Mariann's Casserole

Mariann's Casserole (response to Poets & Writers Week #52 Creative Non-Fiction Prompt).

I came to know Mariann Laue and her late husband, Jim, through my 1980's work with the Kettering Foundation.  One of their staff members introduced me to Jim and his social justice work.  Jim Laue was appointed by the U.S. Justice Dept. to join MLK's Civil Rights events.  He was with Rev. King when he was shot.  In the historic photo of the shooting on a hotel patio, it is Jim's handkerchief that is covering Martin Luther King's face.  Jim Laue worked with the Kettering Foundation as he transitioned from social justice research to the specific field of peace and conflict studies.

Jim's academic role was at George Mason University where he established their Peace Studies Program.  As a consultant with Kettering's National Issues Forum research on peace, I was sent to Washington D.C. periodically.  One time, I extended my working visit a few days after being invited by Jim to stay as his residence in Virginia.  I felt as if I had a found a second family with him, his wife, Mariann, and their still-at-home son, Ron.  For the following three or so years, their home became my second home and a couple of times I brought my husband and our young son with me to stay with Jim, Mariann, and Ron.

Enjoying Mariann's "Methodist" casserole on a late summer evening was one of our quiet treats.  She often set the stage for dinner by playing a few hymns and pop tunes on the piano.  Our son would pet their German Shepherd, Spicer, or throw tennis balls to this gentle four-legged giant tennis as they played on the Laue's rolling backyard lawn.  The casserole, served on the Laue's screened-in porch, would be accompanied by Pepperidge Farm French Bread, fresh from the oven.

Dessert was light---such as sugar free peach ice cream because Jim was an insulin dependent diabetic.  I add this detail because Jim usually had to give himself an insulin shot before we were served dessert.  The disease took him too soon.  Mariann, who is a two time breast cancer survivor, eventually remarried. We stay in touch during Christmas and she and her blended family are growing with their children's spouses and children.  I hope Mariann continues to serve her casserole when the grandchildren come to visit and plays her songs on her piano as the bread and casserole bake.

Even though our son grew up to be a professional chef, this simple recipe is still one of his "comfort food favorites."

Brown a pound of ground beef (can substitute ground turkey) with 1 tsp of ground oregano in oil.  
Boil two cups of egg noodles.
In an oven-proof bowl, mix the cooked noodles and browned ground meat with 1/3 cup of water and 1 can of tomato soup.
Top the mixture with 1 cup of shredded cheddar cheese.
Bake uncovered in the oven at 350 degrees until cheese is thoroughly melted and mixture bubbles. (10-15 mins.)

Serve with warm bread.

Storied Visit to Elgin, Illinois

May, 2017

Once upon a time on Randall Road in northern Illinois, there were farms.  Many farms.  Many farms with fields touching, boundaried by oak trees and creeks.  In one field, black and white cows strolled, dropping their faces to nudge the green grass.  In another field, children climbed trees, ran through a forest of wild mustard and white flowers.

In the nearby town, known for many decades as “the city of churches”, the river hills included a synagogue and Mason’s Hall.  In the downtown, two major department stores, locally owned banks and restaurants, two theaters, a YMCA and YWCA, and a public library formed the safe circles of friendship for the town’s adults and younger members.

For those growing up in the town, summer morning music or academic programs at the junior high and high school were followed by afternoons of swimming at a public park pool.  At the same park in the evenings, twice a week, music concerts beckoned families and romancing couples to lie on blankets and study the stars or gather fireflies in glass jars.  Also on summer nights, before air-conditioning would entice them to watch television inside, families ended the evenings with a visit to Dairy Queen or A&W, momentarily freezing their memories.  Winters brought dark days and storms with weekends of ice skating by the white pavilion in the second public park, hot cocoa and marsh mellows served by Methodist ladies in woolen coats and mufflers. On particular occasions, the white pavilion, its stained glass windows gleaming like colored silk, welcomed little girls who pointed their toes on the wooden floor and swirled in pink and blue tutus made of netting.

While the farms flourished, so did the town.  But in the rooms of commerce, engineers planned and later built a widened Randall Road that tore down the farmhouses, barns, and silos and buried the lives of the farmers and their families.  The children grew, partied, kissed and some lost their innocence in the back seat of their parents’ cars.  Others maintained an intricate balance of studiousness and shyness through adolescence to high school graduation.

Upon graduation, the children’s waters parted.  The built road became a commercial corridor dotted with chain stores, soulless centers of merchandise.  Perhaps as a counterbalance, windowless mega churches arose with concrete parking lots and thin borders of bushes.

Time passes....

Fifty years later, a few of those children--now carrying stories of retirement, grandchildren, and spouses’ deaths gather in a backyard that was once a farm field.  Here the ghosts of the Fox and Sauk Tribes linger with the ghosts of white settlers and farmers.  Now, the ghosts rise up in the late afternoon shadows and touch the shoulders of the grown children.  A windmill in the yard twirls in the breeze as a recognition of time turns down the smiles of those who were once entwined like leaves of morning glory vines.

  

A boy's story

This was written as a submission to a Hemingway short story contest.  Since I haven't heard from the contest sponsors, I am assuming this story will not be given an award, so I am free to publish it with the addition of a photo of "Raphael", my dad in his Army uniform.

Master or Fool: a tribute to Ralph P. Fonte by anita c. fonte

So while his wife was at mass with the children, he finished corking the last bottles of wine in the basement.  Satisfied with the job, he sat on the cool cement step and slowly ate an apple with a slice of cheese.  When his wife returned, he would ask Raphael to join him outside in the garden.  Ripe tomatoes hung from the vines and needed to be picked.  While picking, he would start the conversation that he practiced in his mind.

“See this one; she is almost too full. We must make sure we clip her stem and take her inside to Ma.”

“I know. I will do that.”

“Grazie, you understand.  And there is more I need.”

“Of course, just tell me what you need me to do.”

“I can’t bend and carry water to the trees and plants like I used to.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“No, not just here. But at Flores’ place.”

“You mean where you work?”

“Si.”

“But you do that in the morning when I am at school.”

“Si.”

“So what are you asking?  You know I only have a few more weeks before I finish.”

“Si.  But now is when I need you.  It doesn’t matter if you finish.  You can work.”

At this point, his imagination failed him.  What would if he do if his son refused, insisting to stay in school?  Bah, he was the papa.  If his children didn’t obey him on all things, then he was also a failure at home.  No, he would insist.  If not with words then with the slap of his hand.  Si, if it came to that.  Just like his papa in the old country.  One is the master or one is a fool.

He got up.  He heard his children singing in the yard.  He went up the steps and opened the green cellar door to the blue sky.

“Raphael. Come here.  I need you in the garden.”

“Si, papa.”