Holy Week Memories

A story about family and faith

Dr. Linda Karges-Bone

Photo by Michael Morse on Pexels.com

I was 11 years old in the spring of 1970 and the eldest child in a large and growing Italian, Catholic family. My father was a senior NCO posted at Blytheville Air Force Base in rural Arkansas. All of these details figure in the complex and deep seated memories of that Holy Week five decades past.

In 1970, my mother was heavily pregnant with her fifth child. As I later learned, this pregnancy in her mid-thirties was not expected and was taking a heavy toll on her health, physically and emotionally. Dad had returned from a lengthy deployment in Vietnam and things were difficult for everyone. From a child’s perspective , I felt the tension permeating our small home in airbase housing, but there was an escape, a source of solace, a safe spot. It was the Base Chapel and a gentle Franciscan Priest, Father Tony. The Franciscans were founded in 1209 by St. Francis of Assisi and live out their vocations in poverty and charity.

You see, that spring, in the Lenten season, we had a new priest at the Chapel. Father Tony was younger than the previous priest and more open and accessible. He wore the plain, brown robes of his order, tied with what appeared to be a cord of rope. On his feet, open sandals. Occasionally, his military superiors insisted on dress blues and the requisite clerical collar and we laughed when we saw this uniform. Father Tony clearly preferred his simple robes. Like the season of spring itself, this young priest brought fresh air and sunshine. Guitars at mass. Jokes during the homily. Babies and toddlers welcomed at the service, not banished to the “cry room” in the back. And he visited homes, eating meals, blessing the sick, and sometimes just hanging out drinking a glass of wine and watching football with the dads. This kind of openness was amazing to all of us and became a pathway to healing and hope for our family.

At the time, my dad’s vitriolic moods, the product of PTSD and Agent Orange exposure were taking a toll. I’m sure it was the same all over the base in 1970. Father Tony saw this. He seemed to see everything. Later in my life as a professor, I came to realize that this priest lived out the Hebrew word “El Roi”….the God who sees us. Seeing the brokenness in these Vietnam vets, Father Tony pulled the guys into fellowship and service. The single fellows were part of a folk mass team. The dads played softball and watched sports with their pastor. My dad was an excellent cook and Father Tony recognized this at once, certainly after his first Sunday lunch at our home. Dad was recruited to make huge pots of meatballs for church suppers and hundreds of pancakes for Shrove Tuesday that Lent. Cooking was my father’s love language and he was never happier than when he cooked and shared food.

But dad wasn’t the only one who came under Father Tony’s oversight. It was quickly established by my Italian mother that the priest’s people came from the “boot of Italy” from the same region as her own. The bond with Father Tony became strong. He was part of us. Always careful not to show favoritism, I know he saw the struggles of our growing family. I remember him coming in to bless me when my fever hovered at 105 during a bout with rheumatic fever. He knew that all the young families on the base were struggling as men deployed in and out of Southeast Asia that spring, returning ever more angry, sick, and confused. He decided that Lenten season that daily mass would not be in the morning as it had been. He switched daily mass to 5:00 pm and encouraged families to come together to worship and then eat supper afterwards. A tradition of “soup and bread” one day a week after Lenten mass was begun. Father Tony started out cooking the enormous pots of soup himself and then my dad and a few others picked up the momentum.  He told the soldiers to come to daily mass in their fatigues, hands greasy from working on the airplanes. He told mothers not to worry about dressing the children up. “Bring them in their play clothes, with mud on their sneakers.” My mother, then 9 months pregnant and with four little ones including a set of twins at home would meet dad at the chapel a few times that season, typically on the soup nights. But I needed more. At almost 11 years old and I saw and felt too much. I knew our mother was not ok. So, I made a deal with God. I would ride my bike the four mile round trip across the airbase to daily mass and ask for my mother’s health and the delivery of a healthy baby. I would do this all 40 days of Lent. And I did. My brother George Jr. a year younger, often accompanied me. He was a devoted acolyte and an even more  keen bike rider. I remember smuggling a sleeve of saltine crackers for the daily adventure because he seemed to be hungry all the time. To this day, my brother and I make it a point to attend mass together on the high holy days. It just feels right.

