Let's Talk Food

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

When I was a youngster, sitting down to dinner with my family each night strengthened my mind and the nutrients in the food did the same for my body. I believe this because I have survived into my seventies with nary a major surgery(discounting a tonsillectomy as a child and cataract removal from my eyes a few years ago).  I must give credit to my parents for providing me with delicious, basic, whole foods, teaching me their importance and above all, how to prepare them. I ate gourmet food(not realizing this at the time) in a warm, loving family environment.

My father and mother never skimped on food but I will say they were frugal as they lived their lives providing for my two older brothers and me.  We did not have the “extras” but we did have comfortable furnishings, amazing clothes sewn by my mother or bought at Filene’s Basement and meals my parents cooked that were extraordinary.

My father was a salad/sous chef at Warmuth’s Restaurant in Boston.  He was adept at choosing inexpensive cuts of meat and poultry and knew fresh fish, fruits and vegetables. Our main meal always began with soup; name it and papa made it. He knew the cuisine of Northern Italy, from which he and my mother emigrated, and learned the cuisine of other countries from working in  restaurants most of his life. I think he probably inherited an amazing gene as he was able to create so many outstanding dishes. My mother grew up in Italy also and learned to make pasta by hand, rolling it out to thinness in tablecloth proportions. She also knew how to make the traditional rustic desserts of crostadas, tortas, biscotti and other cookies plus pies from American friends and the most yummy brownies ever, thanks to Baker’s Chocolate!

I learned the basics of prep and cooking from watching my father as he made our meals. He was out to work very early A.M., home at 3 P.M., nap for an hour, then into the kitchen. I was in charge  of cleaning up after him as he swept the counters with his cloth and I rushed to catch the crumbs. He washed, chopped, seared, sauteed, boiled, broiled, braised, roasted, fried and composed his repertoire of soups, salad, entrees and sides, but never desserts...that  was mama’s domain.

I strived to provide the same example for my three children as they grew to adulthood. Eating home-cooked dinners as a family each night was the norm with very few sweets, sodas, processed and fast foods. I guess my children learned to cook from watching me...at least they developed an interest in cooking which has stayed with them.They picked up ways to improvise and we had  many discussions about ingredients and sources of ideas to adapt recipes, mainly hand-me-down treasures from my parents and my husband’s mother which gave them the ability to jump into cooking on their own. I quoted my mother’s words to them, “If you use good ingredients, your food will be good.” My two daughters have raised their children likewise, providing wonderfully delicious and nutritious meals for their families. I love to relate how among my oldest grandchild Claire’s first spoken words were; tortellini, artichoke and polenta.  All our family are “foodies” in that they will try new foods, compare menu preps and styles(taste tests are common), critique meals at restaurants and have learned to cook for themselves and others.They appreciate food and their parents’ efforts to provide healthy,tasty varied menus for them ...a great joy in my life.

Of Ministers and Specters; Witchcraft in 1692

by Terri McFadden

Nearly 327 years after the outbreak of witchcraft in Salem the expression ‘witch hunt’ is still often in the news. Many of horrible events of 1692 are well-known and extensively chronicled. There are however aspects of the story that have been less examined. That is the story of the somewhat mysterious Mary Herrick who accused Sarah Hale, respected and admired wife of Reverend John Hale, of afflicting her. Mary’s vision also included one of the executed witches. According to early accounts, Mary’s accusation was instrumental in bringing Reverend Hale and others officials to their senses and putting a stop to the witch hunt. But is this really what happened?

