The Most Maligned Meat

Liver! Oh the very sound of the word can cause shivers to run up and down your spine in some, in others the word can cause a cold sweat to occur, and in still others the very thought of the pungent meat will cause automatic gag reflexes to kick in.

Now don't get me wrong. It hasn't always been this way for me. Let's face it, when I was a child and my mother would make liver I couldn't understand what I had done to humanity that was so horrible that it would require punishment by liver. I wracked my brain trying to find out what unpardonable sin I had commited that would bring such wrath down on my head. She'd place the plate in front of me and immediately my mouth would begin to water, the room would begin to spin and I knew that I would pass out at any moment. No amount of ketchup could hide the awful taste of this shoe leather looking thing lying on my plate waiting for consumption. The look on my face evoked my mother to her duty of telling me how good it was for me and how it would make me healthy and grow up strong. Right, mom, go tell it to the kid next door and see if you can fool him into eating fried cardboard on the pretense of health. Sure!

If I may digress here for a moment, this is right up there with the turnip deception. Do grownups really think that children believe that turnips taste like potatoes let alone look like them. That's like being a badly dressed cross-dresser. Give the kids a break. We knew better. Turnips are not potatoes nor do they taste like them. Another insult to the child's intelligence.

Anyway, after getting married I one day found my self actually hungry for this obscene piece of animal innards. So off to the store I went. I picked the smallest amount up I could and went home feeling as though something wonderful was about to happen. I cooked that liver up like it was the most expensive piece of steak around. I tenderly seasoned it and slowly fried it adding bits of water from time to time. In a very short time it looked quite done and I slowly took a bite to see if I had succeeded in doing what my mother was unable to do. It was wonderful. Somehow I had learned the secret of making liver. You simply treat it with decency and respect in the pan and it will do you justice. I swear the hallalujah chorus broke out in my tiny kitchen that day as I fell to my knees and vowed to be the "liver advocate". I would be the redeemer of the liver. I would crusade for it to be "the other dark meat". People would swarm to the meat counter to buy this wonderful culinary delight as I taught them my secret of perfect liver making. Move over, Martha Stewart and Emeril, Anna was on the scene and I wasn't going to budge until liver was no longer demonized.

Well, time has passed and liver is still not on the top ten list of things you really want to eat. I wanted to be its redeemer. I wanted to loose it from its bonds of unjust hatred simply because people didn't respect the tenderness in which it needs to be treated. I now know it will never replace a good sirloin or roast, but I'll still try to tout its goodness to those who will be fearless enough to try "the other dark meat".

By the way, I like turnips now as well.

Win Some, Lose Some

When my grandaughter entered my life it was like a million twinkling lights went off all at the same time. She's two years old now. And in the past two years she has woven herself into the fabric of my heart. She has joined the threads of two families weaving a new pattern into all of our lives. I look at her and see in her, as in all children, the embodiment of life and hope.

I have another grandaughter. She's thirteen now. Through a series of paranoid decisions, this little one has not been allowed to be a part of my life nor me hers. Without a doubt the loss of her presence in my life has left its mark.

There's one part of her story that I'd like to share simply because I have a need to do so. She really was a miracle baby. Her mother had many medical problems. The hospital had even advised her to abort in order to not put a strain on her own body. But the pregnancy was to go on and I stood ground with her. For the next nine months I spent all my time at the hospital. Seven of those months was just making sure the baby stayed where it was supposed to. Finally the decision had to be made that it was time for the baby to be born. The mother's body couldn't take any more strain. I remember the day my son and I stood outside of the operating room waiting anxiously for any sign to let us know what was happening. Suddenly the one nurse turned, gave the thumbs up and we heard a cry. She was here at last. The neonatal ICU crew came and in a few short moments had carried her away to their unit. She weighed in at 2 pounds 3 ounces. Wow! A pound of meat and a pound of cheese would never look the same to me again.

For the next two months I came to know the NICU inside and out. Every evening and weekends was spent sitting by her incubator. Just the fact I could reach in and touch her brought a thrill to me. I could hardly wait to hold her. But as we watched our own little one fighting for her life, I saw many others around her doing the same thing. Babies would be flown in by helicopter, others from within the hospital itself and still others brought in by ambulance. Some of the babies stayed for a couple of hours. Some stayed for a day or two. And then there were the "others". Each day I'd walk to the unit and stand at the sink scrubbing up like a doctor before I could put on a gown to see my precious bundle. I'd push the door open to the unit and wonder what child would still be there. I always held my breath to see which space was now empty and cleaned. Teddy bears and pictures decorated the incubators of the "regulars". I remember one mother who had a space near ours. Her little boy didn't have anything in his incubator. So the next day I brought him a teddy and the mother thanked me. We talked for a little bit, hugged and then went to our stations to watch and pray. The next day I came in and his bed was empty, the space cleaned and readied for the next crisis child to arrive. I cried for the loss of that little life and the mother that would never be able to hold her son again. Each time this happened I held my grandaughter a little closer, prayed a littler harder and whispered the secret things a grandmother does to her grandchild.