So, my brother Georgie and I found ourselves at the base chapel during the 40 days of Lent in 1970. To fully understand the workings of a military chapel, one must know that it includes and embraces and serves all faiths. All denominations share the space. The chaplains coordinated and even covered for one another, identically clothed in black military  issue with clerical collars, only their gold pins ascribing their faith tradition….the crucifix for Catholic, the Star of David for the Hebrew people, a very plain cross ( in my opinion) for the wide swath of Protestants. Inside the chapel too, the worship times shifted with the symbols and the pull of a curtain. Behind curtain one….the star….and then the cross….and our own crucifix for the Roman church. Otherwise, plain blue carpet and seats and windows.  But Father Tony always had a plan. He requisitioned what had been a storage closet and turned it into a tiny prayer chapel to house the Holy Eucharist in its golden repository and a beautiful statue of the blessed mother….probably sent from his cousins in Italy or Queens. It was there in the tiny prayer room that I would land 15-20 minutes before evening mass that Lenten season….to plead with God for my mother’s wellbeing.

At first, mom was confused by my daily absence. Mary was very strict and always on guard for danger….especially in the form of sloth or boys. “Are you sure there aren’t any boys?” I would assure her that it was only me, a handful of devout moms and a grouping of soldiers in the very back who slipped in late and rushed out early, as if trying to get the maximum “coverage” of the blessing with the minimum time spent.  Then, she suspected that I was trying to “get out of work”, one of the greatest sins possible in our family. Laziness was unknown and unwelcome. I assured her that all the clothes were folded, potatoes peeled, and table set before I set out. Seeing that I was sincere in this mission, she resorted to the Italian mother’s default position. I heard her on the phone with Grandma Anna who lived on 27^th street in Astoria, Queens. ”She might have a vocation” I heard mom say….crossing herself over her enormous belly. They already knew I wanted to be a teacher….so put a nun’s habit on the deal and the family was set for life.

Daily Mass was not the only new thing at Chapel that Lenten season. Father Tony instituted what I now see and feel and believe to be the only true path through Holy Week. We met as a parish family every day of Holy Week, focusing on the Gospel narrative of that pivotal time and celebrating with food, tableaus, and sacraments. I’ll never forget the Holy Thursday foot washing….young military boys in green fatigues looking at once uncomfortable and uplifted as a young priest washed their feet. There were heart-felt messages every night of Holy Week and for the first time in my young life, the homily or message was not a warning, but a teaching. Father Tony explained in terms that even the youngest child could grasp, what went on in Jerusalem so long ago. The narrative reached deep and remains to this day, but it was Good Friday that changed lives for many of us.

Earlier in the Holy Week of 1970, Father Tony set the stage for Good Friday. For those families interested in a more solemn observance, he prepared a schedule and a plan. My family went for the whole thing. It was more like an observant Jewish Sabbath. No hot meals. No television nor radio. No music. No snacks. No meat. A fast for adults. He even suggested darkening the home by pulling the shades to create a quiet, more holy atmosphere. We gathered at the chapel at 3:00 that Good Friday, the time of the death of Christ, wearing dark clothing, the women’s heads covered. The chapel was packed. Standing room only as our priest walked up the aisle carrying a large, wooden cross. He struggled and after leaning it against the alter railing, prostrated himself on the floor, barefoot. He was sobbing. We all were.  Then, for what now seems like a long while, we were quiet except for the occasional wail of an infant. Father Tony had simply challenged us to “think about what Jesus did for you, for each of us.” There was a sense that we were a community deep in worship. As the Good Friday service progressed, Father Tony told the passion story and we participated. At the end, if one chose, he or she could approach the wooden cross and kiss it or simply pray there. It took a long time, I recall and folks found themselves face to face with personal things long hidden. Father Tony’s Good Friday seemed to stir long held feelings, fears, and failures.

