A LEGACY OF LINOLEUM

My dad has undertaken a house remodeling project. He started in his family room and has now moved into the kitchen. Tuesday, he interrupted his work long enough to phone to let me know that he had experienced a near-death experience. While eating lunch at the local coffee shop he had started choking. He could not stop. It got really scary for everyone. Some other diners and even the restaurant manager tried unsuccessfully to help. Fortunately, by the time the paramedics arrived, he was okay.

"So, did your whole life flash in front of you?" I asked my eighty-three year old father.

"No," he responded honestly. "But two things came to mind that I'm bothered about." I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, poised for a True Confession moment. "I feel terrible about the bombs I dropped on Germany."

"Dad, it was war time. You were doing your patriotic duty and serving your country." I tried not to act too irritated, but his latent concern sounded so disingenuous, so out of character.

"I know," he lamented. "But these were horrible weapons...huge destructive bombs! Now [in the current war] anytime there's even a single death, there's such a fuss in the news. Goodness, hundreds were killed every day when we flew our missions."

"That's true," I agreed, still trying to figure out what he really wanted to say.

My father was a tail gunner on the B-17 Flying Fortress during WWII. As a member of the 8th Air Force stationed in Kimbolton, England, he flew 35 missions with the 379th Bomb Group. The survival rate was 66% for those making it to the 25 mission mark.

"And something else that bothers me is the horrible things my father did during the war."

"What kind of things?" I calmly asked, repositioning my pen over the paper.

"My dad was in charge of the entire Air Transport Command while stationed in Italy after the war," he explained. "When Vi [his stepmother] found out that she could get hundreds of dollars for a few packs of cigarettes and some booze, she had a roaring business going. She got involved in the Black Market and she got my dad to help her. Then there was the scandal in China. Dad was the Air Director of the China/Burma/India Theater of War. But he suddenly ended up in Modesto. That's when he took early retirement. I was always too embarrassed to ask him what happened. But now I want to know. I want you to get his military records. I want to find out why Stilwell passed him over for promotion to General."

My grandfather, an Air Force officer, had a distinguished military career beginning in 1921. No one in the family knows why he abruptly retired in 1947. My father wants me to solve the mystery.

"Okay." I relaxed a little. Now it was all beginning to make sense. This was the dad that I knew. We talked for awhile about what might have happened to end my grandfather's career. I reminded my father that most of the military records of that era were lost in a fire in St. Louis.

A devastating fire in 1973 at the National Personnel Records Center destroyed 80% of the records for Army personnel discharged between 1912 and 1960. I'm hoping that my grandfather's records were not among the 18 million damaged or destroyed files.

"What about you, Dad? Isn't this the time for me to help you record your life story? You don't want to leave your family wondering about your life, the way you're wondering about your father's." I was always trying to work the subject into our conversations. I would be on his doorstep in a heartbeat, if I could just get him to put out the welcome mat.

"My sails are full," he protested, as I listened for the latest round of excuses. "You know I have a trophy wife," he bragged for the thousandth time. "I'm busy redoing our whole house. When I'm done in the kitchen we're moving to the living room." He spent some time going over the details of each project. He was doing nearly all the work himself.

"That's great, Dad," I replied. "I can just see us all standing around talking at your funeral. 'Gee, aren't we glad he got those cabinets hung! I feel so much better knowing that he was able to caulk that grout before it was too late!'"

Robert S. Goodrich holding his great-grandson, Jonah Nalder, Christmas Day 2007. This was the first holiday in 25 years that my father had spent with any of his children or grandchildren.

My father started laughing and telling me how funny I was. Then he quickly excused himself. He did, after all, have important work to do. As we said our good-byes, it was not easy for me to mirror his nonchalant mood. I've never been able to convince him that time spent with things such as nails and paint can never replace time spent with your own flesh and blood. My siblings and I have been perplexed by this mind-set for twenty-five years. We know what he's leaving his "trophy wife." But what isn't he leaving his children and grandchildren? A legacy of linoleum just won't mean a darn thing.