I saw life come and go in this unit. To me this was the war room of the hospital. Battles of life and death fought on a daily basis by the smallest of the human race. These, to me, were real troopers, real soldiers. They were brave without knowing it. I stood in awe of the care given by nurses and doctors who tirelessly stood by these little ones to help them take their next breath or to help them learn to suckle. Here they were still developing outside of the womb. Lungs were still developing, eyes were still being joined to the brain, intestines still forming for future work. What a wonder it all was.

The moral of my story? There isn't one. Just a need to bring to light the life of a little girl that I pray will one day be in my arms again. Some have asked if I would ever do it again. Of course I would. I'm a little older now and I'm not so sure the stamina is there. But I would do it again.

Follow Your Heart?

I was channel surfing the other day. Next to shopping this is my favorite indoor sport. I came across the movie "The Bridges of Madison County". I read the book, it didn't impress me. I've seen the movie several times and that didn't impress me as well. I was given the book to read when it first came out and was told that I would cry. I didn't.

However, there was something that caught my attention this time and I sat enthralled as the characters roles were played out. With each scene I found myself more and more attuned to the situation they were in. Innocent at first. Then the slow building of attraction to each other with the culmination of unabated passsion.

Then it suddenly dawned on me. It was all so clear in one brief second. I knew what they were feeling. I had been there and done that. I knew what it was like to be torn between two worlds. The world of responsibility and commitment and the world of unbridled, passionate love. I have experienced both sides of what was being played out on the screen. The realization hit me full force. It was then I cried.

Yes, I've been on both sides of the fence. At one time I had packed my bags. It was my time. I was going to finally live for me. Then there was the time that I sat waiting for someone else to pack their bags. Responsibility and commitment won out.

Have I regretted my decision? Not really. I was young and life still held promise for me. There was still time I so foolishly told myself. But that time never came again. That door was closed forever. And still I wait for someone to take a chance with me in the lottery of life. I'll not be so cautious if there is a next time. I've grown too old for caution. I have nothing to lose at this stage of my life - or what's left of it.

Responsibility and commitment, to the best of my ability, will not stand in my way again. I will not make a second mistake. If that door is opened to me again, I will walk through with eyes wide open and my heart ready to love and be loved as never before. I will live, love and laugh with unbridled passion knowing I have been given a second chance at what once was.

I will follow my heart!

Live-Laugh-Hope!

I've come to the conclusion that I need to write. I'm not a great writer with many words and wonderful phrases that would mesmerize the reader into awe and wonder at my prolific style and ability. No, I'm just a woman who has reached a stage in her life where I need to express who I think I am, where I think I'm going and how I think I'm going to get there.

My yesterdays have passed, today is now and the future is yet to reveal itself to me. I can look back on my past and glean from both the good and bad decisions I have made and make my future a little surer. Some would think that the future is too mysterious, too uncertain. But I feel that we are given our todays to look back and then turn toward our tomorrow. I will not allow my yesterdays to determine my tomorrows. And I will not allow my yesterdays to detract from my todays, my nows, my moments in time.

None of us know the amount of time that has been alloted to us. When I was young I never thought of getting older. That was something far ahead in the future. Well, my future has arrived. I am older. I have done things, met people, gone places. I have lived, loved, laughed and made some judgements that were absolutely absurd. I looked for love in all the wrong places, gave love to all the wrong people and I have survied to love another day. Each morning I awaken with hope springing forth that this would be the day my dreams, desires, wishes could come true. I, personally, need to know that I have hope. I will not allow anyone or anything to take my hope away. No matter what circumstances I may face I will not let my hope die. To do that would be like surrendering to the enemy of time. I will not surrender! I will stand and fight for my right to hope for a life and love that transcends even my wildest expectations.

So in conclusion I say this. I am a woman, a daugher, a mother, a grandmother. I have walked this road of life, for the most part, by myself. I have stumbled at times, fallen down when I lost my balance, but always got up and went on. I have some bumps, bruises and even scars from this walk of life. But I'd like to think of these scars as badges of courage from those times that life became more of a battle then a walk. I am a woman with much love to give. A laugh that is infectious and eyes that look not only into your eyes but your soul as well. I am a lover. I am a fighter. I am a woman. And I have hope.