. The pitiful driveway was so long and curvy, I could not see the gravel road from the house. About the loneliest I’ve ever been. Both our families lived 350 miles away. I would not have made a good pioneer woman, although I probably learned more during the 2 years on the farm than I have since. About lots of things.

We were close to destitute, the commute was killing us in more ways than the cost of gas, keeping our junker car running and John being gone 12 hours a day. I had no car so I was literally stuck. When I think about that now I almost panic. What would I’ve done had Shannon gotten sick at school? Couldn’t even go pick her up. I did have a couple good friends but they lived about 20 miles away. Dang. Heh, we were young and dumb.

I pushed Josh in his stroller everyday as we walked Shannon to the road to catch the school bus. I wore out 2 umbrella strollers because the drive way was one pothole after another and jutted with rocks the size of baseballs. If Joshua was napping when the bus was due my heart would start racing. I’d wait until the last second possible, slip out of the house, jog along the edge of the driveway getting smacked by cornstalks, but the terrain was more even. Encouraged Shannon to book it back to the house with me before some un-named, un-seen ne’er-do-well turned me in for leaving my child unattended.

It was at the farm where I really learned to cook and bake. There was nothing else to do with all my time besides the copious number of letters I wrote. For 2 years I never bought a loaf of bread. Yeast was my best friend. Cinnamon and caramel rolls, hamburger buns and dinner rolls were made as easily as a box of mac & cheese. I soon realized the more often you make something, the better you become at that task. I could ‘feel’ if the dough needed another half cup of flour by the texture. Of course there were consequences with this new found talent. Hubs and I each gained 20 pounds during our 2 year carb-fest. Homemade bread with butter, now there’s a meal in itself. When you add goulash, pot roast, spaghetti, well it wasn’t hard to see where exactly those extra calories were coming from. But my desire and dedication to become a better baker and cook became important to me as a woman, wife and mom. Huh. Strange days.

So while I was becoming an expert in the world of yeast breads, gorgeous fruit was ripening before my eyes in our tree grove. I asked Bob (the sadistic farmer who owned a thousand acres) if I could pick some apples? He said sure (he was nicer to me than he was to his wife, Mary Ann. Actually Bob was nicer to everyone than he was to her, and he really wasn’t very nice at all). Anyway, there were several varieties of apple trees, and I tried them all, my sights set on becoming a good pie baker.

Of all the apple trees, one really stood out. Wooing me like Adam & Eve in the garden of Eden. I can’t say for sure if it was a Granny Smith but it was a large, tart green apple. After I made the first pie, I realized it wasn’t quite sweet enough, so I increased the sugar amount by a quarter cup. Yes, that’s the ticket. My pie crusts however took a bit more time to perfect. Crusts were kinda tricky for me. Not enough flour on the counter and they’d stick, too much and they didn’t fold easily and would crack trying to slide it on the pie plate. We ate our way through some mighty unattractive pies 40 years ago. But like feeling the texture of bread dough, my hands knew when the texture was right for pie dough too. That last tablespoon of water might be too much one day or not quite enough the next. Fickle stuff. But I continued to bake and learn.

I remember discovering sometimes a brand name makes a difference. Back then, I don’t recall a lot of different brands, or very many of their own ‘store brand’ products in stores. I know there was Spry and Crisco for shortening, and you could buy lard, but that just sounded gross. (There are women who swear by using lard in their pie crusts, including my sister, but I never jumped on that bandwagon). I tried a couple different brands and was convinced Crisco made the best pie crusts, still feel that way today. Though to be brutally honest, I’m loathe to try something new this late in the game. I just stick with Crisco.

My Mom was a good cook and baker, though didn’t bake too often. She excelled with candies, Fudge, Penuche and Divinity. Also a 7-minute cake frosting which very much resembles divinity, (which I’ve always been hesitant to try). After Mom made a pie, she gathered up the leftover crusts bits. When rolling out a crust you make it a couple inches bigger than your pie pan, then trim it after it’s in the plate, leaving enough extra to fold under the plate edge and crimp (yes, with a fork). Thus you end up with quotation mark shaped pieces ranging from small scraps to some several inches in length. After the pie was out of the oven, Mom would takes these leftover dough bits, dab a bit of milk on them, then sprinkle sugar, and cinnamon on top and bake them. Almost better than the pie. For real.

