God gives a select few a perpetual valentine to wear front and center at the end of a nose. No matter its color, her heart-shaped, facial ornament expresses her love for life and her human. It’s good to be loved.
Wearing a Valentine
Musings
Winter
Snow, sleet, and rain
cover the ground
skimpy patches
just enough to play.
Meteors dance
in the night sky
darkness longer
than last summer’s light.
Clouds block my view
hang so low that
we call them fog
I see only gray.
Gray this new day
like yesterday
and tomorrow
‘tis forever gray.
— Victoria Emmons, 2026
The Empty Teacup
We sat so long the chairs began to feel uncomfortable, the conversation whirling and dancing as though it were already spring and flower blossoms were floating to the ground. Neither of us wanted to get up, even though we knew … Continue reading
Why we need our Fathers
America celebrated Father’s Day on Sunday. We celebrated all that fathers do to raise honest, hardworking and responsible children. It’s not easy to be a father, and yet their role has become ever important. We need fathers to guide us, teach us, and love us.
As a woman, I know that my father played an important role in my relationships today with men. In all honesty, I was much closer to my father than to my mother. Mom had four kids running around under her feet all the time as she busied about feeding us, wiping our noses and getting us off to school. Dad always made sure our bicycles were in working order, that we got up on time, and that we did our homework. He also vetted our boyfriends, waited up until we got home from a date — even flicking the outdoor lights on and off if my boyfriend and I lingered too long in the driveway, and he took us to church on Sundays.
I have some great memories of my dad. He died in 1983 when my daughter was only two years old. I so wish he could have watched his red-headed granddaughter grow up and to meet his two great grandkids. They would have loved his humor, his patience and his kindness.
My dad grew up on a farm in Missouri; but he longed to fly airplanes. The US Navy eventually gave him that chance. When he retired to Jacksonville, Florida, after 30 years in the military, he became a schoolteacher sharing his own experiences in his history and geography classes – the life he had led in the Navy. He had survived the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and 14 hours in the water off the coast of Japan when his plane went down during World War II. My dad was a strong man.
When I was in 5th grade, I remember my dad playing nursemaid to our dog Lady who was struggling with delivering her puppies. Sadly, every one of those ten puppies died that day. My dad ceremoniously buried the ten lifeless pups as we kids grieved along with Lady. Dad was gentle in that way.
I also remember the day when Lady had puppies that did survive their birth. Cute, little blond cocker spaniels squirming and yelping in their cardboard box. When the puppies were only a few days old, Dad arrived with a large butcher knife in his hand, and we were horrified as to what he was about to do. One by one, he chopped off the puppies’ tails. Cocker spaniels, as you know, have cropped tails.
One of my best memories of dad was the day I wed in 1972. I was decked out in the white satin wedding dress I had made, my left arm resting on my dad’s strong forearm. I looked up at him – he was quite tall and handsome — just before we were to walk down the long aisle of the church. He turned to whisper something in my ear. “You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to,” he said. At that moment, I loved him even more. Ever the protector, my dad was there for me that day. Of course, I did go through with that wedding and dad celebrated along with everyone else.
After I had been married a few years, my parents and my younger brother came to visit us one weekend. My younger sister was living with us temporarily, having moved to South Florida to start her life post-divorce. We all had dinner together at home. My sister had a date later that night, so she left the dinner table early to get ready. When my dad learned his youngest daughter was abandoning us for some fellow, he became upset and demanded that she not go out, but instead stay home with the family. He spoke as though my sister were 14 years old.
At that moment, I reprimanded my father. I reminded him that he was in my house now. His rules did not apply. After all, I was 30 years old, and my sister was 28. It took a lot of guts for me to speak so firmly to my father as I had a healthy respect for him.
What surprised me that evening was that my dad later apologized. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re both grown adults and can make your own decisions. I was wrong to suggest otherwise.”
Those words have never left me. My father’s unexpected apology recognized me as an adult, and yes, always his daughter, but an adult. It also reminded me what a great dad he was.
It’s tough for parents to transition from changing their babies’ diapers to having a beer together with their grown kids. We need our dads at all stages of life.
Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there.
Thanksgiving 2023
The planned menu started out great. A simple Thanksgiving dinner to share with friends.
We decided to serve:
◦ Mimosas & cheese platter with crackers
◦ Oyster Stuffing
◦ Steamed green beans
◦ Mashed potatoes with skins
◦ Cranberry sauce
◦ Turkey – 13.26 lbs.
