Are You That Woman

The Dogs

They run and jump
Laugh and smile
Leaping, tumbling
All the while
Free and rambunctious
In the park
I hear the dogs
As they bark.

Barbara Steinberg
Sacramento
April 15, 2008

This is Mexico

These are memories from a journey of just a few years ago. I am hoping for a time to visit again - soon!

Life is quiet in San Miguel de Allende. It's early June and many ex-pats have retreated until autumn. Well above the 6,000-foot elevation and dry, evening brings blessed relief in the the way of cool breezes.

A gentle swing in the garden. The hum of traffic. Occasionally, we hear the sounds of nearby steeples chime and the hammering of construction. Dogs are barking, a lone hummingbird drinks from a pomegranate blossom, and my tequila shot glass is empty.

In the rain forests there is complete silence. The fog is creeping into the mountains. Fireflies are dancing through the darkness. Bugs and birds serenade us during our dinner as daylight retreats behind the peaks. 

Muy bueno!

For the love of food and memories attached to that love

The idea for this story has been brewing for some time. Today, on the feast of Thanksgiving, it seemed like the perfect moment to begin. Preparing traditional dishes — learned from my parents and grandparents — the memories and the love of cooking was instilled long ago. The reminders filling my kitchen temple. Not just the recipes or skills passed from generation to generation, but those treasured implements handed down as well,

Not well-schooled at the art of "selfisims", I managed to capture this photo. This reversible apron — tied at the waist and reminiscent of an art smock — belonged to my mother-in-law Wallie Holmes. OMG could she cook! Loving every minute and every smile she brought to family and friends. I always looked forward to those holiday and family feasts. I only own two other aprons both connected to her memory, one frilly hostess-type and another she handmade for me. They hold special places in my cooking wardrobe. I won't dress in any others.

Josephine (Jo to everyone who knew her and my father-in-law's mother) was my neighbor and friend after I moved next door in 1987. We spent summer evenings on her front porch where she would share stories about Sacramento's past along with pizza and soda -- her choice! She fed my cat, Domino, who literally knocked on her screen door to be let in for snacks. In the early 1990s, Jo passed away at the blessed age of 94. Among her many prized possessions, I inherited some depression glass plates, two old potato mashers, and, the gem of all gems, the Hamilton Beach Model "D" mixer, blender, juicer, meat grinder circa 1937. All pieces intact including the original bowls and juicer. Score! The only part I ever replaced was the cracked and dangerous electrical cord. 

This holiday season, two batches of cornbread ingredients were mixed and blended in these bowls. Fresh mandarins and Meyer lemons were easily juiced and transformed into salad dressing. State-of-the-art back in the '30s, this behemoth will outlive, outlast all comers. Replacing it is out of the question. While I sometime o-o-o-oh and a-h-h-h-h over slicker, newer models, this HB M"D" is a loving reminder of those who have blended and cooked before me and will be with me to the end. No drama here, but 'she' will likely outlive us all.

Sautéing, simmering, and mixing were very much part of this loving food process which included my father's Dru Enamel Cookware Dutch Oven #4126-32. Vintage? Yes, absolutely. No longer manufactured, but available online. As far back as the '70s, I remember this dear friend. My father's absolute "go-to" for his world-famous Sloppy Joes (weigh-in if you ever had the pleasure to enjoy them)!  Or his beef brisket a Chanukah favorite alongside his latkes. I have recipes for both, but fear of falling short has kept me from ever attempting either.

This Dutch oven was his faithful companion until my father passed away in 2005. There was little discussion among siblings as to where the Tulip DRU would go to live. It has served me well these 10-plus years. For Thanksgiving, cornbread stuffing was assembled and mixed. To save time washing, I used it to toss salad greens before putting them in their appropriate glass bowl. Have I cherished this culinary heirloom? Yes, 1,000 times yes! Soups, casseroles, and stews have started and finished here. Not one meal or creation has passed without remembering with deep love, and sometimes tears, my father's love for cooking. Food was his way of showing love -- as is often the case. He was masterful in the kitchen. Both parents were skilled chefs, but Dad really sparked my own love for cooking. Generations past would bequeath such treasures. And, yes, my own living trust must deliver this old family friend to another generation.  The question remains, "Who?"