After I mastered decent pie crusts, I made all these tiny scraps exactly the same way Mom did. And my kids loved them. (Me too). That all changed when Shannon had Landon 17 years ago, though it took me a couple of years to figure it out. Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has some allergies, so finding foods, especially treats became a challenge. One I embraced seriously. Always on the lookout for different ways to fix the foods he could have. And take care of his sweet tooth with something other than chocolate.

When Landon was still in preschool, Shannon would come to our house for a weekend of pie making during the fall. With 2 of us tackling peeling and pie crusting duties, it didn’t take long before we had a couple dozen cooling on the counters. The amount of leftover scraps (I find you can’t keep re-rolling pie crust dough-it gets tough, even though I’m a pretty good judge of pinching off just enough for tops and bottoms) was staggering. By this time the boys were grown and out on their own, so the fun of making all this extra sugary pie crusts was a moot point. And neither Hubs nor I needed more carbs when we were grazing through good sized pie wedges like we were prepping for a pie eating contest as serious contenders.

Since Ariana and Landon were along for the weekend, I decided to make some sweet crusts for them. Oh-oh. Looks like Landon had found something good, sweet and right up his alley. He loved them. Ate them as fast as he could until they were gone. Then asked for more. Instead of dabbing milk on top though, I switched to water. I dab milk all over my top pie crust, then sprinkle the top with sugar. As it bakes, the crust gets a bit shiny, crusty and sweet. I don’t know why I do this, just always have. Maybe Mom made pies this way. I think most people use an egg wash. I never jumped on that bandwagon either. Egg wash sounds gross.

That was the beginning. What had I started? Indeed. That little boy was possessed with pie crusts. Still is. Used to be the first thing he’d say as he walked in the house. “Got any pie crusts grandma?” But now he’s gotten sneaky about it. Because he had a little sister named Peyton who also likes pie crusts. And he doesn’t care to share. I supposed he feels somewhat entitled. Peyton loves chocolate. I usually make her a batch of fudge when they came for a visit. According to Landon, the pie crusts were just supposed to belong to him. It wasn’t like he had a dozen treat choices with which to indulge.

When they were kids, I thought Josh and Adam ranked near the top in their uncanny abilities to hide stuff-right out in the open. Most often the items in need of being stowed away from their brother’s view and memory were leftover food. I know, they were just a couple of nuts! The lengths they would go to, the time, and thought process. Masterminds-both of them. Spaghetti was the top vote getter. Their favorite supper and ANY LEFTOVER was well worth dying for. Ok, that’s maybe a stretch but they made hiding that leftover their main goal in life-to keep said leftover out of the mouth of their brother. Countless times when they were growing up I’d find a container, green with mold because they had hidden it so well, then promptly forgotten about it. That part wasn’t a priority though, as long as their brother didn’t get to eat it. I swear as God is my witness this is the gospel truth.

It’s no longer efficient or worthwhile to continue to use pie crust scraps. Whenever I’m making scratch pies, I simply dedicate the equivalent of 3 9” crusts for Landon’s treats. Roll out the crust in a large rectangle as if I was making a slab pie for a party of 50. Fold it, slide it on parchment paper and onto my biggest cookie sheet. Dab on the water, sugar, cinnamon, more sugar, then cut it in bar size pieces. Bake it for 15 minutes or so, let it cool and start filling his container.

Landon has taken hiding pie crusts to a whole ‘nother level, which is kind of odd because in truth he’s the only one who feels their life is not complete without cinnamon-sugar pie crusts. He might just be bordering on paranoia. If the family is here for a holiday, he rarely asks about crusts anymore. The sports jock saunters in and immediately heads downstairs to check out the freezers, if he doesn’t spot the 9 x 13 rectangular old Tupperware container on the counter. Landon then makes it his mission to ensure not one other person in this house gets nary a whiff of pie crusts. Landon’s hidden the container under beds, in cars, shoe boxes, outside, behind pillows on beds. He’s quite inventive. Every few minutes he’ll just appear, walking through a room, sporting a dusting of cinnamon and sugar. Chewing, smug and contented. Goofball kid, always playing his crazy gram…

We all have them. Personalized, unique to our upbringing, environment, fetish-whatever. In my head I own my quirks. They’re part of what makes me-me. But when I think about them realistically, I realize it would be very rare for someone else not to share what feels like it belongs to me alone.

