In 1970, my Dad, still City Attorney for Casper, Wyoming, had formed a new law firm with a law school friend and fellow veteran, John Dobos. The third partner to join the firm was former prosecuting attorney for Fremont County, Wyoming, Gerry Spence. Gerry Spence became known for winning some very high profile cases. He would later win the Karen Silkwood case, he was a consultant on the OJ Simpson case, and he represented Imelda Marcos in a fraud case.

The first couple of months in his office was uneventful, Dad really enjoyed the camaraderie of having these men as partners. The second month settled in and the cracks in the relationship with Gerry Spence started to appear. On the surface, Gerry seemed like a typical Wyoming native; ruggedly independent, a strong work ethic, love for the outdoors, and deep rooted values. Dad originally approached Gerry about joining his law firm because Dad thought that he and Gerry were like-minded, keeping personal issues “close to the vest.”Gerry seemed to value honesty and handshake deals. Gerry also had a strong sense of patriotism and state pride, all of which were important in my Dad’s estimation.

After the second month, it seemed obvious that Gerry was “a different breed of cat” than my Dad and John Dobos. One Saturday morning my brother and I went with Dad to deliver a brief to Gerry’s house. We were waiting in the car as Dad knocked on the front door. Gerry greeted my Dad wearing nothing but his “birthday suit.” Using his parka, Dad awkwardly attempted to block our view of Gerry. After handing over the document, Dad practically ran back to the car as Gerry stood at the full length, glass door waving. That encounter made for some great cocktail party stories later on.

Gerry eventually made some changes in the weekly partners’ meetings after attending a structured, facilitator led, weekend on “sensitivity training.” He felt that it was important to raise awareness and foster understanding of different perspectives amongst the partners. His goal was to encourage respectful dialogue and promote empathy in order to best serve their clients.

The first meeting began with the three men and their secretaries holding hands, breathing deeply. Next the group moved into a one minute mantra, still breathing. The meeting then progressed normally, until the end when Gerry would give everyone “homework.” The “homework”consisted of a leading personal question to be answered and shared at the next meeting.

My Dad was a member of the generation that espoused keeping your private life to yourself and meeting obstacles head on, so bearing his soul to his colleagues was an uncomfortable ask. Dad was kind, generous, and humble so he acquiesced. After reading my Dad’s diary from his horrific, daily experiences in the Pacific during WW2, I suspect that my Dad suffered from PTSD. I believe that his work as the Chancellor of the Episcopal Church of Wyoming and as a Pro Bono lawyer for the Shoshone Tribe were subconsciously a big part of his mental health regimen. My Dad discovered that lengthy conversations with my Psychiatrist uncle, also a WW2 veteran and “helping others,” were the best coping strategies for him.

For a couple of months, Gerry and his “sensitivity sessions” were the primary topic during my parents’ nightly pre-dinner cocktail hour. Eventually things settled down at the office as my Dad finally saw the value in the “sensitivity sessions,” personally.

Fifty years later, I am in the second year of a monthly “sensitivity” class regarding equity. The class can be challenging at times but it is of the utmost importance now more than ever. As Proverbs 2:9 states: “then you will discern righteousness and justice and equity—every good path.” Equity in the Bible means having compassion for one another. True equity requires more than just acknowledging differences – it demands action, understanding, and a commitment to creating spaces where everyone has the opportunity to thrive. Equity isn’t a destination – it’s an ongoing process that challenges us to see, hear, and uplift every voice.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” has always been one of my favorite books so I was very excited to read, Percival Everett’s book; “James.” Everett brilliantly reimagines “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” from the perspective of Jim, the enslaved man. Jim is described as an intelligent and literate man who strategically adopts “incorrect grammar” to navigate his perilous life, mainly when speaking to white people.

I first read “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” at age twelve in eighth grade. Both of my parents were fans of Mark Twain’s books so the nightly dinner table discussion was centered around passages in the book, mainly the written vernacular and themes of race and morals. I learned the meaning of irony while reading “Huckleberry Finn,” Jim is the most civilized character in the book and he is a slave. The free men in the story mistreat Jim over and over again, all for personal gain. Ironically, it also turns out that the entire time that Jim is a “runaway,” he’s actually been a free man, his owner having given Jim his freedom upon her death.

The same year my English class read “Huckleberry Finn,” we studied the film “Porgy and Bess” in music class. “Porgy and Bess” is considered controversial because, despite being a story about African American life, it was written by white people who have been criticized for perpetuating stereotypes of Black people through its characters and dialect. “Huckleberry Finn” written by Mark Twain, a white man, is accepted by critics as characteristic of the time in America, but those critics also believe that his racially charged language contributes to negative stereotypes.

