Delicious Sisters
May 1st, 2009 by Marilyn
I would like more sisters, that the taking out of one, might not leave such stillness.
Emily Dickinson
After more than a year’s worth of Simmer, I’ve concluded that blogging is much like phoning your family. Some days an outburst and others, just “Everything okay? Bye.” For example, I was going to tell you about the pumpkin dog biscuits I baked for Cleo, but…I know. We talked about Cleo yesterday. Or what Greg, um, had for lunch, or how Jean made me laugh – oh dear, did I mention her the other day? You get the picture. Purposeless blogging is a lot like aimless talking, a lot like that check-in call with your mom, your friends, your sister.
Whether you love or dread those calls isn’t the point; the point is there’s always someone on the other end you can trust, and with whom you love to be aimless. After moving from Chicago to Kansas, my sister and I would talk – quite literally – all day. At the time, she was fighting cancer and I was nursing a newborn. Like long distance chain-smokers, we’d hang up one call and minutes later, start another. She forgot to say this, I forgot to tell her that. We lost Iris when she was 26. Twelve years later I wake up, still think our dual catty thoughts, and reach for the phone.
I used to tell my father, struggling for calm, that now she was a gift, the best parts left to carry, a gift like a warm stone in your pocket. Eventually he accepted that, and I believed it; but anyone with loss knows that gift comes chained to your core. And my, does it drag around. Still – if there is grace to be saved in losing a sister, it’s the wonder in finding women so attuned to your loss, so keen to your rudderless state that, with shocking kindness and intuition, they offer themselves as your own. We can never replace our sisters; but what comfort, what faith lies in knowing that a sisterhood can, and will, find you.
Though I did nothing to deserve it, sisterly gifts found me: friends, cousins, aunts, artists, bloggers, writers and cooks have all lightened that weight in coffee shops, on the page, in their kitchens, in my kitchen. Recently the dear, talented geniuses of The Sister Project generously hosted my small – but vital – sister story, and you can read it here.
I haven’t yet shared this on the blog, these bits from the wings, because it was my desire to keep Simmer a relatively joyful, delicious place. But I’m deeply gratified – and surprised – by reactions at The Sister Project, from both those who want to know and those who know too well. I shouldn’t be, but am, surprised at the welling, gut feelings on loss. I’m not at all surprised to find a sisterhood willing to share.
Or maybe we haven’t discussed this yet because, you know, one needs to save stories for all those daily calls. I mean, posts. Thank you, gentle readers, for being an enormous set of friendly ears, every day. And now – be you sister, mother, friend, or even a smart sensitive guy, get yourself over to the brilliant Sister Project, and poke around; there is family, there is food, there are stories, and if you look long enough, you’ll find treasure in every corner.
* Oh, I’m sorry, is this blog supposed to be about food? Okay. We come from a food-obsessed family, so no better way to honor my sister than by exposing her secret snacks of shame (which weren’t so secret): Butternut bread slices fried in butter, spread with jam; tossing late-night spaghetti carbonara; drinking Hershey’s Syrup from the bottle, mixing pretzels into peanut butter and – my favorite – eating Lipton Sweet Iced Tea mix with a spoon. You know, it’s not half bad.
“…now she was a gift, the best parts left to carry, a gift like a warm stone in your pocket. Eventually he accepted that, and I believed it; but anyone with loss knows that gift comes chained to your core.” Those words really resounded with me.
I agree with Jayne. Marilyn, your words are fine art. They capture the morning light with wonderful swirls of colorful paint on canvas. ( Or maybe swirls of buttercream on a cupcake.)
As I commented on the site, your sister story really moved me. Thank you for being so brave to share.
Nothing like a good morning cry to get a girl’s juices flowing. Thanks for this beautiful post.
I love your sister’s snack choices.
I don’t know what it would be like to lose my sister. I’ve suffered devestating loss that I didn’t think I could recover from. I think it’s incredible that you’re learning to live side-by-side with it. I hope that writing about it and sharing it with other sisters, etc. is healing on some level. I think the fact that you get out of bed out of day and live your life is pretty damn courageous.
Marilyn , you leave me speechless and in awe of your writing talent and your heart. Thank you for sharing with us. I think it’s wonderful to catch a glimpse of the lovely person behind the blog.
As always your writing captures the essence of life in its smallest moments. Reaching for the phone to call your sister. God, how I wish you could call her.
I have a few weird questions, I hope they’re not inappropriate. Forgive me if they are, but . . .
1. Do you ever call your daughter “Iris” by mistake? I call Kari “Jen” and I call Jen “Kari” too. I can imagine it would happen all the time for you. If it does, it would probably feel both horrible and joyful all at once.
2. (Totally weird question:) Has Iris contacted you or sent you messages? This has happened to me when I’ve lost someone. They just find a way.
It seems you feel that you are held up in your loss. I hope that’s true. I wish I could help, but I don’t know what would help me if it was me in your shoes. I can offer to be your sister, though, or share mine with you. The sisterhood of women. That’s what we are.
I read the sister story. I too have lost a sister. She was younger than me and she will never get the family jowls we laughed about and that I am now acquiring. I have dreams about her. I have a friend who reminds me of her. I have her daughters. You see, I have gained even though she is not here anymore. N
Jayne, Jenni & Karen: thank you for those kind words. A few household members could assure you that daily I’m not consistently brave or lovely – but Cleo loves me. Of course, I feed her.
Dear Thyroid: welcome! I’m so sorry for the loss you experienced. Come back & visit Simmer – we do more than a good cry, we also strive to amuse. Hope to see you soon.
Laurie: 1) Yes, I do occasionally say Iris when I mean “Josie.” It’s sort of funny, and then it jabs you. 2) No identifiable messages, but sometimes our daughter is so much like her – likes the same things, will say something in exactly the same way. Ways she couldn’t possibly know, and then Greg & I just look at each other, amazed.