I’ve never been a very good breakfast person. I need to be up for several hours before I’m hungry and feel like eating. I do better when we eat omelettes, waffles, pancakes or eggs for supper than in the a.m. Big breakfasts often feel too heavy, like lead in my stomach throughout the morning. If Hubs and I are out and stop to eat during the in-between time, mid-morningish-10 to 11:59 I always opt for lunch if given a choice. John will choose breakfast 95% of the time.

I go to work early, either 6 or 7. To squeeze all our infant room caregiver’s lunch breaks in during a reasonable time frame, someone has to go first-and it’s rather early. Since I get up about 4:30, I’m starving by mid-morning, my usual break time. I have my lunch packed in the fridge, ready to go the night before. Not once have I ever considered bringing something remotely associated with breakfast fare to work. Spaghetti, beef stew, chicken corn chowder, shrimp cocktail, shepherds pie, and on rare occasions a sandwich (not much of a sandwich girl either). While the smell may gross out those in the hallway while I heat up my leftovers at 10 or 10:30, I have no problem eating supper food with a Diet Pepsi at this early hour. I’ve been up for 5 hours, to me it’s lunchtime. And a miniature Hershey Bar for dessert if I’ve got nothing homemade to fulfill my sweet tooth craving.

It wasn’t until I had kids I realized cold cereals was their top choice for breakfast. Early morning television programs packed with commercials vying for my kids to pester me non-stop. Snap, Crackle, & Pop, Toucan Sam, Tony the Tiger, the Leprechaun hawking their wares. Available in containers the approximate size of one of the smaller Great Lakes. One might think this would last 3 normal sized growing kids a month. Yeah, try 2 days. Three days max. Their role model in this venture was their dad. Maybe not so much Shannon but definitely Joshua & Adam. Grab a bowl designated for holding a double batch of chocolate chip cookie dough, pour cereal for roughly 3 minutes, add a quart of milk and viola’. Three minutes later, lather, rinse, repeat. Another 3 minutes, well, you know the drill.

I always gave them choices. Occasionally making French toast or oatmeal. When instant oatmeal packets became the rage, they became a hot ticket item some mornings, requiring only water and a minute in the microwave, thus my ravenous kids had another choice. These packets came (probably still do) in several flavors with bits of dried fruit that bulked back up with the addition of hot water. The Van Berkum kids preferred apples and cinnamon. But never just one packet, at least 2, sometimes 3. Pre-sweetened cereals were a huge hit, Lucky Charms, Count Chocula (gag), Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Frosted Mini-Wheats (looks like a bale of straw, how un-appealing. John and Shannon used to fight over Frosted Mini-Wheats, and as adults have given each other boxes of it for Christmas over the years) plus Frosted Flakes (more on this one later). Still, all of them enjoyed Cheerios, Rice Krispies, Raisin Bran, Corn Flakes, Wheaties and the least appealing one-Grape Nuts (were they nuts? horrible stuff, looks like gerbil kibble). One weekend morning we might make waffles, pancakes or eggs, but the majority of mornings, cold cereals were preferred.

So back to this odd quirk of mine concerning breakfast foods. I didn’t grow up with boxed cereals in our house. I ate sliced bananas in a bowl with milk and sprinkled with sugar or Mom would peel and dice a couple of oranges in a bowl (sprinkled with sugar). Ruby red grapefruit, cut in half and placed in a small bowl. Mom took a knife, gently cutting between the pith and fruit all the way around, sprinkled the grapefruit with sugar. Using a spoon, I’d slide it down the side of each membrane section, then scoop up each tiny sweet bite. When the fruit part was gone, picked up the grapefruit half, tipped it sideways. Squeezed out the juice to fill my teaspoon a dozen times, then moving on to the next half. Oatmeal with milk & brown sugar or toast (not toasted too dark or it got tossed) & butter, topped with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. (I’m noticing a common thread here, might have something to do with sugar). And yes, I’ve strived to keep my breakfast traditions alive with my kids and grandkids. (Plus Hillbilly Bread, butter, sprinkled with a half inch of light brown sugar. But not for breakfast, this delicacy was more like dessert). And now the kids have to eat it on my whole wheat bread. Leveling the playing field for the brown sugar. Of course I have their best interest at heart.