The dialect of the characters in the movie, “Porgy and Bess,” and the book, “Huckleberry Finn,” was a big part of the lesson in both English and music classes. My naive thirteen year old self wrote a report stating that the characters in the movie should have southern accents because it reflects the way that people actually spoke, and I didn’t see them as exaggerated and offensive. To support my theory, I used my family members who lived in Texas, Georgia, and Louisiana as an example. If everyone spoke in perfect English, it wouldn’t accurately reflect the time period or setting. I believed that the way people spoke was an important part of their identity. I knew that in certain regions in America, people spoke with a heavy southern “drawl.” My parents had read “Br’er Rabbit” to me as a very young child, another example of characters in a book with Southern accents.

“Porgy and Bess” was a collaboration between George Gershwin and author Dubose Heyward, a successful writer from an old South Carolina family. Gershwin insisted that all performances be by all black casts. While the play opened up valuable opportunities for black artists, it was criticized by some as an inappropriate depiction of black culture.

I know that my life has benefited from my public school education, my teachers were “ahead of their time” in that they didn’t hesitate to teach and discuss controversial subjects. I found in my reading of “Huckleberry Finn,” that despite being a slave, Jim is the only character in the book who is portrayed with significant dignity. Jim’s character is moral, good-hearted, and intelligent, which the novel; “James”proves.

Percival Everett felt that it was crucial to change the way Jim speaks in “James,” to challenge the stereotypical portrayal of enslaved people in literature. Everett suggests that enslaved people would often use coded language to communicate amongst themselves while appearing to conform to their oppressors’ expectations when speaking in front of them. By giving Jim a more articulate and sophisticated way of speaking, Purcival Everett directly confronts the racist metaphor of “the ignorant slave.” By allowing Jim to express himself fully, he becomes a complex, intelligent individual, not just a stereotypical character.

Purcival Everett’s, “James” is both a tribute and a critique, he reshapes a beloved classic to reveal deeper truths about race, storytelling, and the enduring struggle for dignity. “James” challenges the myths of American literature by giving voice to an enslaved man, Jim, offering a powerful meditation on race and freedom.

My first job after being a “stay at home” mom for thirteen years, was working for the Dorchester County Health Department. My job title was Health Educator, my college transcripts were heavily weighted in the psychology, biology, sociology, and anthropology subjects so I met the State of Maryland criteria for that position. I attended every training regarding health and grant writing. It turns out that those trainings came in handy for properly running a healthy restaurant.

Years ago, Cece and I were shopping at the Annapolis Mall and stopped at the food court for lunch. I had just completed a blood borne pathogen (infection prevention in the workplace) training earlier that month. I watched the woman who was wearing plastic gloves while making the sandwiches. She paused and “rang up” the customer ahead of us, wearing her gloves. The man gave her cash and some change, which she put in the cash register, still wearing the gloves. At the end of that transaction, she walked back to her sandwich station with the intention of resuming our sandwiches. I quickly said, “excuse me, do you mind switching to a pair of clean gloves, please?” Cece was mortified, the woman was annoyed but did as I had asked. The staff at that restaurant had clearly not had any glove/hand washing classes, the proper procedure is to remove the dirty gloves, wash hands, then put on a new pair. This woman also incorrectly removed her gloves by the fingers not the cuff.

I was shocked to see the state of the kitchen when we bought our restaurant, I knew the rigorous health requirements set by the health department and naively thought that to be in business you must comply. As a family, we had eaten pizza there often. Matt used a shovel to scrape the three inch layer of grease from under the mats on the floor in front of the fryer. Some of the food in the walk-in was rotting in its original can. The ice machine was covered in mold. The dish machine probably dated to the 1960’s, it lacked a sanitation cycle and never reached the required temperature. Needless to say, we gutted the entire place, replacing every fixture and appliance.

Food handling is a huge undertaking and responsibility. We trained our staff using the latest guidelines and bought every food prep tool available to ensure that we achieved all of the rules of food safety. We had a great working relationship with the health department.

General Tanuki’s was a beautiful, creative job for twelve years. It was the hardest job I’ve ever had. We put our heart and soul into every aspect of that business. Coming from California where sushi restaurants were everywhere, we decided to cook the food that we loved and we did that, everyday. Now we mostly eat at home, sometimes cooking some old Tanuki’s favorites. Matt makes Tanuki’s fish taco for “Taco Tuesday” and we have the curry monthly. We make pizza with our grandchildren, they haven’t experienced the “Cuban pizza,” though. Friday is burger night and the French burger with Brie and mushrooms is a favorite.