On my first journey to England, I fell in love with Royal Worcester Evesham Gold. I was just 17 years old; I think the writing was already on the wall. Shortly after, my mother began buying and collecting the same china with a vengeance. Stubborn 20-something, I decided to go another direction though I still had a hankering for Evesham. When mom passed away in 1991, she left behind dozens of pieces of this china including plates, bowls, tea cups and saucers, and many serving pieces. With little storage in my bungalow, it was necessary to sell most of the china. I really didn't want or need much of her collection, but still loved the pattern's simple elegance and the memories of England.  

Naturally, the reminders of her were/are very strong. Whenever Evesham graces my stove, oven or table the come memories flooding  back. This two-piece casserole was front and center this Thanksgiving. Made-from-scratch, my cornbread stuffing was elegantly framed. This "for the love of food" memory had double meaning given that I learned the fine art of cornbread stuffing from my mother. Like so many recipes handed down, there's nothing in writing for this family favorite. The cornbread recipe is courtesy of Moosewood Cookbook, but the stuffing itself is all mom; though I have tweaked it over the years. This year I wasn't able to get the much savored fresh chestnuts, but the final product wasn't lacking. Taste buds were dancing. I know my mother was smiling. She nourished my cooking DNA and while we didn't always agree, I am still my mother's daughter!

So, this ends round one of "for the love of cooking". I hope in time, other memorable items will come to life as they touch me at every morsel of my soul. I know there are many people out there sharing the same memories. Please do!

Autumn Dance

The wind blessed the trees 
With its caressing autumn breeze
And gently plucked the painted leaves
As I glanced up in time to see
The leaves dance down from the waltzing  trees.

Barbara L. Steinberg
Sacramento
10/19/89

Time passes

July 28, 2020 - Wow time passes and 11 years later, the introduction of this Tin Box memory is more meaningful than ever. The rest of the story equally important as we look to stay connected and close to our past, present, and future! Hoping when the dust settles, we'll find time to create a new memory for the next 11 years.

After an evening with dear friends, who are also colleagues, I came home and was overwhelmed by the experience. I felt compelled to do what I have been doing my whole life, write.

I am learning more and more about the importance of friends in my life and the need to cherish times together. Not to let too much time lapse between gatherings or communication. The history and memories we share are part of the fabric of our lives. And though we can always make new friends, there's something wonderful about the sharing of history when you can turn to someone and say, "Remember when....?"

Over and over I've said, "I believe in kismet." Fate! People ask how I became a writer and got into tourism and writing. I always say that this is what I was meant to do. Kismet. When it comes to history, I remember so many details...moments in time that others often forget.  I am a keeper of history.  It's crazy but it ties me to people who have brought meaning to my life— part of my past and present and, without question, the future.  

The friends who gathered on this particular evening, each has a place in my history banks.  Lucy Steffens was the first to cross my path when I did the "internship from Hell" at Visit Sacramento back in 1990. I can still see the old office space and the desk where I sat in the middle of the room. Who could imagine that 21 years later we would be sharing drinks? I am pretty certain I cried on Lucy's shoulder more than once and envied her intern who seemed to be having better luck than me. While my internship "boss" at Visit Sacramento didn't deliver on any of her promises to write for and be published in the bureau’s magazine, I did learn about one very important thing: The California Office of Tourism (COT).

I interviewed for a job with a very young Joe D'Alessandro and a REALLY young Terry Selk. It was a contract position with the California Tourism Corporation, a consulting firm. It was something to do with international travel and sounded very exotic. Terry wanted to hire me. Joe didn't and he had the final say. (Thanks Joe!) They hired an equally young Tom Horman. That was the best thing that ever happened to me—them hiring Tom— though I didn’t realize it at the time. Some months later the contract budget was reduced and Tom was out of a job.

Meanwhile, I applied for a job as an office assistant for the State of California. Where? Why the California Office of Tourism! Go figure. I remember being interviewed by senior staffers Flo, Diane, and Tiffany in a claustrophobic conference room with no windows. Kismet intervened again because Flo (Director) lived next door to my mom's best friend. While I like to think it was my charm and good looks that landed me the job, I still thank Bernice Slater for getting my foot in the door. Little did I know.