OK, I’m ready to divulge my quirk. This one belongs to me and me alone because no one else is weird like me. Wrong. A couple of weeks ago at work I’m feeding 3 babies breakfast in low-riding high chairs. Moms bring their food which ranged from yogurt to oatmeal to a cut up bagel. So I’m doling out small portions of bagel bites to one, but feeding the yogurt and oatmeal kids, while carrying on a conversation with Angie (the other breakfast weirdo in the world). Ang and I are talking breakfast traditions. I mention I don’t eat cereal very often, but when I do it’s an ordeal. As I described the steps taken to eat the occasional bowl (or bowls, I’m getting there) of cereal a knowing look crossed her face. Good grief, there’s another one in the world! I’m not alone. Thanks Ang, or maybe I should say-sorry.

I only eat 2 kinds of cold cereal. Frosted Flakes and Cheerios. The bowl for my cereal resembles an antique individual salt bowl. About 2 inches in circumference, and holds approximately 8 Cheerios, 2 Tablespoons of milk and a quarter cup of sugar. Seriously. Yes. I’m. Serious. All ingredients must be in place, close at hand before the ice cold milk is poured or I have to toss the whole works and start over. There is no book to read, my ever present iPhone and iPad are oddly absent. I will not be distracted by phone calls, conversations or eye contact. There is now only one purpose in my life. To consume 8 Cheerios, 2 Tablespoons of milk and a quarter cup of sugar BEFORE THE CEREAL GETS SOGGY. These 3 steps will be repeated for approximately 10 minutes, which equals a normal size bowl of cereal and milk. Sugar part, maybe not so much. But once I start, it’s all about getting to the finish line. Eating only crunchy, crisp cereal, nearly frozen milk and a heaping helping of sugar. Yes, one must have goals in life. And no, I don’t eat Life cereal. It’s not on my approved breakfast list…

It was September, 2013. Our house in North Muskegon had been on the market for 6 months. Essentially we had been guaranteed a quick sale with a move most likely by Labor Day. Well that didn’t happen. We were already sorely disappointed, and didn’t have a clue it would be another 2 long, miserable years before we were finally able to move.

Ari 3 in the back of our North Muskegon house, 1994…

I had just retired from my Parish Visitor stint. Partly because we were moving, but the main reason was the rapidly rising death count on my watch. Couldn’t grieve more than a few days when I would lose another dear person from my long list. I had been losing an average of one person a month for a decade and it was taking a toll.

The pull to central and eastern Michigan was strong. Our whole family, 3 adult children, spouses, and 4 grandchildren lived within 50 miles of each other. Except for us. Now both retired, living in a too big, too expensive home on the lake, where we no longer wanted to be. We were 175 miles away from everyone we held dear.

Landon in junior high..

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) was in junior high and already making a mark in the basketball world with his uncanny skills of ball handling and shooting. Peyton, 9 was tuning up her skills on the dance floor, or singing in front of a crowd. Adam & Sarah needed help with caring for Graham, 4. Sarah was a full time student to become an RN and Adam was head chef at a ritzy restaurant in Ann Arbor. On the weekends Sarah was a waitress at another ritzy place to earn some extra bucks. Between Sarah’s Mom Karen, Hubs and I would take turns with her watching Graham on their busy work filled weekends. Newlyweds Josh & Erica had just purchased a lovely condo over-looking the Detroit River and Canada on the 24th floor, in downtown Detroit. We were driving 150-180 miles every weekend to visit, watch games, performances or stay with Graham. We loved it, just not all the driving. But our nice house remained un-sold. So we continued to drive. And drive.