We miss our wonderful customers, so many regulars became great friends. We miss buying amazing products from our food purveyors. We miss the weekly wine tastings and getting to meet new winemakers. I miss Matt’s delicious margaritas made with fresh, handmade ingredients, the best tasting drink, well deserved at the end of a long shift. I miss the camaraderie of “being in the trenches,” making delicious food and drinks on a busy night with people I enjoyed working with. I miss working with my family, most of all, trusting them, knowing that their hearts were in the best place.

I had an epiphany during one of our health department visits, the inspector and I were talking about the weather. I was lamenting the many cold February days and her response was; “I’m grateful for any weather, I’m a cancer survivor.” I think about that conversation everyday when I’m outside, on cold, hot, and gorgeous days. The double entrendre of “the weather” and its irony is always striking to me. We weather many hardships and happy times throughout our lives, it’s a gift of life. We “weathered” the highs and lows of life as restaurant owners and the weather is fine looking forward.

Grandmacore is a recent trend embracing knitting, crochet, and baking to unplug, de-stress, and enjoy slow living. Homes are often cozy, nostalgic, and whimsical in their style. Grandmacore has become popular because it evokes a feeling of comfort. Generation Z (people born between 1997 and 2012) have found kinship with Grandmacore because it helps them feel safe and believe that adulthood might not be that bad.

Patchwork quilts, chintz wallpaper, novelty teapots, and doilies are now popular items being sold at Target and Walmart. This trend draws inspiration from a grandmother’s cozy and eclectic aesthetic. Laura Ashley is the perfect example of the style, embracing floral patterns and vintage furniture. Grandmacore has been a part of my decorating style for my entire life.

Most of the furniture in my family was inherited and had a story. These stories brought a sense of a life and love of each piece. My maternal grandfather was a great collector of art and antiques, I can still recite the cities where he bought most of the treasures in my home. I grew up knowing the difference between a spider, Federal, or Sheraton table leg. I learned that sconces hung on the wall and candelabra sat on a table. I loved my Mom’s Regency style settees and her Louis XVI arm chair. Mom’s vatrine had cabriole legs and held tiny silver baby rattles and Aztec carved heads. Her eighteenth century burl wood break front displayed many generations of Wedgewood and Coalport china as well as her collection of Demitasse cups, (demitasse cups are perfect for tea parties with grandchildren). My Dad’s dresser was a favorite, it was a “tall-boy”with canon ball feet.

I was horrified when visiting my sister’s house years ago. She had actually gone to a furniture store and had bought most of the contents of her home. The only antique was my family’s marble topped wash stand from Florence, Italy. My great grandmother’s portrait was leaning against a wall in her basement and in its place in the living room was a huge mountain lion.

My children also grew up in a house full of stories with their family history all around them. Chair cushions needlepointed by a great aunt, bronze end tables with marble tops and early American dressers. The bed frames that they slept in nightly were their grandmother’s childhood beds that had traveled around the globe. Our dining room table was handmade in South Carolina before the Civil War.

It makes me very happy to see evidence of the love and coziness of their childhood home reflected in all four of my children’s design aesthetics. No one wants anything to do with my antique silver, all four spent too much time polishing it, silver is a lot of work. However, with the new taper candle movement, Cece has accepted some silver candlesticks.

As people continue to seek spaces that offer solace and a connection to the past, Grandmacore offers a charming and nostalgic escape. Grandmacore style can create inviting, personalized rooms that celebrate the beauty of history and the comfort of home. Grandmacore’s key components are thrifting and up cycling which increase awareness of sustainability. Repurposing vintage furniture and decor items align with eco-friendly practices. In this era dominated by technology, Grandmacore brings back memories of simpler times and the charm of well-loved, lived in spaces. This aesthetic is not just about decoration; it’s about creating a warm and inviting sanctuary.

I’ll be here in my sanctuary, with my husband and dogs, sitting by the fire, drinking tea, eating homemade soup, and knitting mittens for my grandchildren, waiting for the next snowstorm.

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Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

Sundays were always a big family food day in my home growing up. We’d go to The Petroleum Club after church for brunch, the buffet was magnificent. My parents would truly take advantage of “the day of rest,” we’d eat and socialize for a couple of hours. Dinner on Sundays was a fancy affair, my grandmother was always invited. Mom would make a special dessert like cream puffs or her “ladyfingers” icebox cake (tiramisu), Dad would whip something up like lamb chops with mashed potatoes and spinach. We’d watch Grandma’s favorite show, Lawrence Welk and then head to bed.