◦ Gravy
◦ Tossed salad
◦ Baguette + butter
◦ Pinot Noir
◦ Pecan pie with vanilla ice cream
The real Thanksgiving dinner was harder to create than we expected…
Wednesday…
The day before Thanksgiving, my husband Khalid agreed to help me with the menu preparations. I needed help chopping vegetables and retrieving heavy items from the cabinet. I dislocated my shoulder a month ago and am still not operating at 100 percent.
I asked Khalid to get the sugar canister down as I needed it for the cranberry sauce. I keep it on the second shelf of an upper cabinet. He reached for it and I could tell something was going awry. I begged him to move other things out of the way first, or perhaps use a step stool, but he was stubborn and proceeded as usual. As he pulled the canister filled with five pounds of sugar toward him, the lid popped off and showered him, the shelves, countertop, floor, even the tiny crevices on the cabinet doors with sugar. For the next 20 minutes, as our feet crunched around on sugar, we cleaned up sticky crystals from the cabinet shelf to the floor to the counters to below the trash compactor to even the small ledges on the cabinet doors and the folding door for the bread storage hideaway. The sugary mess just added to our prep work. Sigh.
Cleaning up sugar distracted me, thus, I allowed my cranberries to boil over leaving a sugary cranberry juice mess hardening to a smooth candy-like skating rink glistening on the stove top. One more difficult cleanup job.
Wednesday night, we unwrapped our fresh turkey and prepped it for brining overnight, plucking out any stray remaining feathers and washing, salting and thanking it for gracing our table. We carried it downstairs to our second refrigerator which had more space and poured the brine water over it there. Not one drop spilled as Khalid lifted the heavy pan onto the upper shelf of the refrigerator. Finally, after a quick kitchen cleanup, we could get some sleep.
Thursday…
On Thanksgiving day, I awakened with a severe foot cramp, no doubt from standing on our wooden floors in the kitchen all day. Not a great way to begin the holiday. Thankfully, I had dill pickles at the ready since they work well to diminish a cramp.
I awakened Khalid to help me with making the various dishes we had planned to serve. Our guests were due to arrive at 5 pm and there was still a lot to accomplish. We lay in bed another 15 minutes just talking about the day to come and then I finally got up to face the day.
Out of bed yet still in my nightgown, I started moving Christmas wrapping paper out of the kitchen. The last week or so, ribbons and tissue paper and smiling Santas had taken over our kitchen and dining room as I feverishly wrapped gifts to send family and friends.
I noticed my phone and had a missed call from Kate. She left a Thanksgiving greeting. There were also Thanksgiving texts from Stephanie, David and Dalila. As I read and responded to texts, my phone rang— Anita was calling to wish us a Happy Thanksgiving. We spoke briefly of pies and Aunt Sara. Then I was once again focused on my cooking and cleaning.
Khalid eventually got up to start on his assigned tasks, but not before sipping his usual cup of coffee and munching a peanut butter smeared croissant. He cleaned a pile of Russet potatoes for mashing, leaving skins on as he prefers them. He snapped green beans and chopped onion and celery for the stuffing.
The big menu item was the turkey! My dislocated shoulder still limits my range of motion. I can’t carry anything as large as a 13.25 lb. turkey, especially when it’s in a large pan sloshing around in a bag filled with 12 cups of brining liquid. Khalid managed to carry the heavy pan laden with sloshing brine and turkey from the downstairs refrigerator to the bottom of the stairs, but then the stairs proved daunting. So I took one side of the pan with my good arm and he took the other side, and we sloshed up the stairs to the kitchen without disaster. Whew!
But wait … we still had to dump the brining liquid into the sink and get the turkey prepped for roasting. Fortunately that occurred without incident.
I turned on the oven to heat to the required temperature.
We had done the math and knew how long our turkey needed to bake. I melted butter and mixed it with the seasonings, then gently brushed the hot liquid all over the turkey, making sure to cover every nook and cranny on the big bird’s body. Khalid assisted me in trussing the turkey, leaving both of us with buttery hands.
The oven was ready. We washed the butter from our hands. All looked well to put the turkey in the oven where it would roast until it was ready for its next basting. I couldn’t lift the pan due to the turkey’s weight, so Khalid carried it from the counter adjacent to the sink over to the counter in front of the oven in preparation. I opened the oven door and felt the heat flow out. The temperature was perfect for the big bird. Khalid again picked up the heavy pan, but this time our beautiful, buttered and brined turkey suddenly slid out of the pan and onto our wooden kitchen floor. With one hand, he swooped up the buttery turkey and plopped it back into the pan and into the waiting oven. The look on his face was one of pure terror. He started cleaning up butter and assuring me that all was well.
What had just happened? I stood there in disbelief.