On the 12^th of November 1692, reported Mary Herrick, “Mrs. Hale did afflict her as formerly.” The ghost of Goody Easty appeared too “and made as if she would speake.” Mary was said to be about 17 years old and she told Reverend Joseph Garrish of Wenham and Reverend John Hale of Beverly that she was pinched, pricked and choked by Mrs. Hale. When asked by the spirit of Mrs. Hale if Mary thought she was a witch, the girl answered “No You be the Devill.” The torments that Mary reported were the usual ones mentioned during the trials by the afflicted people; they believed their suffering was caused by witches who appeared to them as specters. In those days everyone, from the Harvard educated pastor to the simple maid servant, believed in the invisible world of spirits. They also believed these specters could harm those in the visible world. But Mary’s story was subtly different. The young woman told the specter that she didn’t believe it to be Mrs. Hale, but the devil in her form. (Emphasis mine.)

Mary Herrick’s story goes on: In the vision the deceased Goody Easty (executed September 22, 1692) was then able to speak and said that “she had been put to death wrongfully & was Innocent of Witchcraft, & she Came to Vindicate her Cause & she Cryed Vengeance, Vengeance, & bid her reveal this to Mr. Hayle & Gerish, & then she would rise no more.” Mary Herrick then stated that when Easty was executed she appeared to her and said that though she was “going on the lader to be hanged for a Witch….” She went on to assert that she was innocent and before a year was past the girl would believe it. Mary Herrick didn’t tell anyone of this vision at the execution because she believed Easty was guilty, but after Mrs. Hale appeared to her she became convinced that “all was a delusion of the Devil.”

Sarah (Noyes) Hale was 36 in 1692. Married to Reverend John Hale in 1684, she was expecting their fourth child - a son was born in December. The story that Mrs. Hale was beloved and no one believed she could be a witch has been repeated and repeated over the years. She may well have been beloved and admired by her community, but the fact is that by the time Mary Herrick told the story of her November vision the witchcraft delusion was nearly at its end. The trials had been stopped in October and the court of Oyer and Terminer dissolved. As we have seen, Mary’s own words show that she didn’t believe it was Mrs. Hale that she saw, but the devil in her form.

Also appearing in Mary Herrick’s vision was Mary Towne Easty. This unfortunate woman was one of three sisters accused of witchcraft in 1692. In a petition Easty asked the officials, including “the Reverend ministers,” not for her own life, but “that no more Innocent blood be shed…I know you are in the wrong way.” She suggested that the accusers should be questioned strictly and kept separate for “some time.” Mary Beth Norton writes in her examination of the witchcraft crises, In the Devil’s Snare, that it isn’t clear how many knew of the petition, but Mary Easty was “touching on the very issues that outspoken critics of the trials” were speaking of by September. By the second week in October public opinion had turned against the trials. Norton writes: “That one of the afflicted herself (Herrick) would so soon come to question the origins of her suffering and reject the guilt of such an active spectral tormentor as Mary Easty reveals above all the rapidly changing climate of opinion in the colony.”

 Who was the young woman who spoke with Reverend Garrish and Reverend Hale in November 1692? Historians have had some difficulties answering this question. No listing for Mary Herrick about age 17 appears in the published Vital Records of Beverly, or those of surrounding towns. A recent search of the handwritten records revealed a possible candidate; the daughter of Ephraim and Mary (Crosse) Herrick. This couple were married in Beverly July 3, 1661. Ephraim & Mary had an older daughter, also called Mary, born in 1667, making her about 25 in 1692. She is not found in death records but may have married in the 1680s. However, another daughter was born to Ephraim and Mary on May 25^th 1673, making her 19 in 1692. In the records she is called, “Mary alias Sarah Herrick, daughter of Ephraim & Mary (Crosse) Herrick” and in another she is “Sarah or Mary.”