We had special birthday and holiday menus and Mom would fry chicken with scalloped potatoes or spend the day making tamales but Super Bowl food was never a part of the rotation.

It wasn’t until Super Bowl XII in 1978 that I understood the full extent of the joy of a Super Bowl party and its food. We were living in Denver and The Denver Broncos played The Dallas Cowboys. I was nine months pregnant with my second child on January 15, 1978 when the game was played. The Super Bowl party’s menu included “hot wings,” seven layer dip, “pigs in a Blanket,” and potato skins.

As a baby gift, I had been given an “Orange Crush” Broncos, tiny, track suit to match the team jerseys that all the party goers were wearing. Everything at the party was orange and blue, the tablecloth, plates, and napkins. It was a very festive celebration, until the Broncos started losing. A few of the guests actually left at halftime, walking out the door shaking their heads. The final score was Cowboys 27, Broncos 19.

Super Bowl XIII between The Cowboys and The Steelers was played on January 21, 1979, and I was living in Coronado, California. My Mom was visiting and we spent the day at The San Diego Zoo. We ordered dumplings and spare ribs for dinner from The Chu Dynasty, our local Chinese restaurant and didn’t watch the game. The Army/Navy game was the most important football game in my neighborhood then. We were mostly Navy wives whose husbands were deployed on one of the three aircraft carriers down the block from our houses.

Super Bowl games were televised in Hawaii in the morning. TV’s were rolled out onto lanai’s and the party goers would stand around grills drinking beer while watching the game. The potluck buffet included; Lumpia, macaroni salad, seven-layer dip, fried wings, Managua, kimchi, and burgers on the grill. There was a sea of different jerseys, everyone was from somewhere else and Hawaii didn’t have a pro football team. After the game, we’d nap and head to the nearest swimming pool or the beach.

Super Bowl Sunday became an important celebration when I married my husband, Matt. Roger Staubach was John General’s lab partner at The Naval Academy and so we were all Dallas Cowboys fans. The General family was serious about their Super Bowl parties; one year, they hosted the game at the Avalon Theater, the best party ever. Other years we watched at John’s house, a deconsecrated church (All Saints) on Longwoods Road that he had renovated. The great room was perfect for parties. John’s Mom, Peggy would always make her clam dip with Ruffles potato chips. There were submarine sandwiches, seven layer dip, crab dip, pizza and of course, wings. There was always some good-natured betting and some shouting at the TV.

For the past seven years, Matt and I have been eating a plant-based diet, so our “hot wings” were actually cauliflower. Seven layer dip was always an option also. We are planning a quiet night this year, I’m really looking forward to the commercials.

In a cab in London years ago, we were heading to Jamie Oliver’s restaurant for dinner. My ever charming husband struck up a conversation with the cabdriver about how excited we were to be eating there. The “cabbie” made it clear that he wasn’t a fan of Jamie Oliver and when asked for recommendations for his thoughts on the best food in London, he told us that his favorite food was Chinese. Believing that cabdrivers know best, we cancelled our dinner reservations and headed to Chinatown. The restaurant was tiny, its storefront on a narrow, cobblestone road. The decor was typical with bright, vivid colors dominating the color scheme, red dragons and lanterns festooning the ceiling, scrolls and super sized lucky charms on the walls. The Fortune Cat or “Maneki Neko” with its waving paw was placed at the cash register area to attract good fortune and luck to the owners. It turned out that the cabdriver was right, this was definitely the best Chinese food ever, especially the Turnip Cakes.

Turnip Cakes “Lo Bak Go” are traditionally eaten during Chinese New Year when superstitions abound. Turnip cakes actually contain radishes not turnips but they are considered good luck to eat during the New Year. Luckily, turnip cakes are found at dim sum restaurants all year round. You won’t be disappointed If you find turnip cakes on the menu.

At the start of the twentieth century, the first area in London known as Chinatown was located in the East End. The Chinese population concentrated in that area setting up businesses to cater to the Chinese sailors. The area was damaged by aerial bombing during the Blitz in the Second World War. The present Chinatown off Shaftesbury Avenue was established in the 1970’s.

My beloved aunt, Rosemary, a New Yorker, having jury duty for a month, spent her lunch break sampling most of the Chinese restaurants in Chinatown in Manhattan. Chinatown is a neighborhood in Lower Manhattan that is home to the highest concentration of Chinese people in the Western Hemisphere, it is also one of the oldest Chinese ethnic enclaves. Doyers Street, a one block stretch in Chinatown, established in the 1870’s, is one of the most historically rich streets in New York City.

