Stirring Up Memories: What Cooking Taught Me About Time

Family recipes have a way of carrying more than instructions—they hold the quirks, shortcuts, and “heaping tablespoons” that define the people who made them. This post follows Jean’s attempt to recreate her mother’s cooking, from tapioca pudding once known as “fish eyes” to Depression‑era mock apple pie. Along the way, it becomes a reflection on memory, legacy, and the bittersweet moment when you realize you’re the last keeper of certain stories. It’s a journey that’s part kitchen experiment, part time travel, and part reminder that the flavors we miss most aren’t always about the food….AI

When I was growing up, my mom didn’t call foods by their proper names. “What’s for dinner?” my dad would ask, and she’d answer, “An old dead cow,” or “an old dead chicken.” One of my favorite desserts was “fish eyes pudding.” I don’t know how old I was when I finally learned those chewy, translucent little balls I loved were actually tapioca. We had it often because it was a good way to use up milk or eggs that were about to spoil. My mom was the queen of using leftovers. If she boiled potatoes on Tuesday, the extras became sliced and fried potatoes on Wednesday. Her soups were never the make the same twice because any left-over vegetables or starch went into the pot.

Mom didn’t follow recipes, which made it impossible to learn to cook from her. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, even though I can hear my brother’s ghost laughing somewhere in the Great Unknown. As a teenager he took an interest in cooking and was often looking over Mom’s shoulder...or vise-visa as Jerry tried his hand. I don’t have to tell anyone who knew the two of us that he turned out to be the better cook while I turned out to be a five‑trick pony. I can make scrambled eggs, grill a steak, make chili, bake bread and order pizza.

When I was a teenager, Mom would warn me I’d never find a husband if I didn’t learn to cook. I’d tell her I planned to find one who was rich enough to take me out every night—or one who liked to cook, like my brother. It was hard for her to argue back when she herself had broken the norms of the ’50s by teaching a boy—gasp!—the secrets of marinating, roasting, simmering, sautéing and frying.

Circling back to tapioca: I loved the way Mom made it, and when I was living on my own I tried to recreate it, but it was never as rich as hers. One day I went to her house and asked her to make it while I watched. “You just follow the directions on the box!” she insisted. But the problem was, she didn’t. Her tablespoons were heaping, not leveled off like I’d learned to do in high‑school home‑ec. She added extra egg whites and more vanilla than the side‑panel recipe called for, and she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Recently my youngest niece made a batch of chili sauce using Mom’s recipe and she gifted me some. The sight of those jars brought back such a nice memory of Mom and me standing side-by-side chopping red and green peppers and onions, and of the sweet aroma that filled the cottage as the chili sauce simmered on the stove. My husband’s favorite Christmas gift was a dozen jars of Mom’s chili sauce, a tradition that lasted between them for years. When she died and our stash came to an end, my chili was never the same because my “secret recipe” was simply a jar of her sauce, a pound of hamburger, a can of Bush's red kidney beans in mild chili sauce and a can of Hunt's basil, garlic and oregano diced tomatoes. And a tablespoon of sugar. One thing mom did drill into me is you always add a little sugar to anything with tomatoes in it, "to cut the acid." 

My niece’s chili sauce planted a seed: maybe I could replicate a few other family favorites using the box of stained and yellowed recipe cards written in Mom’s handwriting. And then serendipity stepped in. While I was looking through the recipes, one of my neighbors here in the independent living building stopped by with a half‑dozen peanut‑butter cookies that tasted exactly like Mom’s. She bakes often, but this was the first time she’d given any to me. The serendipity didn’t stop there. That same night our chef served barbecued spare ribs that almost matched Mom’s. So I checked the ribs off my list—too messy to clean up afterward, I remembered—and I moved making cookies to the bottom.

I also crossed off her baked beans, a favorite with any kid who tried them. Reading the ingredients, I can see why. No one today would use a pound of brown sugar for every pound of beans. Would they? I could feel the fat jumping onto my hips just reading the recipe. That narrowed my list to tapioca pudding and mock apple pie. If you’ve never heard of mock apple pie, it’s made with Ritz crackers instead of apples, and as I remember, its taste and texture fooled everyone. A Google search surprised me: this Depression‑era favorite is making the rounds on TikTok! I decided to make it sometime when I need a dish to pass.

So my legacy‑cooking experiment began with tapioca. Here’s a mini history lesson: tapioca originally came from Brazil, where Indigenous tribes harvested the tubers of a shrub called cassava. The extracted starch (the tapioca) became known worldwide, especially as “poor man’s food” during the Great Famine of 1876–78. Fast‑forward to the 2010s, when tapioca became internationally popular again as the key ingredient in bubble/boba tea. Tapioca is sweet and savory, and here in the U.S. it comes in pearls, flakes, and flour. The flour is gluten‑free and is used in baking as well as to thicken soups, sauces and gravies.