I NEVER SANG FOR MY MOTHER

Many years ago I saw the movie, I Never Sang for my Father. As I recall, the film didn't get rave reviews. But I've always remembered it because of Gene Hackman's acting and because of the subject: parent/child relationships. Hackman plays a middle-aged man struggling to get close to his father, who just retreats into self-centeredness and detachment.

As far back as I can remember, my mother depended on doctors and drugs to get her through another day of living. She claims that her addictions really took hold about the time my brother was born.
(My mother holding Bobby, 1956)

I often think about this movie when thinking about my mother. She phoned a few days ago and happily chattered non-stop about a recent visit from her granddaughter and great-grandsons. It dawned on me, that for the first time in years, my mother can carry on a lucid conversation, write with a steady hand, and walk without stumbling. As her voice rattled on, I was almost lulled into thinking that I could have a real relationship with her---almost. And then I heard her complaining about how the weather was making her ill and how Doctor was out of town for a few days. All of a sudden I was jolted back to reality.

When I was growing up, there were long periods of time when my mother never got out of bed. I remember Mom routinely calling me into her bedroom and telling me to get her basket of medicine off the closet shelf, then bringing it to her as she carefully propped herself up in bed. She would open vial after vial, shaking-out a capsule here, breaking a tablet in half there, until she held a handful of multicolored and multi-shaped pills. (This prescription has been saved in her scrapbook for about sixty years.)

Doctor is the name my mother affectionately reserves for her personal physician of more than 30 years. Mom's trips to see Doctor rapidly escalated over the years until she was averaging three office visits a week. Then in February, her neighbors got fed-up with her disturbing routine of wandering the condo complex, screaming and banging on doors. Someone finally called the paramedics. She spent several months of involuntary residence at a psychiatric hospital de-toxing from a steady diet of drug cocktails; her medical team releasing her only on the assurance that she hire round-the-clock care.


Her caretakers, thinly disguised as household help, were really there for one reason: to document her intake of medication. She had help 24/7 for months after release from the hospital. It was almost a contest to see who would prevail. Would a girl quit, or would my mom beat her to the punch, and fire her before the end of the day? I learned in our phone conversation that she has eliminated all but one favorite helper, who works just the week-end shift. But what's really troubling is hearing about her return to regular visits with Doctor.

When my stepfather suffered a stroke while hospitalized, Mom thought that he had died. She immediately put this notice on her front door. He lingered on for three more months. She never saw nor spoke to him again.

No one in the family has ever figured out what is in the injections Doctor so freely dispenses at every visit. Many years ago Doctor told my father that he always wanted his patients to leave happy. "I give them something to make them happy," he explained to Dad, without really explaining anything. Even Mom does not know, does not care to know. "It's something for my heart, something for my lungs, some estrogen...something to build me up." She always sounds defensive when I try to get the facts. "This man has saved my life more times than I can remember and whatever sanity I retain is to his credit as well," she asserted in a letter two years ago. "Nobody understands that he is the reason I'm still alive after all these years."

My mother is convinced that if any medical personnel other than Doctor provides treatment, it could prove fatal. I found this warning taped to her kitchen phone, just in case anyone was reckless enough to call 9-1-1 in an emergency. Last year, when her husband fell in the middle of the night, he needlessly suffered for hours because of her edict.

She's right. I don't understand. I've always been disgusted that she could never make even simple, personal decisions without consulting Doctor. I've never comprehended why this man was ever elevated to savior status. We only have to look at how her health dramatically improved when she was under the care of different physicians, to know that something is not right with Doctor's treatment plan.

As my mother ended her phone monologue about grandsons, I heard her voice take on a familiar tone. "Of course, I expect a visit as soon as Chuck gets his vacation time."

"Well, Mom, you know he's been working real hard for over a year with very few days off, " I replied, meaning, we might have our own plans.