On one of our visits to New York City, we spent an afternoon at my Aunt’s number one restaurant choice, eating dim sum. Looking around the restaurant, we noticed that our fellow diners weren’t tourists but Chinese businessmen and families, always a good sign that the food will be extraordinary. We were familiar with many of the bite-sized delights (dim sum translates to “touch of the heart”) but “threw caution to the wind” and sampled many unknown dumplings and buns. Our favorites, of course were the steamed pork buns, “Bao Buns”.

Chinatown in San Francisco is the oldest in North America, founded in 1849 during the Gold Rush. It became a safe haven to the first 300 Chinese immigrants who were welcomed by San Francisco’s first mayor, Mayor John Geary. The neighborhood was named “Chinatown” by the press. By 1870, there were 2,000 Chinese laundries in Chinatown. My husband, Matt and I spent an afternoon in Chinatown when visiting his Mom years ago. After passing under the iconic Dragon’s gate, we walked down a bustling maze of streets and alleys brimming with dim sum and traditional food. We really enjoyed the herbalist shops, bakeries, and the ornate temples. We bought a beautiful bamboo wind chime that we placed on our backyard Crepe Myrtle tree. That wind chime with its, mild clacking hung in that tree for twenty years, losing its reeds one at a time.

Chinatown’s location isn’t an accident, near Honolulu’s busy trading port, shops were established by Chinese sugar cane workers who had fulfilled their contracts. Chinatown is adjacent to downtown Honolulu’s business district with a rich history and multicultural heritage.

My daughter, Jenny’s Kindergarten class visited Chinatown just before the Chinese New Year when we were living in Hawaii. The field trip was one of the most memorable that I’ve ever been on. When walking down the street we stopped at a fresh food market, the children were fascinated and appalled at the row of pigs’ heads holding a prominent place in the display window. We learned that the pig’s head (Lechon Ulo) is actually a delicacy that when roasted, its meat is very tender and the skin is a crispy treat. There were many giggles from the kids when our tour guide told us that the pig’s head must be shaved before cooking. Whole steamed fish symbolizes prosperity, long noodles represent long life, sweet rice balls signify family reunion, and chicken for good luck, all foods that are eaten during the Lunar New Year. Dumplings, everyone’s favorite, are considered “pockets of prosperity.”

We learned the significance of the ornate arch at the entrance to most Chinatowns. A Paifang or Pailou is a traditional style of Chinese architecture often used in gateway structures. The arch serves as a symbolic gateway, representing the entrance to the community. The archway may be built to commemorate a sister city relationship between a Chinese city and the city where Chinatown is located.

The herbalist’s shop was my favorite with its earthy aroma, as if we had walked into a forest of dehydrated trees. Along every wall were tiny drawers and neatly arranged shelves of jars, all labeled in red script. With over 4,000 remedies available, I regret not taking the fifteen minutes to visit the Acupuncturist on site to have a special tea made.

After our tour, which included a small parade with a dragon, we enjoyed a snack of almond cookies which symbolize coins and bring good luck.

Honolulu was a great place for Chinese food, clay roasted duck, dim sum, whole fish, and noodles were always available and cooked to perfection. Looking back, I realize how lucky I have been to enjoy such amazing food in so many great cities.

Wishing everyone a happy and prosperous Lunar New Year.

I was newly pregnant with my fourth child the summer that the chicken pox was running rampant in my neighborhood. August is one of the windiest months on the island of Oahu in Hawaii with persistent trade winds blowing from the northeast. The trade winds came to a “dead halt” the week that my two youngest children got the rash. We lived on Pearl Harbor and our windows were louvered, perfect to catch the island breezes, not an air conditioner in sight. It was a tortuous few days without sleep, in the unrelenting heat, monitoring the scratching of hundreds of blisters. My daughter, Jenny got the rash first, then my son, Stuart. Jenny’s case was mild and she was the perfect patient at six years old. Stuie’s rash was everywhere on his little four year old body, except his eyes. I would slather him in Calamine lotion after an oatmeal bath but the itchiness was unbearable for him. He would even scratch when he was asleep. In a desperate phone call for help, my mom remembered an “old wives tale” that recommended covering a child’s hands with white cotton socks to make it difficult to scratch, avoiding infection, of course he hated that and pulled them off. The looming fear was that too much scratching would lead to impetigo. Impetigo was very common in children living in Hawaii due to its contagiousness, it required the dreaded antibiotic ointment, lots of band aids, and extended quarantine time. Other Moms in the neighborhood would send their children over to “visit” for a few minutes, exposing them to the chicken pox, just to “get it over with.” Somehow, my eldest didn’t catch the chicken pox that summer, he continued to “live his best life,” swimming, riding his bike, and playing with his many friends.