At the store, I chose a bag of instant tapioca (by mistake) for my adventure back in time. My first batch was a control batch, made from the recipe on the bag. The main difference from Mom’s recipe is in the modern version you no don't have to separate the eggs and, of course, she didn't use instant. I was pleasantly surprised, however, at how good it tasted. Next I went to Trader Joe’s and bought a bottle of pure vanilla and a bag of small pearls tapioca for my second batch, which I made following Mom’s “enhanced” recipe with its heaping measurements, extra eggs and vanilla. I loved it.

The only downer in my tapioca experiment is that since my brother passed away there is no one left who is old enough to remember my mom's and my arguments over me learning to cook. It’s a strange place to be in life, isn’t it. To realize there’s no one left who shares the memories of large chunks of your life. We can write about our memories. We can even tell them so many times that a loved one can fill in the details we leave out. But it’s not the same as having a sibling who speaks the shorthand of a shared childhood, who can laugh and cry over the same moments.

If you still have siblings… I’m just sayin’. Time doesn’t stand still. ©

 See you next Wednesday... 

Harmony, Balance and the Rhythm of Everyday Life

Many people look for ways to create a sense of harmony in their daily routines, especially when life settles into familiar patterns. This post reflects on how rhythm, community, and small mindful habits shape a balanced life inside an independent living community. Inspired in part by the themes of The Boys in the Boat, it explores how ordinary routines — from weekly gatherings to quiet late‑night hours to the meditative act of cleaning — can reveal deeper insights about connection, purpose, and the roles we play in one another’s lives…. AI

My life has a rhythm that sometimes mimics restless boredom and sometimes feels like I’m happily living in the moment. On Mondays I have dinner at the Farm Table, which I enjoy for its laughter. On Tuesdays it’s dinner with my conversation group, which I enjoy for its intellectual stimulus. Wednesdays are devoted to Mahjong, which combines the best things I like about Mondays and Tuesdays. On Thursdays I try to schedule any appointments or shopping that take me off campus, and on Fridays the highlight of the day is lunch at the large drop‑in table, followed by doing laundry. Saturdays and Sundays are interchangeable…one day I pick up the apartment and write my blog post, the other day is designated as a Fun Day.

During the week our Life Enrichment Director also populates my calendar with lectures or classes—and I go to them all, no matter who the speaker or topic is. (This week a professor from a local college is giving a talk about all the presidents.) Our LED also offers a lot of exercise classes, which I avoid like the plague. 

I know what you’re thinking…that a fatty‑fatty‑two‑by‑four like me should be going to all the exercise stuff: cardio drumming, cardio boxing, balance class, strength building and stretching, line dancing, Tai Chi, standing Pilates, seated Pilates. And then there’s the summer walking group. All of these classes take place in the early morning—most before I even get out of bed or am fully awake. I’ve never been a morning person, and I doubt my new sleep doctor could help me change that even if I asked him to. 

It would probably help my social life around my independent living building if I did bounce out of bed and into the shower early enough to have coffee and donuts at 9:00 with other residents. Heck, by 9:00 AM two of my Mahjong players are already back from swimming at the YMCA, the Cheerleader, two dog owners and a handful of other residents are back from greeting the sunrise, and the guy down the hall—who gets up every day at 4:00—is ready for his morning nap.

With the hours I keep, the only people left to talk to after 9:00 PM are the security guard and the night‑shift cleaner. I do like the quietness that comes over the place from 9:00 to midnight. I can do anything but go to the trash room. Dropping trash down the chute after 9:00 might wake people up. I found this out after a woman I didn’t like moved out because of “the late‑night trash room noises,” which got blamed on the night‑shift cleaner who empties the recycling. I felt bad for the cleaner, but I was glad to see the woman move. She was the biggest complainer I’d ever been around and she expected the staff here to treat us as if we were living on the set of Downton Abbey. Long-time readers might remember her as Ms Manners. I wrote about her in four posts. She was like oil to my vinegar, and I hated having to work at being nice around her. It was exhausting. 

Please note that I didn’t know about her complaining about the trash room noise until after she moved out, or I would have switched my chute drops to the afternoons, like I do now. I don’t go out of my way to irritate others; I’m sure I do enough of that just by being me.