It appeared that Khalid had grabbed one side of the pan with its normal handle and then accidentally grabbed the wrong handle on the other side — the one attached to the rack upon which the turkey sat. So when he picked up what he thought were the pan’s handles, one side fell free releasing our buttery turkey to fly through the air and land itself and all that buttery sauce on the floor, cabinets, oven door, drawers and anything else within a certain radius of the flying bird.
The good news is that our guests never knew.
Khalid and I cleaned up butter for the next half hour. Khalid was worried that he would face my wrath. I could see it on his face as he mopped the floor. I suppose I was still in shock, but suddenly I burst into laughter and I couldn’t stop giggling. Our Thanksgiving turkey had just ended up on the floor.
When Khalid saw me doubled over in laughter, he was at first perplexed, but then relieved. It truly was one of those unforgettable moments that will remain forever a part of our Thanksgiving lore. It reminded me of the scene in the movie “A Christmas Story” when dogs come in and eat the freshly roasted turkey and the family ends up eating at a Chinese restaurant.
The year when my mother had surgery, my father roasted his first turkey with the bag of giblets left inside. I have told that true Thanksgiving story many times. This year’s flying buttered turkey story will be retold, as well.
In between all the cooking and cleaning up sugar and butter messes, I kept checking up on my senior cat Gypsy who has now lost control of her bowels. She often misses the litter box in favor of the floor, or if I am lucky, she used the pee pads I put down in the mudroom where I keep her. I can’t trust her to wander the house freely anymore. Poor thing is skin and bones, but still hungry and begging for food. Her thyroid condition requires medicine in her ears twice daily. Despite my focus on cooking on Thanksgiving day, I still had to care for Gypsy.
As if that wasn’t enough, the dining room was still filled with Christmas wrapping paper that got moved just prior to our guests’ arrival and, with Khalid’s help, a fresh tablecloth added to the table with plates and silverware set just in the nick of time.
Khalid had told me that our two young guests would arrive at 5 pm; yet he told them to come at 4 pm. So when the doorbell rang earlier than expected, I was still in my nightgown just about ready to shower and dress. Khalid was downstairs about to step into the shower himself.
Sparky started barking, her usual alert to me when someone is at the door. I ran to my room to don a robe and opened the door to welcome our guests, apologizing for my inappropriate attire. We all laughed at the miscommunication. Khalid heard their voices and wandered up the stairs … himself not yet showered or shaved … and entertained our guests while I showered and dressed. Then we switched places and I continued cooking while he got ready.
Despite the arrival time mixup, our evening progressed well serving Mimosas and cheese as appetizers. Our young guests helped chop things as I continued to cook.
The oyster stuffing still had to be made. My recipe called for cornbread which I didn’t have, so I substituted regular stuffing cubes.
I asked Khalid to carve the turkey, another interesting experience. I assumed he would be skilled in that task, but he cut huge hunks of meat, a whole leg on the platter, a huge hunk of breast … instead of neat slices. As he carved, he’d stop to gobble down some of the meat, caveman style. The turkey tasted great anyway, nice and moist despite all its trauma.
We finally sat down at the table an hour past the planned 6 pm dinner time.
Khalid’s mashed potatoes were great, skin and all. The turkey was juicy. Cranberry sauce was perfect. Green beans were amazingly simple and delicious with no seasoning whatsoever. The oyster dressing was yummy even without cornbread. My pecan pie was a frozen one I had purchased, but it tasted great topped with Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. No one wanted coffee, so we chatted over dessert until our guests departed.
After they left, Khalid found his way to the couch and stretched out. I released the cats and dog from their laundry room prison and then plopped down in the chair next to him. In minutes, he was snoring. Our cat Buddy wanted to jump in my lap, so I got up to change clothes back into my nightgown given that I didn’t want cat fur on my nice dress. I sat down again in my nightgown, finished my glass of Pinot Noir, and released a sigh of relief. Thanksgiving was over for another year. But not quite. A messy kitchen awaited me. Pans needed to go in the dishwasher. My good china and silver required handwashing. Leftovers needed to be repackaged and refrigerated for tomorrow’s soup.
The day was a reminder of how thankful I am to have a loving husband, friends and family who care, and a good sense of humor.