I was surprised that I didn’t “bounce back” after the stress that days of around the clock nursing care placed on my body, then
“morning sickness” that lasted all day, reared its ugly head. Just days after everyone recovered from the Chicken Pox, I was able to fix breakfast and take my children to school in the morning, but I would come home and collapse on the couch. I was so sick that I would just float in the pool in the mornings during my daily lap swim. The only food I could eat all day was a Jack in the Box’s Swiss Mushroom Burger. By the time dinner arrived I was starving but I lacked the energy to prepare anything for my family so we ate out most nights. The nightly restaurant choice was mainly based on the dessert menu, I had also developed an affection/addiction for Black Forest Cake.

Despite eating out every night, restaurants were considered a special treat and “Shirley Temples” were ordered for my kids, whose usual drink options were water, juice and milk. My youngest child, Stuie would ask for extra maraschino cherries on top. After having drunk his first “Shirley Temple” and before our entrees arrived, Stuie was up and running circles around the table. To avoid disturbing other diners, I would escort Stuie outside to “run it off.” After tracking this behavior for a couple of days, I concluded that the maraschino cherries and the grenadine in the drink had to be the culprit. My search led to a Los Angeles Times article dated January 24,1985 about a group filing suit over Federal inaction on food dyes. The article reported that “the fate of maraschino cherries’ brilliant red color hangs precariously by a thin stem.” The article goes on to say; “There are serious doubts about the safety of the food dye that transforms dull-yellow cherries into artificially bright scarlet garnishes for everything from cocktails to cakes.” The Public Citizens Health Research Group filed a suit against the federal government to force a ban on the color additive known as FD&C; Red No. 3, a chemical found to produce thyroid tumors in laboratory animals.

There wasn’t standard medical testing for food dye allergies but my “Mom’s intuition” knew that Stuie should never have maraschino cherries ever again. It turns out that one of Stuie’s favorite candy, Skittles, was also filled with food dyes. To avoid any more reactions, I did my best to avoid red dyes by reading labels at the grocery store.

One evening, when Stuie was twelve, he complained of a headache, we tried the usual remedies, quiet, dark room, and a cool cloth on his forehead. He wasn’t feverish, achy or nauseous so I ruled out the flu. Later in the evening, Stuie spiked a very high fever, he went from 98.6 to 104 in a matter of minutes. We immediately drove to the emergency room. After triage, Stuie was given an IV although he wasn’t dehydrated. The doctor on duty suspected a “Thyroid Storm” and Stuie was admitted to the hospital’s intensive care unit. He was placed on a cooling pad and with the fluids, the goal was to reduce his fever. Stuie bounced back quickly and his hospital stay was short.

A Thyroid Storm is a rare, life threatening condition that generally happens to people over the age of forty. Approximately five to seven people out of a million experience thyroid storms. When you are experiencing a thyroid storm, the large levels of thyroid hormones in your body launches your metabolism into high speed which is dangerous and life-threatening. When there’s intense metabolic activity, your body needs more oxygen. To meet your body’s needs, your heart beats very fast (tachycardia), which can cause heart failure.

Stuie was monitored by his pediatrician for a while after his thyroid storm but eventually the Dr. concluded that it was a one time occurrence. Stuie returned to his active childhood and didn’t have any other thyroid issues. After reading about red dye and the thyroid, I do wonder if those maraschino cherries and Skittles were to blame for Stuie’s thyroid storm. I guess I’m grateful that the side effects of red dye are finally being taken seriously all these years later.

January is National Soup Month, a time to celebrate this beloved comfort food. January was designated National Soup Month by Campbell’s Soup Company in 1984. The best selling soup in the United States is chicken noodle, with tomato as a close second, clam chowder, potato, and minestrone are third, fourth, and fifth. Tomato was the first soup that Campbell’s produced in 1897, the perfect combination with a grilled cheese sandwich. Campbell’s invented condensed soup, introducing it to the world, also in the year 1897.

According to AARP, women are twice as likely to order soup for lunch than men. Americans eat more than ten billion bowls of soup each year. The earliest archeological evidence of soup dates back to 6000 BC and it was hippopotamus soup.