On September 4, 1990, I started my first day with COT at the glamorous and historic Senator Hotel. No one warned me about the lunacy I was entering. But there I was with program managers Sharon, Tom, Fred, Terry, and Joe. Even then their pranks were what kept us going. I remember Sharon. I can see exactly where you were sitting. Dahlynn and I were at the front phones with Pat guarding the passage to Flo's office. Bonnie was back in the corner. God, what insanity!

Over the years, I worked with each of you -- giving and taking experiences that have helped shape my life (and yours) and guide me as a better writer. Especially Sharon who so generously gave of her time and "raised me up" before she got out of Dodge and moved to Tennessee.

It was great to be together the other night. Laughing, remembering, sharing, and hoping that it won't be too many years before we do this again. Or even one on one. I want to say thank you for the gift of your presence in my life. (Okay I will stop now....me and my sentimental ways).

Barbara L. Steinberg
 Sacramento
 July 28, 2011

Snow

Snow is falling down,
Covering all the ground.
It covers the earth like
  a tiny white mouse,
Touching everything,  
  roof and house.
Do you like snow 
  in the face?
Sure, I like it anyplace.

Barbara S.
January 30, 1966
Grade 4
Room 214

 

 

A short story: People often ask me how I came to be a writer. The fact is, I've been writing my entire life. Mostly poetry when I was younger, but also journals. Keeping every little piece of lined notebook paper and pencil- and pen-written to paper napkins and place mats from restaurants where I often spent time writing. My Tin Box of Poetry & Prose which contains so many things from my childhood and teen years, is witness to this truth. This prized possession from 1966 - 4th grade at Little Run Elementary, Fairfax, Virginia - clearly speaks to my love of snow and the photo taken in the Eastern Sierra circa 2006, 40 years later. Either my mother or I - or both - believed this early attempt at rhyme was something to be saved. So very glad!

T.

You possess a  beauty
uncommon to most
it radiates from
within to without.
It goes beyond any
surface pleasure
and truly there can be
no greater treasure.

And there's your fragile frame
which you feel surely
makes us laugh but only
endears you to us.
And when you are smiling
fairy sparkle lights
sprinkle across your face
with childish delights. 

Naturally you are
only natural
oh, those poor souls who can't
appreciate that.
They cannot understand
one so free as you,
but I'm the richer one
simply because I do.

Barbara L. Steinberg
Fairfax, Virginia
April 19, 1974

Who am I?

Moving along the hot city cement
many sets of eyes follow
as I go moving alone
curious eyes, lonely eyes
they follow.
Who am I?
Who are you?
Nothing more than a stranger
on more than a strange street
nothing more will we know
as we hurry away from the heat.

Barbara L. Steinberg
July 15, 1974
Boston, MA

Crab Outpost

Distant from where land meets sea,
Human trappings seem faraway.
Restless thoughts keep sleep at bay,
Rise! Watch! Hear the break of day.
In predawn light a masked invader, indeed,
Uncovers a treasure trove of oiled seed.
Lid unlocked for this morning graze,
Is undisturbed by human gaze.
Cardinals he, cardinals she,
Mourning doves and chickadees.
All have come to play a part,
A serenade of Dawn's symphony.
Three decades here brought lasting rest,
On a hillside blessed by Nature's hosts.
Witnessed the seasons migrating through,
An island peace on the greenest coasts.
You can never tire of deer at play,
The hummingbirds hum, a distant cow moans.
Rise-up. Rejoice. Greet the day!
In shrouded mist, this Blue Ridge home.

Barbara L. Steinberg
Bluemont, Virginia
June 24, 2007
Back story: This was about my brother's home in the Blue Ridge Mountains in the small village of Bluemont - once known as Snickersville. More than once we sat around the kitchen table elbows deep in our favorite hard shelled blue crab. And so, the mountain retreat came to be called the Crab Outpost. 

An evening of bat magic on the Yuba River

Evening on the Yuba

They flit and float
   Wings aflutter.
In gathering darkness
   Their bodies quiver.
 They kiss the water
   In an elusive dance.
   And we watch the bats boogie
   Above the river.

Barbara L. Steinberg
June 2, 2004
Rainbow Lodge
Soda Springs, CA