"Well don't you forget, she admonished, again using her self-righteous voice, "that your mother spent twelve years without any time off, taking care of a very fragile and very dear husband." Suddenly she pleaded exhaustion and quickly hung up the phone.

And there you have it. Her suffering is always greater. Her needs always trump everyone else's. Her reality of events is never open for discussion.

In 1984, I encouraged my mother to see me and her grandchildren when we came to Los Angeles for a visit. She wrote a lengthy response to that suggestion. I maintained my "disparaging" status for another 15 years until she reluctantly deigned to see me.

As a young boy, Gene Hackman's character, Gene Garrison, would sing while his mother played the piano. But his father always stayed upstairs, alone in his room. That's the simplistic reason why Gene never sang for his father. I don't need to get complicated either. I know I too will never sing for my mother.

While I was in high school, Mom worked a recovery program and eventually triumphed over her demons. For more than a dozen years my parents enjoyed life together. Unfortunately, the good times did not last. (American Samoa, 1977)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

WORKIN' FOR THE MAN EV'RY NIGHT AND DAY

Chuck leaving home to start another shift of work at Weyerhaeuser Paper Company in Yuma, Arizona (1992)

The summer of 1974, my husband was twenty-two years old and unemployed. One day he parked his Chevy truck in an industrialized area of Modesto, less than a mile from his home on the Tuolumne River where he grew up. He walked up and down the street, going factory to factory, looking for work. Weyerhaeuser Company offered him a job that summer, running a die-cut machine. He worked for three weeks straight before he got his first day off. This year Chuck reached a milestone in his life: it's the thirty-fifth summer that he has been making boxes for Weyerhaeuser.

Over the past 35 years Chuck became skilled at operating machines such as this Flexo Folder-Gluer. His crews often set production records. He is an expert at training and motivating employees.

Chuck and I were married in September 1976. His grandmother warned us not to move away from Modesto and family. But we did. Like the infamous "seven year itch," Chuck got the urge to relocate almost every seven years. If Weyerhaeuser was starting-up a new box plant, he wanted to be there. We hit every cardinal point on the compass. First we moved north (Portland, Oregon) then south (Yuma, Arizona) then west (Camarillo, California) and finally east (Phoenix, Arizona).






And these were just the major moves. There were always the shorter, temporary moves while waiting for houses to be built, escrows to close, or issues to be resolved. Twice we moved with newborn babies. Three times we turned our homes into rental properties when we transferred out of state. Between four kids, we adjusted to six different elementary schools, three junior high schools, and four high schools.

Chuck's grandmother, Dolly Tibbs Goodrich, warning us at our wedding reception to stay in Modesto

When I placed the order for our wedding cake, the lady would not stop bragging about her children and their successful careers. When she asked me what my fiance did for a living, I did not hesitate a second. "Oh, he's a recycling engineer," I casually replied. My mother-in-law nearly fell off her chair, because at the time Chuck ran the baler machine. The conversation immediately shifted to talk about frosting and flowers.

In 1976, while working in the Modesto plant, Chuck got in a scuffle with another employee. During the altercation, Chuck's leg got broken. Both guys quickly decided it was in their mutual best interest to blame the "accident" on lax safety conditions near the machine.

Chuck and I traveled on Amtrak from Riverbank, California to Portland, Oregon (with two year old Cristin) when he interviewed for a job in February, 1980. It was nearly impossible to get any sleep sitting up all night on the train.

I remember Mike Sanzone, Chuck's boss in Portland, telling him that "a box plant is a box plant, whether it's in Portland, Oregon, or McAllen, Texas." He said that it's the wife and kids that have to make the biggest sacrifice when moving to a new location with the company.

And he was right. Chuck was always good to go from Day One. Moving only seemed to energize him. But as our children grew, it became increasingly more painful for them (and for me) to be wrenched away from friends and communities that had become so important in our lives. When we moved to Yuma Arizona twenty years ago, someone jokingly asked me if I was suffering from culture shock. Still yearning for my previous life in the Pacific Northwest, I replied, “No, it’s more like lack of culture shock.”