The American Medical Association considers soup a valuable food source because it keeps you full and hydrated in the winter months when it might be harder to get your daily water intake, soup basically waters your body. It also signals your brain that you are full and satisfied. Many ingredients in soup help your body fight off colds and flu, think garlic and other healing herbs in a hearty broth. The liquid consistency can stimulate your digestive tract, the fiber in soups can help keep your digestive system healthy. Soups warm your stomach and can clear nasal passages. Some soups, like tomato are rich in antioxidants, which can help neutralize harmful cell damaging molecules.

My Dad made soup every Saturday beginning in the fall. He had a soup pot that was so big that we would climb in while playing hide and seek. He would stew whole chickens with herbs and veggies all day long. Dad would then strain the bone broth and freeze huge batches for soup making. The roux came next, for the cream soups, pounds of butter, cream, white pepper, and flour. The word bisque was used by my Mom to describe my Dad’s fish soups with their velvety texture, wine, and cream. Big chunks of chicken, carrots, onions, celery, garlic, and peas with thick pasta were the elements in his chicken noodle soup. After visiting a friend’s house for lunch, I learned about Campbell’s soup and would beg my Mom to buy Chicken and Stars soup at the grocery store. Little did I know then that my Dad’s soups were actual health powerhouses with the amount of garlic and onions in the stock. The stewed chickens provided the nine essential amino acids, the building blocks of protein needed in the human diet, and the vitamins and minerals for bone health and brain function.

Beyond its health benefits, my Dad’s soup was an act of love, a symbol of connection, prepared with intention. Preparing soup was like a meditation for my Dad, the process of selecting the recipe, combining elements of the earth, tending to the pot, all to create something nourishing. Sharing that soup fostered a sense of togetherness.

My Mom did indulge my desire for the canned chicken and stars soup. I thought it was delicious until I had a bowl of the homemade, beautiful, and rich soup created by my Dad. The Campbell’s soup’s veggies were tiny, the chicken in small cubes, no visible herbs such as basil, rosemary, or sage, just a salty taste.

In the fall of my first year here (1987) on the Eastern Shore, I began to notice signs at local churches advertising “Soup Day.” I thought “soup day” was a charitable activity for those less fortunate, until I saw the “soup line” of fashionably dressed professionals. I learned that homemade soup made by church volunteers for “soup day” was a special monthly offering that citizens looked forward to, marked on calendars. Churches carefully guarded their recipes, each known for their “special” soup. It was at “soup day” that I had my first dry Lima bean soup, an absolute favorite. We could “carry out” the soup or eat at long tables in the church’s fellowship hall. After COVID, there are very few “soup days” here in Cambridge, I miss it.

Soup making isn’t easy but it is definitely worth it. Between shoveling the walk and bingeing Netflix during last week’s snowstorm, I made a pot of Dry Lima bean soup. I was given the recipe by the head of the soup making team at Christ Episcopal Church, years ago when I volunteered at “soup day.” It wasn’t great, definitely not the soup that I had remembered, my chickens enjoyed it though. I’ll keep making soup, it feeds my soul, and my kitchen smells amazing.

The ancient 500 foot rock formations at Vedauwoo recreation area were created by wind, ice, and water. Vedauwoo (an Arapahoe word meaning “land of earthborn spirits”) is about a ten minute drive from the University of Wyoming in Laramie and a favorite stargazing spot. The enormous granite rocks are at an altitude of 8,200 feet, the views from these formations are breathtaking. Overlooking dense pine trees directly below and endless plains under the wide open Wyoming skies, you can see up to seventy miles south. It is a place of profound beauty.

A car was important at the University of Wyoming for weekend trips to ski areas, John Denver concerts in Colorado, and nearby hiking spots. My Mom gave me the family station wagon, a 1971 copper colored Mercury Marquis, an eight passenger behemoth. No roof ski rack was needed, two rows of seats down for skis and poles with plenty of room for passengers. That car was a like an armored tank that could comfortably reach speeds over ninety miles an hour on Wyoming’s pristine, unpopulated highways.

My friends and I would make plans for the weekend while eating dinner in our dorm’s cafeteria. A favorite Friday destination was Vedauwoo, to watch the sun setting. The sky in Wyoming is so big, especially at Vedauwoo, that we felt that we could reach out and touch the universe. Winter snow was rarely a problem, the Mercury had studded snow tires, but most of the snow would blow down to Colorado anyway. We’d park, climb a lower rock and watch the sun become a blazing ball of fire against the purple sky. It wasn’t long after sunset that the stars came out, it was like fireworks on the Fourth of July, we’d ooh and ahhh at every new constellation’s appearance. The piece de resistance was the Milky Way, it truly looked like the Greek myth where the Goddess Hera had sprayed milk across the sky.