The second question to address concerns the origin of the information posted in 1930 outside the Hale Farm, home of Reverend John Hale, Beverly’s first minister and his wife Sarah. The plaque, notes: “…a charge of witchcraft made against his wife convinced the minister of the folly and wickedness of the crusade and ended all witch-hunting in Beverly.” This story appears first in a book by Robert Calef, More Wonders of the Invisible World, published about 1700. Unfortunately, Calef does not record the source of this information. However, John Hale wrote his own book, A Modest Enquiry into the Nature of Witchcraft, on the events of 1692. In it he doesn’t mention Mary/Sarah Herrick or his wife. Instead, Hale wrote that he believed the legal methods used in 1692 by the authorities were in error and caused death and suffering of people who may have been innocent. In this he echoed the words of Mary Easty. He hoped his book might help avoid future mistakes which happened because of “proceeding on unsafe principle.” He continued, “Such was the darkness of that day, the tortures and lamentations of the afflicted, and the power of former presidents [precedents], that we walked in the clouds, and could not see our way.” His moving conclusion is something to remember in our own troubled times. “

It Can Be Hard

by Gail Balentine

It can be hard to see the tunnel’s end light,

To hang on through that long, long night.

It can be hard to smile while you’re in pain,

To forgive while some of the hurts still remain.

It can be hard to truly realize a dream won’t come true,

To say goodbye to hopes that have become a part of you.

It can be hard to get up, day after day,

To live on when someone you love has gone away.

It can be hard - at times even bleak -

To still your mind and listen to your heart speak.

It can be hard to give up control and let it guide,

To truly believe that you are strong enough inside.

It can be hard until you remember that only your heart will know,

Where, from inside of you, strength and hope can grow,

And, like the embers of a flame,

Be relit to warm and guide you once again.

*****

Writing, 2018

Happy 2019!! It is hard to believe that Winter Street Writers turns six years old this month! We thank the over 500 people now following our Facebook page and reading our blog. We also thank the Beverly Public Library for continuing to provide us with a meeting place. We are looking forward to what the new year brings but are also reflecting on our writing process from 2018. Here are some of our thoughts.

If I were to use one adjective to describe my writing in the past year, it would have to be comfortable. I have finally reached the point where I enjoy the process more than I worry about what others may or may not think of what I write. Not that it is always easy or looks on paper like I envision it in my mind, because it isn’t and it doesn’t. Since I’ve accepted that the frustrating as well as the good parts of writing are all part of the process, my former angst has been reduced. And with this comfort have come some accomplishments this year. Along with regular contributions to the WSW Blog, I contributed to a book on Beverly’s history told through a series of articles spotlighting different aspects of that history. I am also in the process of finishing – yes, actually finishing – the novel I have been working on for years. Jane Harmony and her friends will finally make their debut! The major reason the book took so long to come to fruition was my lack of comfort with my writing. But thanks to the special group of people who make up my two writing groups, and their nonstop encouragement, I’m finally right where I wanted to be. Instead of writing a New Year’s Resolution about finishing my book in 2019, I’m going to check that one off soon and head on to the next writing adventure. Yes!

 Gail Balentine

I found this past year, 2018  a bit difficult due to health issues and deaths in extended family members.

My writing was affected in that my heart was not in it and it was hard to focus.  Walking the beach became a balm and the happiness of celebrating twin granddaughters high school graduation lifted my spirits.

I was able to compose two poems, write a “fun” piece and a few memoir narratives. I felt stronger because I was able to accomplish what I wrote but I do have to credit my fellow WSW authors, Beth, Gail and Terri with supporting my efforts.  We enjoy the process of our collaboration with each other and have made great strides as a foursome.

I look forward to a productive, fun-filled writing experience alone and with the WSW. 

Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

Writing is hard! At least that is what I kept telling myself this past year as I stared at blank pages of new Word documents. Life also has a tendency to get in the way of the creative process. A few health issues, a new job, a house, a family and a yard that all take attention and time. Excuses to be sure, but they help my defeatist attitude towards writing thrive. Why do I continue to torture myself trying to put words to paper? After a few weeks of avoiding my laptop or journal it always happens. The compulsion to write-it-down. The “it” is sometimes just an idea. Sometimes it’s a phrase or a sentence or a nonsensical dump of whatever is going on in my brain, but I must write-it-down. Writers must write regardless of whether or not anyone reads what they write. I am very lucky to have my Winter Street friends encouraging me to continue to feed my compulsion. You never know what the future will bring. Here’s to a creative 2019!