I see now, after years of “contemporary” worship and praise band options, that this was striking and fresh. A mass with guitars and nuns in blue dresses instead of full regalia was one thing, but this Good Friday was another. There was a deep, mystical, and serious tone.

Holy Week had become a holiday season, but in the most serious sense. Our family and many others prepared for the Holiest of days with the Holiest of weeks. I held on to that feeling and seek opportunities to keep Holy Week in an intentional way.

The excitement of Holy Week circa 1970 wasn’t just about Easter, though it was and still is about new beginnings. That Sunday, my dad prepared his famous leg of lamb, which I hated then and abhor to this day, but it was survivable  because there was always an enormous dish of pasta with red sauce to complete the meal. Father Tony and Father Bogetto, the visiting priest who drove down from his teaching post at a seminary about 40 miles away to help on weekends and holidays ate Easter lunch at our home, as had been the case for the previous few months. My dad’s excellent cooking and mom’s sincere welcome must have been a strong pull. I fell asleep that night to the sound of the guys, my dad and the priests, drinking scotch and telling stories. When we woke on Easter Monday, it was the smell of bacon and eggs that greeted us. Father Tony, wearing his dress uniform from the day before and shirt sleeves rolled up was cooking breakfast for the four older Karges kids. Our parents were nowhere to be seen. “You have a new baby brother,” he announced. “His name is Michael David and everyone is well.” We later learned that mom had gone into labor that evening after Father B had left for the seminary. Father Tony slept in the recliner and held the fort. He was that kind of guy.

Holy Week 1970 changed my life. I realize that the observances of a Holy Week, especially the “great days” Thursday through Saturday have the potential to bring spiritual healing and health if we allow ourselves to take the time. We had our Easter baskets that year for sure. Mom must have made them up weeks ahead of time, but we received an even greater gift, a new baby brother. Not many families can top that Easter surprise. Michael was and is a special guy, even though his hair is now turning gray. After Holy Week 1970, there were five of us, two boys and three girls. We weren’t a perfect family but there was always a strong sense among us that faith mattered and that the holy days should be kept. I’ll be at Good Friday service and I won’t be alone. Yes, my brother will probably be with me and he may well be in uniform, just like our dad , but I’ll also bring the memories of a time when a simple Franciscan priest showed our family that God sees us and loves us and wants to know us personally.

One Hand Washes the Other

One Hand Washes the Other

And Other Important Thoughts from My Italian Grandmother

Dr. Linda Karges-Bone

With Grandma on the day I graduated as Dr. Karges-Bone, Professor of Education. Grandma praying at the shrine of her namesake, St. Anne, Montreal, Canada.

            Growing up in the early 1960’s, I spent a good bit of time with my grandparents, Mike and Anna LaPorta, Italian immigrants who settled in the Astoria corner of Queens, New York. These facts figure into what I now realize are valuable truths that shaped my life and perspective on how things are and will always be.

            On a typical morning, after finishing an enormous blue and white percolator of coffee, a loaf of Italian bread from the La Guli pastry shop and bakery on the corner, real butter, and a medley of fruit, my grandmother would dispatch the younger children to watch cartoons or sit in the back garden with Grandpa, while she and I set out to take care of business “in the neighborhood”. As the eldest of four kids at the time and a girl, I was the likely and willing companion on these outings. It was an honor, an adventure, at times terrifying, but only decades later did I realize how valuable.

            Before we climbed the steep basement steps from the kitchen where most family time was spent, Grandma outfitted us for the gauntlet ahead, traveling down 27^th street to Ditmars Boulevard and even beyond. Every act was calculated to insure two contrary and counterintuitive outcomes. First, we were to look as attractive and neat as possible. This reflects the ubiquitous Italian demand for La Bella Figura, looking one’s best, but also acting slightly superior and confident. For example, Grandma’s stockings would be fresh and smooth, her lipstick a shocking coral, courtesy of my mother’s burgeoning Avon Cosmetics Empire, and her serviceable black oxfords polished to a high gloss. As her granddaughter and accomplice, even at the age of 5 or 6, I was required to have tightly curled hair, a crisply ironed dress, and spotless white socks. Though my dark brown hair and grandma’s equally richly dyed locks were both attractively coiffed, it was all for naught because a second requirement for traveling beyond the stoop had to be met.