One of Chuck's paycheck stubs from Portland. In the beginning he was compensated for working over 40 hours per week. That benefit was eliminated when he became salaried.

A loyal and tireless worker, Chuck has hardly missed any time on the job in over three decades. Taking into account his brutal work schedule, this is quite a feat. During his career with Weyco, he has worked day shift, swing shift, graveyard shift, split shift, week-ends and holidays. And did I mention overtime? We discovered many inventive ways over the years to ensure that somehow, despite environmental conditions and noisy children, Dad got some sleep somewhere in the house.

The first year after moving to Portland, Chuck was offered a management position. Weyerhaeuser was initially leery about allowing him to transfer from Modesto, where he had been the shop steward. Portland was a non-union plant.

In May 1999, Chuck wrote candidly about his job in a letter to Cristin:

I’m writing this letter at 1:00 a.m. This is my night off. This is really a big deal because I only get two nights off a month so I have to make sure I take advantage of all this free time. I feel like all I do is work. Oh well it could be worse. I could be unemployed or working in a coal mine instead of a box plant. I used to try and glorify my job when people asked what I do for a living. Now I just tell them I make boxes and leave it at that. Most people don’t ask me a second question after hearing what I do. I’m sure they’re thinking, wow, making boxes, that’s right up there with truck driver, garbage collector, poor guy. Little do they know that I make about as much as some Bank Presidents. Of course I have to work twice as much and in the middle of the night.

Real Estate was so pricey in southern California that we opted to purchase this upstairs condominium in Camarillo. It was two bedroom / two bath and the garage was unattached. We had to park our extra car down the hill and across the street at the golf course. (2002)

We bought this station wagon in Portland. It was originally a company car used by the sales team at Weyerhaeuser.

With such a demanding work load, I learned early in our marriage not to have any expectations that my husband would be available for social events or family activities. I was the designated parent at teacher conferences, and the awkward married-but-solo person at the church socials. We settled into our respective roles automatically. My job was to manage the household, help children succeed in school, and keep us all active in our various church programs. Chuck’s job was to make boxes for Weyerhaeuser.

Caitlin's preschool teacher helped her complete this Father's Day card in 1992.

I thought I'd won the lottery when we purchased this beautiful home in Troutdale, Oregon with views of the Columbia River and Portland city lights. We sold the house just 16 months later and moved to Yuma.

John Fogerty’s song, Proud Mary, was the inspiration for the title of this post. The lyrics include this verse: “And I never lost one minute of sleepin’, worryin’ bout the way things might have been.” To be honest, I have lost sleep--- at times lots of sleep--- thinking about the way things might have been. What if we had listened to Grams, stayed in Modesto, and raised our kids near grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles? What if we had been able to take more family vacations? What if we hadn’t moved so much? What if Chuck had worked less hours? What if he had switched careers? What if---? What if---? What if---?

Weyerhaeuser flew us to Yuma for a job interview in February 1988. I cried when Chuck accepted the offer. He attributed my reaction to being eight months pregnant and overly emotional.

Yet it is what it is. I don’t want to diminish Chuck’s accomplishment. He’s always provided for his family. If nothing else, staying loyal to the same employer your whole career is a testament of sheer endurance. Monday morning at 5 a.m. when my husband starts making boxes, “the man” will have a different name. International Paper Company acquired Weyerhaeuser’s entire container-board unit earlier this year. Chuck hit the milestone anniversary date with literally days to spare before the change of ownership. He’s now eligible to receive the maximum retirement benefits offered by the company. Congratulations, Honey. You endured. You managed to survive the last thirty-five years. Somehow, we both did.

Chuck made his last box for Weyerhaeuser on August 2, 2008. He lives near the Estrella Mountains in Goodyear, Arizona. All four of his daughters are married and he has three grandsons. (Chuck with Kelley, Caitlin, Kaci and Cristin, Thanksgiving 2007)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I USED TO BE SMART

Recently, a friend sent me an Arizona Republic article on menopause. I easily identified with Mary Pace, a 54 year old teacher who lamented, "There are some cloudy, foggy times when I think, 'Hmm, I used to be smart.'"