While living in Coronado, California, on clear nights in the winter, my small children and I would walk across “the Strand” to catch the sunset. We’d climb to the top of a sand dune and watch the huge orange disk plop into the ocean. Afterwards, we’d lazily slide down the dune, bathed in nautical twilight, the afterglow of the sun below the horizon providing enough golden light to see our way home. The lights from the Naval Amphibious Base would greet us after navigating the darkened beach surroundings.

Waikiki was the perfect spot for sunsets, walking on the beach, the silhouette of Diamond Head in the distance made the energy of the sun setting magical. Driving over the Malkus bridge while the sun sets here in Cambridge is always a gift. The skyline here is different than Wyoming, California, and Hawaii but the sun setting over the Choptank River gives the same vibrant colors and fills my mind with dreams of the stars. My husband and I have spent many beautiful nights star gazing from the hot tub on our deck. Matt learned the constellations as a child from his Navy pilot Dad. We are always thrilled when the stars are clearly visible, but the best was the night a skein (flying) of snow geese flew over with the Big and Little Dippers as a backdrop.

I have been lucky to live my life with the gifts of the sky, nature’s treasures. Every sunset is a memory that made an impact on me, a powerful symbol of closure and renewal. Watching that golden orb gracefully bid farewell to the day allowed me to be fully present in that moment. Years ago, sitting on that dune in Coronado, I didn’t know that I was “grounding” with the earth. The calming effects that the combination of the sand, the ocean, and the sunset had on my children and me were profound, a quiet moment of wonder and joy.

This first week of the New Year I learned a new term, “glimmer.” “Glimmers” are those moments in the day that make you feel joy, peace, happiness, or gratitude. Once you are aware of “glimmers” they will appear more and more. I’m now on the look out for “glimmers.” The surprise snow on Friday evening was a glimmer, I love snow, especially while sitting in our hot tub.

“Onward and Upward,” was an idiom used often by my Dad, usually when something challenging had befallen our family. According to thefreedictionary.com, “onward and upward” is an expression that is defined as “something you say in order to encourage someone to forget an unpleasant experience or failure and to think about the future instead.” “Onward and Upward,” coined by C.S. Lewis in book five of the Narnia series is believed to be the adoption of a position that requires optimism, empathy, and curiosity.

To optimists, the future is believed to always be the place at which, when we arrive, everything will be alright. The future may be a quest to define conditions and circumstances in which we want to happily live forever. Adoption of “onward and upward,” spurs us to ask, “what can I do now to improve my situation?” Optimists evaluate conditions that are intense, emotional, or disappointing as something you are passing through, rather than something that is chronic or never ending. In other words, optimists see the positive side of things. They expect things to turn out well. According to Martin Seligman in his book, Learned Optimism, to adopt optimism for the long term, one must possess and display empathy.

Empathy is the ability to choose to respond rather than react, to understand and share the feelings of others. “How would I feel if this was happening to me? and What can I do to help?” are examples of how empathetic people focus on other people. When we concentrate on how others interpret a situation, it sheds light on the best approach to help the adoption of, “onward and upward.”

Jeff Naylor, CEO of SIRF Roundtables states that an optimistic outlook promotes curiosity, offering a positive approach to uncertainty, which is empowering in facing the future. Optimism and curiosity are necessary bedfellows for bringing about change. Optimism promotes the desired solutions and curiosity creates the foundation for those solutions. Optimists tend to have naturally curious minds, are open to learning, embrace new perspectives, and welcome novel ideas.

Iyanla Vanzant, author of Peace from Broken Pieces, suggests living well today, in this exact moment. We need to be joyful, peaceful, and grateful for what we have and what we are doing right now. When we do things that keep us feeling alive and hopeful, we learn to look forward to a brighter and better future. Vanzant appreciates our fear of the unknown, she recommends acknowledging that fear, accepting it, and walking through it with confidence.

In setting intentions for 2025, there’s a trend where you choose a word or theme to sum up what you want the next twelve months to hold. In contrast to a resolution, a one-word theme leaves room for creativity, whimsy, and fun. Compared to a resolution, a one-word theme is easier to keep uppermost in your mind so it can guide your actions through the year. To pick your own theme, pay attention to a word or concept that resonates with you. Your word might be a noun, an adjective, or a verb. There aren’t any rules when choosing as long as the word is meaningful to you.

With a nod to my Dad, I have chosen “onward and upward’ as my theme for 2025, continuing to move forward, rather than dwelling on negative experiences.