            Our heads were covered with generous, brightly patterned silky kerchiefs, tied deftly under the chin and pulled forward to cover as much of our eyes as possible. According to Grandma Anna, this was to thwart Malocchio, the evil eye. While fastening first her head covering and then mine, she would explain the protective ritual in hushed, urgent tones. I don’t remember the exact phrases, because Grandma lapsed between Italian and English and at times muttered a mixture of what I suspect was prayers and curses, but there was a clear message. The evil eye was everywhere. People would be jealous of her smart and beautiful grandchild, so all precautions must be taken.

            It was my grandmother’s belief that I had been gifted with exceptional beauty, charm, and talent. Who was I to argue? But these very gifts and my grandmother’s position of authority and seniority in the neighborhood, left one open to attack. Hence, covering the eyes and head was the least a vigilant Nona could do.

            Once geared and cleared for the adventure, we set out pulling the wheeled, metal cart. Grandma never learned to drive and it didn’t matter. She walked everywhere until her early 90’s and stayed as fit as one might imagine. While we walked, she talked. That’s right. Grandma talked and I listened.

            There were many walks and talks, but actually only a few important themes emerged from these years. I’ll share two of them here. The first. Always have your own money. That is, a woman should have an independent, private, and above all, secret cache of cash, protected from and unknown to her male family members. Money is power my grandmother told me. I made the grave mistake of questioning this wisdom when I was a preteen. “I thought knowledge was power?” I parried. “Basta! Enough with the smart mouth.” Or something like that. She would mysteriously pull a beaded coin purse from her black purse and invite me to peer inside. “Money. Make sure you have your own money dolly.”  I still have that beaded coin purse. It is one of my greatest possessions.

            Another important lesson was this. “One hand washes the other”. This adage has many nuances and can be both benign and threatening. It is at once about getting and giving and about owning and owing power and tribute. At the very least, Grandma believed that every decision, every deal, every interaction should leave you enriched and in a position of strength. She used hands on experiences to bring this point home. I recall two long-standing business transactions that happened on Ditmars Boulevard that allowed my grandmother to model and instruct me in the fine art of “One hand washes the other.” The first experience involved the A&P grocery store and green stamps. In the 1960’s and well on, one would “earn” stamps for shopping loyally at the store. These stamps would be collected in small booklets and eventually “traded” for alluring and useful items from a colorful catalog. Grandma and I spent a lot of time sipping coffee at the kitchen table, admiring the treasures in that catalog. Yes, I said coffee. Everyone drank coffee, from the time one gave up the infant’s bottle. The amount of milk and sugar decreased with one’s age, but not much.

            Grandma watched the green stamps spit out of the machine at the cashier’s station like a hawk. For a woman who never went to formal school past the second grade, she possessed a keen and accurate head for figures. Nobody was going to cheat Anna LaPorta. Further down the boulevard we entered the Astoria Savings and Loan, the neighborhood bank. Grandma was faithful to that institution as well and in return, would receive pieces of yellow and white ceramic dinnerware as she deposited funds from her job at the Sunshine Bakery Cookie Factory. These dollars were hard earned for both her and my grandfather and the work was dangerous. My grandmother’s right arm was never the same after one of the cookie presses malfunctioned and clamped her arm in a fierce grip that crushed bones. Still, she persisted. That is what she and grandpa did. Even with her arm in a sling, grandma faithfully deposited funds and received gravy boats, sugar bowls, and enough plates to serve 12. I have them in a box in my attic, too fragile for daily use, but an enduring reminder of the woman who taught me that “one hand washes the other”, even when one of those hands has been mangled by machinery.