Ari…

At this time, our oldest grandchild Ariana was a great concern. In her early 20’s she had recently suffered a major heartbreak. She was in a funk and rightly so. This might be one of those times in your life where you either fight or flee. An opportunity was presented to her and she grabbed it with both hands. An acquaintance needed help for 6 to 8 weeks with her 2 children, 5 & 1. Would Ari be willing to live with them during this time? The mom Bobbi, an American was in the Air Force and transitioning back from her deployment. Her husband Paolo was in the Italian army, training for his deployment. Did I mention they lived in Anzio, Italy? Ari took a leave from college & work and flew to Italy to nanny the kids (and escape). Make the return of one parent and departure of the other easier. And think about her own future. Away from the pressure and hurt.

Probably need to tell you about Romeo here. (No, not the low-life-pond-scum-asswipe-dick who had hurt Ariana so deeply). Romeo was Ari’s new kitten. Jet black, cute and cuddly, he helped Ari with her massive hurt heart. But keeping the kitty at Shannon’s while she was in Italy was out of the question since Landon has animal allergies. Shannon went to Ari’s apartment every couple days to feed, water, and play with Romeo, but poor kitty was alone a lot. Enter the super grands. Ari had a great apartment in a large complex in Jackson. Part of a 100 year old abandoned prison building converted into apartments. It boasted 1 foot thick brick walls. And Ari’s apartment was empty (except for Romeo) for the next 6 weeks.

Handy and helpful for us plus the kitty. If Shannon and Tracey needed help to chauffeur kids here or there, or it was our turn to watch Graham for a couple of nights, we’d just get Ari’s apartment key from Shannon and spend a few days. Her apartment had a TV, a decent queen sized bed and a kitchen so we didn’t have to eat out the whole time we stayed. Plus John was warming up to the kitty. That might be a stretch. John actually liked Romeo, but there were some issues.

Romeo didn’t feel it necessary to move out of the way when John was walking where Romeo had put down roots for the moment. When Romeo did move he was either trying to join John in the restroom, or sneak into the bedroom. If Romeo missed sneaking through the bathroom door, he’d sit by the closed door and meow, plus swipe his paw under the door a thousand times like, “dude, you forgot me. You can’t do this on your own! I can help, honest.” We kept the bedroom door closed all the time, which stumped Romeo cause he had free reign when Ari was around. And had a highly prized sleeping nook near her head on a pillow all night long. This sudden freeze out miffed the kitty. So he made it his mission in life to sneak in the bedroom whenever the opportunity arose. But he quickly learned if he simply hopped on the bed like he owned it and had won a major battle, one of us would just snag him in our arms, haul him out of the room and close the door. Well shit.

When we were visiting and sharing Romeo’s space, if the bedroom door opened for a nanosecond, he’d zip through faster than the speed of light. But now instead of leaping on top of the bed and bragging about his accomplishment, he’d zoom underneath the bed. To the farthest corner and the only impossible spot where neither one of us could get him. Romeo would hunker down, in for the long haul. Until we tried to go to sleep. Then he’d claw the bottom of the box spring while on his back, going over every inch meticulously. And making quite a bit of noise, protesting over us not sharing the top side of the bed with him.

We were spending a few days at her apartment, not long before Ari flew back home. We’ve loaded up the cupboards with canned goods, the freezer with home cooked meals, and picked up a few things her apartment needed. One appliance still missing was a microwave. We decide to buy one before we drove back home. Found one on our way to Landon’s basketball ball game which started around 6. We visit with Shannon, Tracey and Peyton during the game, then head back to Ari’s apartment. It’s about 8:30, we’re tired and hungry, but don’t feel like a sit-down restaurant. (When faced with this dilemma I always choose McDonald’s-always). But Hubs has different fast food in mind. Ugh, about my last pick and if there was another choice nearby I’d make him stop for me. It’s not that I don’t like Mexican food, I do, but Taco Bell, not so much. But that’s what he’s hungry for, and since I usually get my way, I cave this time.