Beth Alexander Walsh

Holiday Help

by Beth Alexander Walsh

The holidays are here.

Will my list ever end?

The cards are on the counter,

with no time to send.

The tree is in the corner,

naked to the eye.

The presents are not wrapped,

and I need to bake a pie.

My list keeps on growing

as I stand in one more line.

Should I look for the perfect present

or would a gift card be just fine?

I forgot to book the groomer

so, the dog’s hair won’t be tame.

I also skipped the hairdresser;

dog and I will look the same.

My bank account is dipping and

my head is beginning to ache.

There are no visions of sugarplums,

only cookies I need to bake.

Tree needles cover the floor and

the house could use some cleaning.

I should be making merry and

find some Christmas meaning.

So, Santa I am begging

for you to send some aide.

Send me at least two elves

Or several Merry Maids!

Wishing everyone a SIMPLE and joyous holiday!

Things That Go Bump in the Night...

by Gail Balentine

It was cold and late and the snow was three feet deep. Nobody had been able to make it for my Christmas Eve party and there was no way that I would get to my daughter’s house for Christmas morning. Bah, humbug.

            I’d just headed toward the front door to turn off the outside lights when I heard a sound, muffled and undecipherable, but definitely a sound that didn’t belong. Perfect, a Christmas break-in? Well, he’ll get a present he’s not expecting from me! My baseball bat was in the closet. I got it and headed toward the living room.

All the lights were out except for the tree so I figured I’d startle whoever was there when I switched on the overheads. The room lit up only to find - nobody. It’s not a big room, not too many places to hide. I looked behind furniture and the tree. It was then that I realized the noise was coming from the fireplace. A critter of some kind stuck maybe?

            I tiptoed over to the chimney, feeling more than a little foolish, still all dressed up but now with a bat accessory. I bent over and that’s when I saw it, a foot – or rather a black boot – hanging down. Then there was a large puff of black soot that blew right in my face as a voice yelled clearly: “Oh no … help …ouch!”

            Coughing and sputtering, I reached out only to grab a handful of fur. When I could see, there was someone’s very round, very red velvet-covered backside trying to wiggle out onto my hearth. I was so stunned I forgot to be afraid and helped tug him out, the result of which was me pancaked on the floor beneath no less than what appeared to be jolly old St. Nick himself!

            “What the …” I pushed to get him off me and, with more agility than I thought he’d have, he jumped up and then gallantly helped me up. Before we could speak, a huge thud brought a bag crashing down onto the now scattered logs Santa had landed on, and toys spilled everywhere.

            There I was almost eye-to-eye – he’s not a tall man – with Santa Claus. He was grinning, eyes crinkling at the edges, cheeks black with soot, the what used-to-be-white fur of his suit now black. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing and so did he.

            “Well, that was some entrance Martha, wasn’t it?”

            Hearing my first name was instantly sobering. “How do you know my name and who … who are you really?” In a flash I’d decided he was a thief with a sick sense of humor. I looked for my bat.

            “Why of course I know your name, I used to go to your house when you were a child. I was sad the year Mary Ellen Polanski told you I didn’t exist and you believed her. I don’t go when children don’t believe in me.”

            I gasped. How could he possibly know about Mary Ellen? “You really are Santa Claus?!”

            “Yes, my dear, and I’m running late. I was stuck in your chimney for a while. By the way, it needs cleaning. And speaking of that …”  He looked down at his suit. It was a mess.

            We went to the back hallway and I helped him out of his coat. His red long johns were fine, no soot. I directed him toward the bathroom and proceeded to brush his coat and hat vigorously out the back door. The soot came off easily and I admired how soft and warm the suit was. The thought came to me that if I told anyone I had cleaned Santa Claus’ suit on Christmas Eve, they would shuffle me off somewhere with speed. I laughed again and it felt good.