Pastina…..the Universal, Italian Prescription for All Ailments, Troubles, and Sorrows

Dr. Linda Karges-Bone

           

My grandmother’s people came over from Southern Italy, a village called Avellino located in the Campania region east of Naples. Anna Peretti LaPorta brought many skills and a decidedly tough disposition with her. Yet, she always loved the bambine and made sure that every little one in her circle was well fed. At the center of this was and still is “pastina”. Pastina is often an infant’s first solid food. Forget the celiac threats. Forget the plain grains or mashed peas. A growing Bebè requires more and pastina delivers.  I remember Grandma Anna stirring a large pot at the gas range in the basement of her brownstone in Astoria, Queens. She swore by the blue and white cartons of College Inn chicken broth if she hadn’t had the opportunity to simmer her own stock. That happened occasionally. Even Grandma wasn’t perfect.

           

            Pastina or “tiny pasta” is a staple in Italian households. Cooked in chicken stock that is typically infused with finely shredded or pureed celery and carrot for a vitamin boost, the miniature star shaped pasta becomes a savory, golden gruel that boasts comforting and even medicinal prosperities.

            There was a recessed cupboard built into the wall opposite the gas range. It had no doors, but was covered by a blue calico curtain on a rod. I was told that my grandfather Mike had actually built the cupboard and sewn the curtain. The man could do anything. That’s a fact.  Lined up on the shelves was a stock of blue Ronzoni Pasta boxes enough to last till Gabriel’s trumpet sounded. Grandma Anna was a “creative” as we like to say these days, so she didn’t limit herself to the traditional tiny stars. ( Pastina # 155)  We were treated to the  petite bows, miniature “ears” Orecchiette , little tubes or Tubettini, Orzo rice shaped pasta, my personal favorite Acini Di Pepe a small, round nugget typically used in Italian Wedding Soup, occasionally the slightly bulky wagon wheels, and in a pinch the smallest seashells. Prepared in the golden broth dotted with fresh vegetable scrapings and dotted with melted butter, Pastina was the first and universally proclaimed favorite food among the 10 grandchildren who sat around the basement table. There is an important point to make here. No matter what shape the pasta, or if the veggies were added or if butter, milk, or even beaten egg infused the soup, it is always called Pastina.

            Pastina is the children’s meal when one is too young to dine on the roast chicken, pork cutlets, or meatballs. Pastina is everyone’s meal when the hour is late, the larder is bare, or anyone taken ill with any kind of ailment, physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual.

            I learned to make Pastina myself when my baby brother Michael (one of 5 Michaels in our extended tribe) was born in 1970. My mother became fragile after the birth of this fifth child and as the eldest and a girl, I stepped in. I was 11 years old and remember very clearly the tiny blue boxes that my grandmother shipped down from New York to the military base in rural Arkansas where my father was posted. We suffered many indignities living on military bases, according to the New York grandparents, but few matched to lack of access to “good bread” and the spinach, carrot, and egg pastina required to feed a bambino like my new brother.

            Fast forward 14 years and I had a Master’s Degree, a husband, and a new baby myself. Living in the South though on the East Coast, I was aghast when the other young mothers in my set started their infants out on Rice Cereal from a box. This was not good. I knew better. I called Astoria and a few days later, the bulky brown parcel arrived, tied with twine, inscribed in her scrawling, sometimes unreliable English. A dozen tiny boxes of tiny baby pasta arrived monthly. For as long as I needed it. Through two babies. And beyond, because after all, no Italian kid, young or old ever grows out the instinctive need for this prescriptive soup for the Italian soul.

Autumn Can Be Keto Friendly and Fun With this Treat from Dr. B

Keto Pumpkin Pie Mousse

Descendant and Delicious

My low carb, no sugar journey began 2.5 years ago, when some worrisome blood work and an uncomfortable padding of weight in my middle led to a diagnosis of insulin resistance. Now, with a 30 pound weight loss, renewed energy, and a clean bill of health, I recommend and enjoy a lifestyle that includes delicious foods with interesting substitutions for less healthy ingredients. Today’s heroines…..pumpkin puree and Greek Yogurt.