I’ve been listening to a book for my book club—The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown. It’s a non-fiction about the 1936 Berlin Olympics, where a college rowing crew from Seattle won against the crew rowing for Adolf Hitler. “Harmony, balance, and rhythm.” You can’t spend fourteen and a half hours listening to the importance of harmony, balance, and rhythm without thinking about how that applies to your own life. George Pocock, the man who built the Husky Clipper the boys used for their Olympic victory, wrote in his journal, “Without harmony, balance and rhythm civilization is out of whack.” I’m guessing he meant that we all have our places in the Boat of Life, and if one of us screws up, it affects the direction of the boat and all its crew. Those three words are certainly more than just a metaphor when it comes to rowing, though. 

Our LED rented the movie and a week after our discussion we all got together to see it. I liked them both but if I had to pick just one it would be the book. We also saw the movie Hammet after reading the book. I didn't like the movie at all and feel anyone who hasn't read the book would be lost in the movie. Most of the scene were dark and there was very little dialogue. They didn't even mention it was about William Shakespeare's family until the last twenty minutes! He was just 'Will' in the movie up until then. But out of the ten of us who saw the movie, I was the only person who thought it fell way short of all the Golden Globes and Oscar buzz it's getting. 

Back on topic: My youngest niece sent me a text asking if I’d write something out for her because “You have such pretty penmanship.” I told her my penmanship isn’t that great anymore, but I have some fonts on my computer that look elegant. So I printed out the words: “For me, cleaning and keeping a nice home is part of my creative process. Keeping my hands busy helps my mind find stillness.”

Upon seeing the quote, my first reaction was to text back that she was talking about cleaning used as meditation. She’d never thought of it that way, but she agreed that’s exactly what happens when she Zens out while sweeping her driveway or cleaning her kitchen. It seems her neighbors are always asking if that’s all she does—clean—and that question bothers her. She wants to post a 5” x 7” framed copy of the quote on her refrigerator to remind herself she’s not doing anything wrong by enjoying cleaning. It makes me sad that other people’s probably innocent remarks make my niece question herself and feel defensive.

“Aunt Jean,” she asked, “why does my cleaning bother them so much?” I told her it either makes them feel guilty for not keeping a neater house, or they’re just trying to make idle conversation. "Laugh and tell them, 'Don’t bother me, I’m meditating!'”

And I told her the story about slicing a carrot—how when you’re living in the moment and using work as meditation, you focus your mind on that carrot, and each time you slice you try to make the pieces the same size. You take note of the smell of the carrot and its color. “It’s probably like that when you sweep your driveway. You’re looking for pebbles to sweep away and taking note of the warmth of the cement beneath your feet and the sun on your face.”

“Exactly!” she texted back.

Whether I’m having feelings of restless boredom or living in the blissful moment, I’m happy I have a good rapport with my nieces. It gives me a peek at what it must be like to have daughters. ©

P.S. If you are still on a high from the Walk for Peace, like I am, here's another link that is a collection of some of the fabulous art that has been inspired by the Walk and was given to the monks along the way. They are going to set up a museum room to display all the badges and art. The police badges filled up four of those wraps the lead monk wore. And Aloka got his own set from K-9 units across the country.

The Walk for Peace: Songs from a Growing Movement

 

As the Buddhist monks’ Walk for Peace moves steadily across the country, musicians from around the world have been creating songs in response — tender, hopeful pieces that echo the spirit of the monks’ journey. What began as a quiet pilgrimage has become a small but unmistakable seed of something larger, a reminder that compassion can still take root even in divided times. This post gathers some of those songs in one place for anyone who wants to hear how this movement has begun to sing. ….AI

Over the twenty‑some years I’ve been blogging, I’ve never written back‑to‑back posts on the same topic. So drum roll, please — I’m doing it now. I can’t help it. The Walk for Peace fills up my Facebook feed every day and I can’t get enough of it: the dawn‑to‑dusk quiet walks, the nightly talks by the lead monk, Venerable Pannakaro Bhikkhu (who, surprisingly, once worked in the IT world), and the video clips from another monk back at the monastery who shares soft spoken lessons on finding inner peace. And the dog. Who could not fall in love with aloka?

But it’s the music inspired by the walk that finally got me — cracked me open like a hammer to a coconut — and made me cry. Tears of hopefulness. Tears of happiness.

The hauntingly beautiful music that accompanies many of the videos is so well‑produced that cynical me initially thought it must have been created before the walk began, like part of a well‑choreographed production. But a deep dive into two dozen or so of these original songs proved they were all written and produced after the walk started. Knowing that makes me feel like we’re entering a “We Are the World” moment all over again. I don’t know how else to explain it except to say it makes me feel connected to a cause outside myself, my family, my community — even my country.

Is this what it feels like when humanity remembers itself? Remembers the caring country we had before Trump slammed a wrecking ball to so many of the norms we took for granted until he came into power?