3) Sweet Laurie, thank you for the offer. You’re so kind & funny as ever. I just might take you up on it.
Nella: I am so deeply saddened to hear of your sister – but I’m honored that you shared your thoughts about her here. It’s wonderful that you know you gained something; even with them gone, there is always something to gain. Is that the gift?
My “baby” genetic sister, Marion, and I used to stand in front of the side-by-side refrigerator-freezer and squirt Reddi-Whip and Hershey’s chocolate syrup into our hands, then lick our palms clean. Your list of Iris’s favorites brought that rushing back from a million memories ago. And in our day, Tang from the spoon was the Lipton equivalent (if a bit less caffeine-laden).
A side-effect of your generous sharing this last week of your story: I have met so many new women from Simmer Till Done’s sisterhood, one more lovely than the next, all of whom prefaced their comment or email or Tweet to me with something like: “Marilyn made me cry today,” or “Marilyn’s words always move me,” or just “I love Marilyn.” Some big, beautiful family you have. Thanks again for everything, for opening this door between us wide enough so our sisters can pass back and forth at will, swapping recipes for sustenance of whatever kind they please.
Here I am, that “baby” referred to in the comment just above me, always one step, one slurp, one spoonful behind Margaret, my older sister, lapping up her sense of memory, ingesting it and then baking up my own response to the same moment. And while we differ on most of the small stuff–Redi Whip? Not in the memory bank, though Tang on a spoon is as front and center as is our mother scorching the kitchen ceiling with her single attempt to flambe–on the big stuff we always agree, as we did when we read your words, Marilyn, the first time, and every time after. Thank you for your kind words about The Sister Project. In one of her letters, Emily Dickinson says that “Friends are Gems – Infrequent,” and I’ve always treasured that, the sense of the singular exquisite joy in each, which is what we felt when we met you online. Write on, sister.
beautiful,M…I have two sisters…the sister project…I will go there next
!
Oh, Marilyn…I don’t know what to say. What a lovely remembrance of your sister Iris. Hugs.
Oh Marilyn, Marilyn….write, write, write, please don’t stop your words are too beautiful to compare. I’m drifting along in a Marilyn world.
Sister snack, cinnamon toast after school. Slice after slice after slice.
shhhhh my eyes are leaking and I’m at work… in an office of men… sigh, I’ll need some toast too.
Marilyn- absolutely stunning writing. What an elegant memorial to your sister. Thank you for sharing.
First, I think you are a wonder. Second, you should feel free to write whatever you want here (though I relate to the feeling of breaking some promise when I go off topic on y site). Third, I too ate Lipton powdered ice tea mix with a spoon (hey, it works with hot chocolate mix!). I am relieved to know that I’m not the only one.
Thank you for being you!
Margaret: those are some of the most heartening words I’ve ever seen. Not the nice things about me – the part about Reddi-Whip and Hershey’s syrup. It’s clear that when it comes to secret snacks, no one is ever alone.
Marion: how I enjoy having you and your Tang-y accomplice around! Will watch for your flambe-ceiling story. Flaming always, always brings the goods. Thanks for your sweet encouraging words.
Theresa: as always, happy to see you. Now go call your sisters.
Carol: thanks for the hugs. Hope all is well with you!
April: from what I can see, you’re living in a super-sized egg world. Did you and Rechelle munch cinnamon toast every day? Still?
Sandy: not sure what strange power toast has over us, but is the easiest, most comfortable thing. Add butter and jam and there’s bliss!
Laura: thank you for those dear words. Sharing with such kind readers makes it easy.
Tea: nope, you’re the Wonder Woman, as seen weekly on your site. Such gorgeous points of view. And yes, we spooned dry hot chocolate, too – possibly even ate dry mini-marshallows. Whatever’s in the pantry is fair game, right?
I wish I was half as close to my sisters as you were with Iris, I will work on that. And, making you snort when you laugh even more.
I still haven’t found “quiet time” to read this. I’ll have time when we return Saturday.
I’m into my third full day at Disney. I’m still not a member of the cult. We had a great meal at Le Cellier Steakhouse yesterday. This morning my daughter had breakfast with Mickey. Tonight I’m off to something called the Hoopty-Doo Revue. I don’t know what that is, but my wife promised there would be fried chicken and beer there. Of course, it sounds like a place I should be.
The Hoop-Dee-Doo rocked! I highly recommend this show. I might be your first drunk commenter.
Loss is sad, but remembering is good. My dad was vividly in my dream after he passed away, I know he was in heaven with my mom telling me it was ok. Or at least that is what I am going to believe. Can we still have the dog biscuit recipe? You can talk about Cleo all you want – she looks similar to my Payson.
Oh, Mar, I didn’t read this until today.
So perfectly written, your story of you and Iris – you captured so much, so deeply, in those few words. Josie and her paper chains . . . .
Love you.
Marilyn,
I too have lost a sister. I was not able to be there with her at the end, her daughter called as I was leaving the grocery store and thinking it was another false alarm, I stopped at home to put the ice cream in the fridge before I went to see her. When i got there, it took me a good five minutes to understand they were trying to tell me she was already gone. Those few stupid minutes I wasted on precious ice cream will haunt me always.
I miss her every single day and just like you, I still think about calling her to talk about something I know she would have been interested in. For about a year after she passed away, I would see people who looked so much like her, I would have to turn away to keep from crying, even though I still cried anyway.
Even though I love your recipes and cooking posts, please continue to write about life also. I enjoy your gift of writing and I lurk/check your site daily. I sometimes think it would be nice to get to meet the people I read about, and by you so generously letting us into your world it is almost the same.
marianne