Sundries

I imagined waking up to someone giving me directions and pulling my arm from under the covers. In defense I explained why I couldn’t. I need to finish my dream. I could so easily get back to sleep and finish the dream if they’d leave me alone. 

 

In the dream, I have my little dog on a beach walking in the wet sand. It’s gray and not too hot, and in the house, in the kitchen, someone is making lunch for the family. I’m walking toward the house. I need to make something for this party. Should I make Emilie’s whiskey sours? My first mother in law made a pitcher of her special whiskey sour each Christmas. I don’t recall ever seeing alcohol at her house but she made this, and her secret was to use Minute Maid lemonade and orange juice mixed together. She served it in a cut glass pitcher with Maraschino cherries floating on top. It was so good, and served in addition to her cookies, and strudels, and charcuterie. Christmas in her little apartment was festive in a sweetly homey Eastern European way. Everything delicious and made with care, glittery decorations up, Emilie, beautiful and cat like. Petite but strong. 

I had to get back in the dream to decide what to make. 

Should I make Jean’s cookies? My second mother in law made the best butter cookies. Her secret was to pour some maraschino cherry juice from the jar into her standard powdered sugar icing. It not only made it taste wonderful, it turned it pink. The name Jean means talented. Jean could sew beautifully, cook splendidly, she’s never been topped for choosing the best greeting card, tender, beautiful, bawdy.  You could find her, book in one hand, cigarette in the other, when she wasn’t busy being useful and talented. 

Maybe I could make both. My recipe box is loaded with recipes from both them. I should hurry. 

I hope they come to the party. 

 

-Dorothy Dolores