Even though our national news hasn’t yet caught up with the Walk for Peace (and shame on them), the online community around it is enormous. The Facebook page I follow about the Walk (there are many) is up to 395,200 followers now and the official page for The Walk for Peace has 2.7 million followers. Artists from around the world have contributed songs — many of them professional musicians. The song that has become the walk’s official theme, Walk for Peace by Snehashis Priya Barua, opens with a call to walk together with hope, to let anger fade, and to let compassion lead. It’s simple, sincere and disarming in the best way.

One of my favorite Walk for Peace song is about Aloka, the rescue dog who has been walking the 2,300‑mile pilgrimage with the monks. The song Aloka’s Road tells his story — a stray with no name and no home who began following the monks during one of their long walks in India. Other strays had joined them before, but Aloka didn’t wander off like the rest. When it was time for the monks to return to the U.S., they couldn’t leave him behind. So the monks back in Texas started cooking for a fundraiser to pay for his plane ticket and quarantine time in New York. The song captures the loyalty and bond between man and beast that all of us dog parents can relate to.

From there, I fell down a rabbit hole looking for all the music created in response to the monks’ Walk. What surprised me wasn’t just the sheer number of songs but the reverence and quality of them — the way strangers from around the world translated the walk’s message of compassion into uplifting melodies. It's the reason why I love the Walk's music so much. None of these songs were written with commercial intent. Many are posted without credit to the writers or singers. They were written because people’s hearts were spilling over with inspiration.

When it comes to spreading a movement, nothing resonates like music. One of my favorite Walk for Peace songs talks about walking with loving‑kindness, it speaks of carrying hope and healing through every mile — and you can see that Hope and desire to heal on the faces of the huge crowds that gather wherever the monks walk or pause to rest.

If you want to go down your own rabbit hole, here’s a partial list of the songs created for this historic Walk for Peace:

 

 Walk for Peace — A song by Snehashis Priya Barua. It focuses on the physical walk, the message of peace, and the courage of the monks. It's considered to be the Walk's theme song. 

 

 Monks Walk for Peace
by djphong (Siriphong P.) This one is atmospheric, almost like a soundtrack for the monks’ footsteps.

 

Lyrics by Nyi Zaw Tun

 

Some of the many songs without tiles or artists named.

A country western style song. 

 

   

 Another country-western style song, one of my favorites.

The following songs were inspired by Aloka, also known as the Peace Dog: These are joyful and they show how the movement has touched people emotionally.

 

Aloka's Road One of my favorites. Lines I love is, "Peace doesn't ask who you are, it only asks if you will take the next step" and this line: "I walk where kindness comes in unexpected and kind ways." 

 

Aloka the Peace Dog - the Heart that Walks 

by Vishvajith Nayakarathne 

             Aloka's Journey, another great country-western style song with professional (I presume) videography of Aloka. 

 

Another one of my favorites, a country-western that's well produced and very professional. I feel like I should know the artist singing this. "One step at a time that's how he goes, he doesn't judge the world just sees it pass with kindness in his eyes and faith in his hand. Aloka walks the mindful way."

 

Aloka Small Feet, Big Peace by Gravya Music Polsg 

 

 This one was created by AI and posted by Teni Pakhrin. Favorite lyrics: "No leash, no orders, no command. He walks by choice not by demand. He walks for love, because of hope, and in his quiet way he shows the light.”  And, "When hate stops moving love still glows. In quiet steps the healing grows. The world is loud, his heart is calm. Not all heroes run or fly. Some move slowly and change our lives.”

 

 Some of the Lyrics: "Where Aloka walks hope appears not loud, not proud, but deeply true. A reminder that we were born to love and peace is something we can do."

 

 The links to the songs I've shared here are just scratching the surface of those available online. Their sheer numbers clearly says something special is going on in America. Maybe this walk is only a seed, but seeds have a way of finding soil. We may be a long way from harmony, yet I can’t help feeling that peace is quietly walking its way back into our hearts and nation. ©

See you next Wednesday. 

The monks had an interfaith  ceremony at the Washington National Cathedral yesterday. Today at the Lincoln Memorial there is an event starting at 1:30 to 4:00. 10,000 people are expected in person, and who knows how many others will be watching. 

Wednesday, February 11 (Day 109):

- 9:30 AM: Walk to Peace Monument / Capitol Hill begins

- Lunch stop: St. Mark’s Capitol Hill Church (Invitees only)

- 1:30 PM: Walk to Lincoln Memorial begins

- 2:30–4:00 PM: Peace Gathering and Concluding Ceremony at Lincoln Memorial

- 4:30–7:30 PM: Meditation Session with Venerable Bhikkhu Pannakara at George Washington University Smith Center