This dessert or a light breakfast if you wish, especially when paired with a Ratio Keto granola bar is one of my favorites and so easy to do. Here’s what you need to make 5 generous servings. Keto bar here.

Ingredients

½ cup heavy whipping cream

1 cup 2% Greek Yogurt ( I like Fage)

½ cup pure pumpkin puree

1/3 cup Brown Sugar Splenda ( Monk fruit Confectioners’ Sugar also works)

2 tsp pumpkin pie spice and 1 tsp cinnamon

Walnut pieces to decorate ( optional)

Directions

In a deep bowl, whip the cream, puree, sweetener, and spices until it begins to stiffen.

Fold in the yogurt and beat 2 minutes

Pour into pretty dessert dishes or ramekins and sprinkle with a bit more spice and  top with chopped nuts if desired.

Option

The newly available “nut” crusts, either walnut or pecan are nice options to pour the entire mixture into and freeze for an ice creak like pie. They are made by Diamond of California and available at most grocery stores.

Keto Konjac Pad Thai….Like Kryptonite!

Nana’s Low Carb Pad Thai

Satisfying and Savory

My low carb, no sugar journey began 2.5 years ago, when some worrisome blood work and an uncomfortable padding of weight in my middle led to a diagnosis of insulin resistance. Now, with a 30 pound weight loss, renewed energy, and a clean bill of health, I recommend and enjoy a lifestyle that includes delicious foods with interesting pasta substitutes. Today’s heroine….the “Konjac” noodle. This root from the East is used widely in Asian foods and has no carbs and almost no calories. Prepared wisely, in my 3 step formula….it takes on the texture of “real” pasta or rice and adopts the flavors of your chosen sauces. Today, we look at a Pad Thai that I developed to maximize protein, good fats, and flavor. A few instructions for shopping first.

1. Find the “good” Konjac noodle. Some of the brands are packed in water that has a decidedly “earthy” smell that can be a distraction, even after rinsing. I did some research and landed on the “Sinny Noodles” available on Amazon. I still do my signature prep with them, but even out of the bag they are quite benign.

Konjac Prep. Three steps to success.

1. Rinse the noodles or rice in cold, running water in a sieve. 1 full minute.
2. Immerse the noodles or rice in boiling water for 2 full minutes. Drain and rinse again.
3. Toss into hot pan ( olive, sesame, or avocado oil) and “dry out” for 1 minute before folding in sauces. Often, I’ll cook my protein, veggies, sauce and then simply move it all to the side and sear the rinsed noodles in the middle before combining it all.

• Secure a good protein source for the Pad Thai. A few of my favorites include: Jimmy Dean Turkey Crumbles, Butterball turkey breakfast links, Diced chicken breast, firm tofu, or a few pieces of leftover streak or chop.

• Source a canister of my favorite peanut butter powder. I use it for everything. PB Fit is my favorite.

Directions for my Keto Pad Thai

1. In a large non stick skillet, brown 1 tbsp chopped garlic, 2 tbsp chopped green onion, and 1 tbsp chopped celery in olive or sesame oil.
2. Add ½ cup protein source. See above for ideas. Brown 2 minutes.
3. Dump in 2 cups of shredded and/or chopped low carb veggies. I like 1 cup of shredded green cabbage and the other cup a mixture of broccoli, green peppers, bok choy and ¼ cup shredded carrot for color.
4. Cook all of this 3-4 minutes and then push it to the side and dump in your prepared noodles. I like the Angel Hair or Spaghetti versions. Sear the noodles in the middle with a dash more of oil and black pepper.
5. Meanwhile, in a glass measuring cup, combine 2 tbsp of the PB powder. 1 tbsp. sesame oil, 2 tbsp low sodium soy sauce, and 1 tbsp rice wine vinegar. This is your Pad Thai Sauce.
6. Pour in the sauce and coat everything. Gently toss on a low heat for 2-4 minutes.
7. Sprinkle with sesame seeds.