Taco Bell has one thing I can stomach fairly well, don’t recall the name, something Crunch. Some kind of folded flat thing with pretend beef and a crunchy flat taco shell in the middle. We do the drive-through thing, anxious to get back to the apartment, put on our pj’s and relax. The parking lot at the complex leaves a lot to be desired-especially around 9 on a Friday night. Luckily, there’s quite a few singles who hang their shingles there, so they’re ready to go out and party when we’re ready to poop out and crash. It is 9 after all. After zigzagging through the parking lot a couple of times, we nailed a spot not too far away. I’m not someone who has super powers to carry nineteen bags of stuff at one time, but would rather make a dozen trips. But not tonight, we’re both bushed. We’ve got a couple of bags, my purse, the Taco Bell bag and the new microwave in a box the approximate size of Ari’s apartment. We got this.

At least the city-block-sized-box has indented holes on each side so we can easily lug it together, staggering our steps, trying not to drop anything or smash our shitty food. The apartment complex outside entrance has a key code, so we set the compact-car-size-box down and enter the numbers a dozen times before iris recognition kicks in. Clumsily we make it through 2 outer doors and the 3-city-block-foyer. (Geez they could have made another dozen apartments with all this space). Head through a small hallway (where the foot thick brick walls are exposed-really neat looking) and mosey towards the elevator, since we gotta go up 3 flights. Push the button, wait an eternity, finally the door eases open. The box is about the size of the elevator. We wheedle our way in, set the box down, push the third floor button. Door finally closes. And nothing happens. Nada. Zip. Zilch. No nice hum, no little belt creaks that cause you pause as it glides slowly upwards. Nothing. John pushes the lobby button, nothing. Floors, 2, then 3. We’re simply in a dead zone. Going nowhere fast. With smelly food that now borders on a dumpster dive grand prize.

Minutes pass. I’m now sitting on the microwave box and don’t care if there’s a dent the size of Delaware when and if we ever get it to Ari’s apartment. The smell filling my nostrils is tepid, gag-worthy Taco Bell which I swear has been made last June. Is this building deserted? Does no one ever need to use the elevator? Hubs tries the emergency phone made for umm, emergencies. We get a recording instructing us to call maintenance after 8 in the morning if we still need it. Thanks for that. Finally, we hear muffled voices. We yell and scream as if the elevator is on fire and about to free fall 40 stories. No, merely a couple of hysterical old coots. Lo and behold, it’s someone we actually know, one of Ari’s friends. She realizes we’re stuck, gets her boyfriend who tries to pry the door open. That doesn’t work, so they call 911. We’ve been with the box (and molding before our eyes) Taco Bell for a good half hour. Just telling you about it makes me want to hurl. Ten minutes later the firemen arrive. They have some kind of tool used for prying open elevator doors. After the door opened, we were instructed to stay inside until the smell dissapates from within. Nice.

We later learned the elevator’s issues was a common occurrence in this building. Had I known, we surely would have used the stairs, no matter how tired we were, and certainly not entered with less than desirable food products. All in all about an hour until we were rescued. The firemen encouraged us to use the stairs until mainenance could look at it in the morning (after 8). That was fun. At least the Taco Bell got tossed, but the smell had permeated my hair, clothes, even my purse (a Michael Kors for heaven’s sake).

We don’t watch much TV that hasn’t been recorded. So we rarely watch commercials, Hubs fast forwards right through them. We watch an hour program in 40 minutes. Recently however, we switched from Directv to Dish (long story, and you don’t want to know). John is still learning all the buttons and has yet to program all the junk he likes to watch (see how I take the high road here). Thus we’ve been subjected to some live TV, which prompted this story. I’ve been exposed to a barrage of COMMERCIALS. Oh the pain. Every time I have to endure one of Taco Bell’s, I cover my mouth and eyes. My mouth so I don’t gag, my eyes so I don’t have to watch 2 things. One is some kind of coated chicken nugget blob, cut up in a taco thing. I think I’m gonna be sick. The other is a fried egg Taco Bell is trying to pass off as an outside shell for some yummy breakfast sandwich. Just kill me now. Could there be a less appealing way to serve an egg? Definitely not, no yolk…