            When he came back, he looked like all the Hallmark pictures I had ever seen of him – snowy white hair and beard, rosy cheeks, glasses low on his nose, and a belly that jiggled – reminding me that I now had a jiggle or two, myself. He quickly dressed and we went back into the living room.

            “May I ask you a question?” I said.

            His right eye quirked up. “You want to know why I’m here tonight – when none of your guests could get here and you don’t think you can go to your daughter’s house tomorrow?” He rummaged in his sack as he waited for me to answer him.

            “Well, yes, that’s exactly what I was wondering.”

            “Here it is!” He pulled out of the sack a beautiful, genuine Tiny Tears doll dressed in a pink and white dress with white shoes. It was identical to the one I had found under our Christmas tree so many years ago.

            “Oh!” was all I could manage to say.

            “I seem to remember a doll like this and a play bassinet way back when - do you?” My eyes filled as I nodded. “Well, just because I don’t come every year doesn’t mean I don’t check on my ‘older children’ now and again. And you’ve had a tough year.” He reached out and patted me on the shoulder gently. “A ruined party and Christmas without Sarah is not the way to end it off. I thought you could give the doll to your granddaughter and since she’s seven, like you were when I gave you yours, the two of you will enjoy playing with this one together.”

            I reached out, touched the box and could have easily been transported back to my childhood except for his voice urging me on.

            “Now, you need to hurry and get dressed for the trip. We have stops to make but we should get to Sarah’s house just as they wake up. I’ll leave you at the end of the walk and you can ring the bell.”

            “But … how?” Then I thought of his sleigh and reindeer and pinched myself. Since it hurt and I didn’t wake up, I ran upstairs, dressed warmly, and came back down to find him eating the cookies I still left out each Christmas. I put on my coat, grabbed the shopping bag full of presents for my family and the precious Tiny Tears doll, and then stopped short as he headed toward the front door.

            “Aren’t we going up the chimney?” I asked. I was getting into the spirit of the thing now.

            “Martha,” he looked at me over his glasses and said in a very patronizing voice, “Do be realistic. If I couldn’t fit coming down the chimney, how am I going to fit going up?” He shook his head.

            We went out front and he summoned the reindeer. Rudolph’s nose cast a red glow on the snow on my front lawn as Santa and I hopped into the warm, snuggly sled.

            “When they ask how I got there in the middle of a snowstorm, what am I to say?”
            “The truth. Tell them Santa stopped by your house, picked you up, and brought you there. Smile each time they ask and don’t change a word of your story. They will eventually stop asking how and instead start talking about the year grandma came for Christmas by sleigh.” I knew he was right.

            Santa looked at me and said, “Do you want to say it this time?”

            Bells jingled as we leapt into the air and I called out:

“Ho, Ho, Ho and a Merry Christmas!”

A Fully Functioning Feline

by Terri McFadden

Demanding, aloof, funny and affectionate – any cat lover has seen these characteristics and more in their beautiful friends. Often embodied in a single, sleek feline. Somehow the cat stories from my family that have stuck with me the longest are about a lovely, black cat named Theo. He was a singular fellow – the characteristics mentioned above - demanding, aloof and funny fit him well. As to affectionate, not so much. This was a cat who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it from the humans he chose to live with.

He was born to a free cat mother. Our son and his friends found her and a litter of kittens on Brackenberry Beach and without asking, brought one of the tiny critters to our house. We hadn’t had a cat in several years and I had decided that I didn’t need another animal in the house, what with four children and a dog. But I was charmed by the small animal bounding over the living room furniture and it made me smile that the little mite had exactly the same black coloring and white toes as our dog, Sasha. With a little trepidation (I’d had some rather destructive cats) I agreed he could move in. A lengthy discussion on a proper name ensued – our youngest pushed hard for Paws, roundly rejected by our eldest, who didn’t like “a body part name”. The ‘music’ the cat made my husband think of a black jazz musician that he liked; why not call the cat Theo? The name stuck.

