Author Archives: acloudcalledharry

Chocolate Flowers

Posted on by under Uncategorized

by Kymberlee Keckler

Dorothy Anna Keckler  October 19, 1932 to October 7, 2020

 

I’ll never recover from my mother’s death. I suppose I knew that someday she would leave this earth and I am grateful that she lasted almost 88 years. But it’s still so very hard for me. My brother and I could see her health failing over her last year, but I denied all the signs of her being closer to the end – dementia, sleeping longer, not eating, losing lots of weight, age regression, incontinence, heavy breathing, and falling. Over the past few years, I was afraid to travel far for fear that I wouldn’t be able to come home quickly. Whenever I visitied or called, I tried to give her something to look forward to keep her going…somehow hoping I could help her last forever.

My mother was my strongest supporter – there to encourage me when I needed it, to cheer me on in every endeavor, and to celebrate my successes. She feed me, clothed me, and prayed for my health and success. She comforted me in times of need. She nursed my wounds and soothed my emotional setbacks. She defended me against injustices and followed up to ensure that I recovered. She saw the best in me and fostered its growth. She sought fun activities and laughed at life’s oft ridiculousness.

My Mom, Dorothy, was unyielding in her kindness, generosity, honesty, thoughtfulness, and gratefulness. All of my friends loved her too. She loved with all heart, was a hard worker, and liked to have fun. Dorothy approached life with spontaneity, optimism, and joy. She always encouraged me to try new things – and appropriately steered me toward chemistry when I announced I wanted to be an opera singer at age 8. She grew up in the Bronx, NY and her accent would come out stronger when she was with her older brother (or when my brother or I did something to make her mad). We enjoyed going to plays, movies, and concerts together. We looked forward to strawberry season. She taught me how to budget, the importance of charitable giving, and to be a good speller – I still remember the song we made up in 1970 so that I could remember how to spell ‘please.’ P-L-E–A-S-E.

I never ever questioned my mother’s love for me. She was always there to support me – typing papers for me into the wee hours of the night, doing my laundry, driving me to school when I missed the bus – whatever I needed. I know I am fortunate to have had such a great mother and she has always been a source of my strength. I don’t feel I can ever recover from losing her. I regret being a brat.

If I didn’t have her as my mother, I would choose her as a friend – and I now realize that I have. I’m grateful for having so many kind and thoughtful friends – the gifts of food and flowers, driving me to see her, cards, texts, e-mails, and calls all fill my heart and help soothe me at this time of tremendous grief. The traits that I love about my mother are exhibited in my friends. She lives on.

I was able to see her on September 28, 2020. She had several strokes on October 3, 2020 and was hospitalized on October 4, 2020. I went to see her in the hospital on October 5, 2020. She said “Oh Kymmie! You came so far!” – always grateful as if an 80 minute drive was on par with a flight from Sydney. She touched my head and gently said “Don’t cry, Kymmie” and then we each said “I love you very much.” She then struggled to say something, but I didn’t understand her even after repeating it thrice. It sounded like “chocolate flowers,” “Chocolate for us,” or “chocolate flourish.” Deciphering this message haunts me. A dear friend took me to visit again on October 7, 2020, but sadly I was a few hours too late. My brother and I sat with her awhile before going to make funeral arrangements. I’m glad she didn’t suffer and didn’t get cancer (one of her fears). I’m not religious, but I hope she will be reunited with all those who have passed that she loves and love her back. Imagining her happy gives me some peace.

STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE
Topping
3 pints of fresh local strawberries
4 tablespoons sugar
Hull and cut all of the strawberries. Crush one third of them with a potato masher. Mix all of the
strawberries with the sugar and set aside.
Shortcakes
2 cups all-purpose flour (plus more to dust work surface)
½ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
3 tablespoons sugar (plus 2 tablespoons for sprinkling)
4 oz. butter, frozen
1 egg, beaten
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon half & half
1 egg white, lightly beaten
Place oven rack in lower middle position and preheat oven to 425ºF. Place flour, salt, baking powder,
and 3 tablespoons sugar in a bowl. Using a box grater with large holes, grate the butter into the dry
ingredients. Toss the butter and flour mixture together. Scoop the butter with your hands and quickly
rub the butter into the dry ingredients with your fingertips until most of the butter pieces are the size of
peas.
Mix the beaten egg with the half & half and pour it into the flour mixture. Toss with a fork until large
clumps form. Turn the mixture onto a floured work surface and lightly knead it until it comes together.
Do not overknead the dough.
Pat the dough into a 9 by 6 inch rectangle that is approximately ¾ inch thick. Cut into 6 or 8 pieces and
place onto a cookie sheet. Brush the tops with the egg white and sprinkle with remaining sugar. Bake
for 12 to 14 minutes until golden brown. Allow to cool about 10 minutes.
Whipped cream
1 cup chilled heavy cream
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
pinch salt
Add everything to a chilled bowl. Whip together, starting slowly and then increase speed until thicker
and doubled in volume, about 25 seconds.
Assembly
Split each shortcake in half crosswise. Spoon some strawberries and a whipped cream over the
shortcake bottom and cover with the shortcake top. Serve immediately

Buck Soup

Posted on by under Food, Stories

Soup is part of my DNA. I’m from Eastern European peasant stock. There is nothing more emblematic of an agrarian peasant culture than soup. That’s because you can make soup out of anything; meat scraps, bones, anything green (cultivated or foraged) and of course, water. My parents weren’t from the old country, but my grandparents were. While soup is the food of peasants, like my grandparents, it was also the food of families during the great Depression. Soup was a staple of that generation. Growing up my parents didn’t have to worry about where there next meal was coming from. But they did however, come from very modest, very working class families. As such, they ate a lot of soup growing up. Soup fed a lot of people; it was nourishing, satisfying and didn’t cost a lot to make.