I earned two degrees, the Bachelor of Science (Summa Cum Laude) and the Master of Education (with distinction) from Northern Arizona University. Go Lumberjacks!

Since starting my blog a few weeks ago, I'm even more aware of how my brain doesn't work as well as it used to. The most disconcerting thing about writing at this time in my life is that I can't organize my thoughts very easily. But equally scary is my inability to remember words that were once part of my vocabulary. The days of having words flow easily and effortlessly from my mind to my lips or fingers are gone forever.

So I found it amusing when my daughter Kelley complained last week that my blog was written on the level of a "school research paper." While she admitted looking forward to each post, she whined, "I have to concentrate SO hard when I read your stories." I was still trying to think of how to respond (I was having one of those cloudy, foggy times) when she suddenly said, "Sorry, but I need to get off the phone NOW. I have to watch Access Hollywood!"

When Kelley hung up, I tried to do a reality check. Am I really stretching my readers' fragile attention spans to the breaking point? Should I dumb-down my writing? After all, not only am I writing my life story for my children, but for my children's children. As an educator, I'm painfully aware of the dismal trend towards a steady decline in reading and reading ability. Will my grandchildren, raised on a literacy diet of e-mails, text messages, and compacted language like LOL (laugh out loud) be unable to comprehend my lofty, verbose narratives?

After giving this some thought, I've decided that the best indicator of my grandchildren's ability to appreciate my written legacy is to use the example of my own daughters. Perhaps by looking at their reading proclivities as children, I can get an idea of what literacy skills they will pass on to their own offspring. As we say in the world of teaching, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Cristin read early---before three years of age---and she read well. Her favorite book was The Golden Dictionary. She was so confident by the time she entered school that she proclaimed herself, "The World's Greatest Reader!"

Kaci preferred reading cookbooks and restaurant menus. With vocabulary like soup de jour, entree, pasta, saute, and French toast, she was considered bilingual at an early age.

Kelley showed no interest in reading before third grade. Until then, her book of choice was the Coloring Book. Her favorite genre was Barbie or Spice Girls.

They say the camera never lies, and this photo is proof. Although Caitlin was surrounded by books her entire childhood, I never actually saw her READ one.

SICNR this opportunity to practice IM. JIC I need to abbreviate my prose for posterity. YNK. I'll bet my kids are thinking: IOMH. LIC. This topic TBC...

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I NEEDED TO USE MY OWN WORDS

Bobby and I at Marineland, Palos Verdes, Calif. 1958

I've always felt close to my younger brother

Although my sister and I are only twenty months apart in age, I remember we spent more time fighting than getting along. During the years we lived in Los Angeles, I became best friends with Robin Freels, the girl who lived next door. When I wasn't playing with Robin I was playing with my little brother. In fact, I spent so much time with Bobby that my mother had to ask me on a regular basis to translate his very inarticulate speech. I was the only one in the family who could understand much of what he was saying during his preschool years.

In retrospect, I realize that at a very young age I was often used as a surrogate mother. Yet I don't remember it bothering me. In those days, cooking and cleaning was not work. It was fun pretending that the toy box was a rocket ship heading for the moon as a way to encourage my little brother to pick up his room. I loved teaching him how to read before he went to Kindergarten.

When I was around six years old, my parents discovered that if I were reading Bobby a book they could sneak out of the house for the evening without him having a screaming fit. Soon it became my almost nightly responsibility to implement this form of distraction. However, the reading and re-reading from my small collection of children's books eventually became monotonous for both of us. This is when I discovered the power of expressing myself in my own words. Many an evening I would delight my younger sibling by changing the benign Norman and the Nursery School into Norman and the Mean Lady. It was a harrowing tale rivaling any told by the Brothers' Grimm.