Previous cats, despite furniture clawing and litter-tray missing, had all been lap-cats. Not so Theo. He rarely deigned to visit any of the six laps available to him of an evening. When he did however, the recipient, while honored, knew he or she was required to sit perfectly still. If you moved or (worse yet) absentmindedly rubbed an ear or chin, you could be sure you would first get an angry green glare. Moving or rubbing a second time usually brought a lightning fast nip. Eventually I realized that Theo didn’t expect his furniture to move, let alone rub his head. Understandable, if you thought of it that way. How would you feel if your sofa shifted underneath you or reached up an arm to pat you on the head?

Theo turned out to be the easiest cat I’d ever owned…I’ll revise that…ever shared a home with. When he wanted to go out he scratched the door, quite gently. Unless of course, the human in the room didn’t respond quickly enough. When he wanted to eat he meowed in the kitchen next to the drawer where the can-opener was kept. And meowed and meowed. We moved pretty smartly to his jazzy tune.

When Theo was about eight years old, our son was home from college and we were going away for the weekend. Ross agreed to feed and keep the litter clean, as no one else would be available. Although the cat preferred to be outdoors, he was fastidious and would use a litter box if absolutely necessary. When we returned, our son had gone back to school. As we climbed the stairs to the second floor the pungent aroma of cat urine greeted us. A small wet spot adorned our bed – on my side. But far worse was to be found in Ross’s room. Suffice to say the mattress had to be discarded. At first, I feared that our black prince was ill. However, it turned out that the porch door, where the litter box was waiting, had not been propped open. Both the human servants were blamed, but punishment was meted out as was only fair for the transgressions involved. Theo was nothing if not a fair judge.

That evening, as my husband and I watched TV, the cat scratched to go out. I rose and opened the door. He exited. I sat again, got comfortable and resumed watching the show. Mere minutes passed. As was his way, Theo flung himself, full-body on the exterior screen door. (His ‘let me in’ was always perfectly clear.) My husband rose, opened the door. Cat in. Giving us a clear-eyed look, he turned and raised one paw and scratched again. Sighing I got up and let him out. He vanished into the night, evidently satisfied that the door openers were once again working properly.

A few years later we moved to the mountains of North Carolina. I was fearful that the coyotes and foxes would make short work of this city cat. I remember thinking, ‘it’s a big house, he can explore it, at least for a few weeks’. The long journey had subdued the feisty animal and that first night he curled in a corner of our bedroom and fell asleep. In the middle of the night a commotion roused us. Turning on the light we saw our joyful cat, happily tossing a desiccated mouse from paw to paw. You could almost hear him say how much he loved his new country home; hunting had never been such a breeze back in Massachusetts.

The evening after our arrival, Theo scratched at the door leading to the yard. I ignored him. He subsided and I thought he was settling to a new, less active way of life. Minutes went by. Unseen by me he had circled the living room, silently slipped behind my chair and clawed the brand-new, brown leather. Never in his life had he clawed the furniture. Recognizing the inevitable, I got up, called the dog and we made a little parade behind Theo to the front door. I opened it, he turned right, padding across the grass. We followed. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and hissed. Loudly. His meaning was crystal clear: “I’m a fully-functioning feline. Leave me alone!”

I was sure that was the end of his imperious highness. Surely, he would become dinner for some larger carnivore. When we retired long after dark, he hadn’t returned and I comforted myself that I’d only done what he wanted. I couldn’t force him to be a different sort of cat – a housecat. Sadly, I just hoped his end had been swift.

About three in the morning a soft scratching could be heard on the door to the deck off our bedroom. Somehow Theo had figured out which was our bedroom – I’d let him out on the opposite side of the house at ground level. He came up a long flight of steps to the deck after his adventures in the new and beckoning countryside.  Clearly, he was a match for any wild mountain carnivore. A fully functioning feline and a very happy fellow indeed.