Mask
Another year, pages
Of smiling faces, family members
Arms wrapped around shoulders
Hugs so tight you can’t breathe
Of better times when we laughed, ate cake
Together
When Uncle Jim would play Santa
And Aunt Wilma forgot tags on gifts
Slippery ice made walking paths dangerous
Between cabins warmed by gathered crowds
sipping cocktails or beer
Together
Popcorn strings a merry substitute
For the finer tree décor back home
No lights except those we imagined
But no one cared because
We were happy to be there
Together
In an alpine setting far from town
Smoke billowed from our chimneys
Leaving just enough room for a sleigh
The sound of carols filled the kitchen
Joyous and merry on the outside
Together
A name drawn from a red cap
Decided who would go next
To choose a gift to open
From the annual exchange
Of unknown donors
Together
Merrymaking clarified life then
Created a mask of perfection
Family, love and joyous times
Reason to live, reason to sing
Because we were
Together
What became of the laughter
Can only be surmised by time
Hardships of life
People disappear from the photos
Year after year, no more
Together
Busy lives lost in a tv screen
Talking to no one and everyone
With hopes of notoriety
Influential words that no one
Reads or wants to
Together
Impossible flights to nowhere
Century storms keep us alone
Destined to never repeat
What is obvious in those pages
Of smiling faces, family members
Together
—Victoria Emmons, ©2022
Out of Place
The speck of something, I don’t know what, lingers in my head, refuses to go away, rests happily atop the left-hand corner of my place mat next to a bowl of cherry yogurt with milled brown flax seed sprinkled on top. Is the intruder to my breakfast a random flax seed? Or is it left from last night’s dinner plate, perhaps a kernel of dried baby broccoli undiscovered until now? Whatever it is, the light-colored speck on the forest green placemat is ruining my place setting, ruining the order in my meal, the order I have created in my life. Yet another distraction that must be eliminated.
I lick my pointer finger — no particular flavor detected — and press down on the speck of whatever. It sticks to my skin, only to be released a moment later into the tiny succulent that adorns our small, round table. A table designed just for two, not for a speck of something to break the order.
The speck now gone, I can proceed with my thoughts free of clutter, free to create, dream, imagine myself elsewhere, perhaps with waves lapping gently at the side of my boat as I float in warm, clear water. No summer smoke. No chaos. No demands.
My granddaughter awakens and interrupts my reverie, tiptoes out to the kitchen like a hungry mouse. In her tiny pink pajamas with the laughing unicorn emblazoned on the front, she greets me with her own cheery face. She tosses her blonde curls to one side as she slips into the chair across from me without a sound.
Ready for breakfast? She shakes her head yes.
I gather up my dirty bowl and empty glass to take to the kitchen sink. Her favorite pancake batter awaits as I heat the griddle. It is the third morning in a row for pancakes.
What shape today? Kitty, she cries.
The batter to make a cat head, body, ears and tail is poured with care. I flip the cat pancake until both sides are golden brown and slide it onto a small, red plate. I place the cat and a bottle of Minnesota, tourist-size syrup in front of her, warning her to be careful with the sweet syrup. It pours easily.
She reaches for the pancake, then folds it in half as though it were a sandwich, with the cat ears flattened together and the tail hanging out from the folded edges. I realize I have forgotten to give her a fork. She holds the pancake in mid-air with her left hand, then reaches with her right for a speck of something, a speck resting on her forest green placemat. She picks it up and deposits it into the plant on the table. I hand her a fork and breakfast proceeds in an orderly fashion, followed by an orderly life, a penchant for everything in its place, poor girl.
Crumbs
The trail you leave behind
in the kitchen
tells me
you want to be found,
not yet lost, but
still searching
I consider
my future with you
a morning ritual of baguette crumbs
from our favorite shop
scattered on the counter and floor
crunching under my feet
I wait in line
to buy the last loaf
standing tall in its bread basket
fresh in the early morning
still warm from the oven
the way you like it
I know there will be crumbs
and the trail that remains
after your midnight feast
of peanut butter and honey
on a toasted slice
yet I buy the baguette anyway
I carry my own crumbs
remnants of a life before you
a different time, different goals
hope, fear, love, disappointment
greatest joy and deepest sadness
challenges that we both faced
I didn’t know I was searching for you
we were both lost
in our thoughts, in our grief
As life proceeded with little consequence
as though everything was normal
So we normalized life
Together
I stand here for you
knowing that a life
of eloquent words
and a trail of bread crumbs
left behind in the morning
has captured my heart
Victoria Emmons, ©2019
Mom’s Scrambled Egg Casserole
Twelve dozen.
Maybe just one.
Crack each open.
Open each crack.
Careful.
Mindful.
No shells in the sink.
Just think.
You are her.
Then stir.
No denial.
On trial.
Recipe fits, try it.
Topping too fat.
Think of that.
Push.
Shape eggs into mush.
Cheese sauce on top.
Stop.
Bake ‘til done.
—Victoria Emmons, ©2017
Valentine’s Day
Snow falls outside as I lay in bed this Sunday morn awaiting you I hear the familiar sound of a sizzling frying pan in the kitchen breakfast being prepared a Valentine’s Day gift No cake this time, instead omelette au … Continue reading
La Vue de rue Sleidan 