My second grade class at Cimarron Avenue School, 1959. I am sitting in the middle of the front row. Robin Freels is second row, third from left. My other good friend, Ursula Sack, is back row, directly behind Robin

I soon found another audience that appreciated my passion for storytelling. Beginning in second grade, a small group of kids would follow me around each morning at recess. I literally composed stories on the spot as we wandered the playground of Cimarron Avenue School. The black asphalt, with its noisy and enticing games, was a tough teacher. I quickly learned how to be more entertaining than hopscotch, four-square, or jump rope. And my secret weapon for ensuring a return of my entourage the next day: the cliff-hanger. I became skilled at dramatically inserting it into my narrative just as the bell was ringing.

This birthday card I made for my father is atypical because it doesn't have odds and ends glued on the paper to create collage-type pictures

My need for self-expression also manifested itself in another memorable event at that time. I vividly recall coming home from a Bluebird meeting in tears. The group leader would not allow me to insert my own original poem in a Father's Day card. In typical 1950's conformity, each girl in the troop was required to make identical assembly-line ashtrays and identical greeting cards. Each card had the same cutout blue and white polka dot tie on the cover and the same cliched prose on the inside. When I was younger, I always made my own cards for family members. My cards were often multi page with lots of artwork and rhyming prose. One card that survives is typical:

Happy Fathers Day

It would be different with a lunch with no sack

Or a train with no track

Yes it would be different with a lad with no shoes

But it sure would be different if we didn't have you!

Looking back on this memory, I find it noteworthy that I was so resistent to giving my father an impersonal written message as a Father's Day present. Ironically, I was not bothered at all by the fact that I was giving an ashtray as a gift to a man who didn't even smoke!

When I was eight years old, I used pictures I cut out of the Sunday "LA Times" to generate story ideas for homemade books. I wrote "Sing a Song of Lima Beans" to go along with this advertisement for Birds Eye vegetables.

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

Party Like It's 1950-Something

CIRO'S Hollywood, July 1956

My mother in her element, flanked by adoring,

rich males. Also at table: Dad and his father

My mother celebrated her eightieth birthday on Saturday. Perhaps I use the word celebrate in error. She was adamant that she was not in a celebratory mood. "Phyllis has made me physically ill with her insistence that I do something special that day," she complained to me in a phone call last week.

Even I was amazed that my mother, the ultimate social butterfly, would balk at having lunch with a few well-meaning friends. Then I remembered that she has recently entered a new phase of her life: Grieving Widow. Now I wonder, are her days of enjoying a good party really over?

11718 S. Cimarron Avenue, Fall 1954

My earliest memory of my parents' party days begin when we lived on Cimarron Avenue. In July, 1954, they put a $100 deposit on Lot 139 in the Grandview Hollypark subdivision of Los Angeles. It was a typical post WWII dream house---three bedrooms, two baths and an attached two car garage. A few years after we moved in, Dad poured a large concrete patio in the backyard and built a lattice cover to accommodate Mom's love of entertaining Southern-California style. Shortly before the guests arrived, I would watch my father carefully sprinkle a white powder on the patio, creating the ultimate outdoor dance floor.

My grandfather Dave Goodrich with my brother during construction of the patio, 1957. I never saw my grandfather without a drink in his hand.

My dad also installed a whole-house state of the art high fidelity system, which was a big hit with the cocktail set. Not only were there speakers in our small living room, but also outside and in the garage. There were always table tennis tournaments going on in the garage at the Goodrich parties. I'm certain Dad built the sturdy green ping pong table to satisfy the competitive nature of my parents and their friends.

It was a miracle I got any shut-eye at all when my parents entertained. I could almost fall asleep by concentrating on the melodic music syncopating with the tap-tap-tap of bouncing ping pong balls as it echoed off the wall my bedroom shared with the garage. But then there was the laughter. I found the laughing insanely annoying. Not only was I tired, but I was too young to comprehend and make sense of the party-goers' jokes. Even the laughter could not drown out my mother's disingenuous voice as she and others tried in haphazard unison to sing along loudly to a Mitch Miller record. Of course as the party dragged on, all the sounds only got louder and crazier.