My strongest, single memory of my Baba (my grandmother) was her cooking; especially her soups. After the long drive to Baba’s house there was always a big, steaming caldron–yes, a really big pot–of home-made chicken noodle soup–and yes, the egg noodles were home-made as well. Everybody helped themselves to a bowl and some crusty bread. Then my father and Dede (my grandfather) would split and consume the rest of the caldron; easily one to two quarts apiece. (And my Dede could slurp soup with the best of the Japanese noodle suckers.) To say my Dad liked soup is the understatement of the century. My Mom used to say that “you could put a pot of steaming water in front of Buck and he’d eat, as long as you told him it was soup.” My Dad liked soup more than ducks like water.

Given our heritage you’d think Buck would be more partial to the Eastern European classics like borscht, czernina, and potato soup. He was to be sure. But the eastern dish he was most partial to was really eastern…far eastern, Chinese to be exact. He loved Hot and Sour soup. (His other favorite was eastern too, the east coast, that being oyster stew, but that’s for another day.) He could eat a whole pot at one sitting. My father was not a big man by today’s standards– 5’ 11”, 190 pounds. But, he could put away the Hot and Sour soup. I don’t know where it all went. My Dad could be characterized by a riff of an old blues tune, “if the river was hot and sour soup, and I was a diving duck. I’d dive to the bottom and eat my way up.” That was my Dad. The fact he grew up eating soup, you’d think he would have grown to hate it or at least tire of it. As a pretty successful business man you might think he would opt for more steak and less soup. It simply wasn’t the case. He never tired of soup. In fact, as he grew older he liked it even more. It is fitting that the last meal he had before he passed away at 91, was a bowl of soup. The Marx brothers got nothing on Buck Soup.

This is the recipe for Hot and Sour soup my Dad loved so much. I hope you enjoy it as much as he did.

Dann Balesky

Hot and Sour soup (aka Buck Soup)

Posted on by under Food

Ingredients

1 T brewed, soy sauce 1 T brandy
1 t cornstarch
¼ lb. lean pork, cut into ¼” dice [Note: you can substitute any meat you prefer, even seafood.]
3 T cornstarch
8 c chicken or pork stock [Note: I prefer pork stock, but have never seen it available in stores. If you want to use it you have to make it yourself; which is what I do.] 3 T brewed, soy sauce
3 T white wine vinegar
1 t ground white pepper ½ t cayenne
1 t coarse salt
¼ c sliced length-wise bamboo shoots
¼ c dried Chinese mushrooms, soaked in a 2 cups hot water, cut into bite-sized pieces, reserve liquid 6 oz. firm tofu, drained and cut into ¼ dice 1 egg, lightly beaten
1 t toasted Asian sesame oil (I would not eyeball this one. A little goes a long way.)
2 T chopped fresh cilantro
2 T sliced scallions, green part only sliced on a bias

Dann Balesky

A cloud called Harry

Posted on by under Stories

You would call him a scientist.
When you dedicate your life to search for something you may never find the answer to – that made my father a scientist. Apart from the lab, living a regimented life; a life of exactitude was the order of the day. From this perspective my father was a moderate rebel – he loved baseball.
We went to a Detroit Tigers game when I was 10 years old. I had never seen a big league game and I had never seen so many people in one place before. I had never felt the hope and disappointment of so many people before. It was a doubleheader with the Yankees. The Tigers got swept. My Dad never said anything, but I knew he was happy.
In the summer he wore permanent press short sleeve shirts. His 4 shirts were white, light blue, light green and yellow; then the rotation would replay itself.
I was always surprised he was such a big Yankees’ fan; especially growing up on the west coast. As a boy he put together a crystal radio set. He listened to the Yankees’ games on dreamy California summer nights.
Somehow, I found the timing odd when he died. It was just before the All Star game; just when the pennant races started to heat up. The Yankees had won it all the year before. I have a confession to make – I am relieved I wasn’t there when he died. I confess, I would not have wanted to be there to see him struggle in the chaos of trying to extend his expiring life. He was going to die that day. Maybe this means I was not a very good son and maintained that legacy as a father. Still I am thankful, I wasn’t there.
After the funeral, we returned to my parent’s home. I went from room to room, faster and faster. I went to every room in the house. Then I did it again. I thought I could find him. I considered my father to be a fairly thoughtful man; who may have cut himself the deal of a lifetime. He wasn’t really dead. We just couldn’t find him. He kept moving his existence quickly to another new location. When I would finally catch up to him; he’d look up at me with a wry smile and say, “You found me.” When I would ask him why or how he would turn and quietly go back to watching the ballgame.
I never had a conversation with my Dad that lasted more than 5 minutes. Actually, we never spoke for more than 90 seconds. He just wasn’t a talker.
To make up for this brevity, everyday I look up into the sky and pick out a cloud thinking that cloud is him. It’s like I finally found him in that room he was hiding in. On perfectly cloudless days, I figure he’s having a blue skies kind of day. Usually he’s the tiniest, fluffiest, wispiest cloud not with a cluster of other clouds; but alone and happy in his singularity. I might change my mind once or twice before I know, it’s really him. In keeping with the conciseness of our earthly conversations, I’ll simply say, “Hi Dad. I’m thinking about you today.”

My Dad’s name was Harry. 

Harry me Honolulu 001-1