Our kitchen was so small, Mom needed to use the table to prepare larger meals. Her father, Al Gould, is standing in the doorway of the laundry room. June 1956

In the morning, as my sister and I dutifully emptied overflowing ash trays and washed an endless parade of glasses, we would nibble on stale chips and shriveled bits of food stabbed through the end of sharp toothpicks.

Just as we were beginning to feel sick from noshing on wilted hors d'oeuvres tainted with cigarette smoke, my mother would suddenly walk through the front door. Somehow, while the kitchen faucet was running and the garbage disposal grinding, she had managed to silently slip out of bed and leave the house. She would return, just as quietly, clutching a small brown paper sack. As she reached inside the bag with her manicured hand, there was no expectation on our part. We knew she would pull out a very cold, very thick, freshly-made chocolate milkshake. By very thick, I mean that a metal spoon placed straight up in the middle of the glass would not tilt one degree. This was the standard remedy for one of my dad's hangovers.

My dad, during the crazy party days on Cimarron

As Mom disappeared down the hall, Becky and I continued our task of putting the house back in order while entertaining our little brother as quietly as we could. On mornings like this, my sister and I knew it was our job to be the responsible ones in the house. After all, our parents needed time to sleep off the effects of all that fun from the night before.

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

Gag Me with a Ritz Cracker

Last week I was offered a slice of apple pie that I refused to eat. Actually, it was not really apple pie, but pie made with Ritz crackers disguised to taste like apples. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against crackers. My favorite comfort food of all time is fried matzos. But deliberately choosing to use my mouth for a chemistry experiment, instead of for the geshmak I feel when I bite into a warm morsel of tart apple? That's cockamammie!

My father, Christmas 1981

Mom turned goyem each Dec. 25, always making glazed ham with pineapple rings and Maraschino cherries

In sharing this experience with my grown daughters, and reflecting on other times that we have had similar reactions to recipes, I'm thinking that this is more than just a case of culinary snobbishness. Call me obsessed with family history and finding my ancestors, but I believe that food preference is part of our DNA.

All the years we lived in Portland I craved food prepared by Horst Mager of the Rhinelander restaurant. Years later, when I filled in the blanks on my pedigree chart with names like Ehrmanntraut and Weinmann, my enthusiasm for German style red cabbage all made sense.

The Modesto Goodriches, about 1999

Enjoying their Christmas tradition of Cioppini
right to left: Chuck Goodrich, his niece Dawn Pratt, her husband Rich Miller

There's currently a lot of interest in the genealogy world about tracing family roots using DNA testing. Simply swab the inside of your mouth to collect skin cells, submit to a reputable company, and you're that much closer to finding your ancestry. But I believe there's an easier way to cut to the chase: check out the family cookbook and traditions involving food.

Case in point: pastrami. Picture a cold pastrami sandwich made with mayonnaise---no, wait---a cold pastrami sandwich made with mayonnaise AND white bread. If this makes you cringe, then we're probably genetic cousins.

Here are some more of our family traditions: cream is whipped shortly before it is served, not scooped out of a plastic tub that has been left to defrost on the kitchen counter. Pancake batter is made with milk, eggs, oil, and preferably buckwheat flour. Macaroni and cheese is baked in the oven until the top is brown and the edges are bubbly.

Jell-O pudding is something you are forced to eat while confined to a hospital bed, not a dessert to serve guests. Chili does not come in a can, and neither does spaghetti. Years ago, as a tired, single mother, I picked up a box of dehydrated potato flakes at the grocery store to help simplify meal preparation. My children were convinced that I had finally lost my mind and would be forever farblondget.

If you are familiar with the oxymoron REAL BUTTER, and say it regularly when ordering at restaurants, then I have a feeling that you are not offended by this post. For the rest of my readers, blame my tastes on heredity, and please help yourself to another slice of pie.

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich