The Detective’s Daughter — The Emerald

Kim in Baltimore soaking up the sun…finally!

I’m sure every woman has heard the cheesy line “what’s your sign?” at least once in their life, but how about “what’s your birthstone?” No, really, I’m asking. What is your birthstone? As you’ve probably guessed from the title, mine is an emerald. That’s right, I’m a May baby and on the last day of this month I’ll be…well, it’s only a number, right?

I’ve been told a girl’s first piece of “real” jewelry is her birthstone. That was true for me. On my tenth birthday Nana and Pop-Pop gave me my first ring, an emerald. I wore it everyday for years and still do on special occasions. They bought it at Earkes’ Jewelry store on Light Street, the same place Dad bought presents for Mom.

You can only imagine how grown-up I felt with my emerald ring. I’d always admired my grandmother’s rings. Nana had been married twice. On the ring finger of her left hand she wore the wedding set  Pop-Pop had given her and on her right hand she wore a large square diamond which had been the rings given to her by her first husband, John. After his death, Nana had the set combined to make one large ring. Though her diamonds were sparkly and beautiful, and maybe even a girl’s best friend, they were not as lovely as my small emerald.

The first year I taught school I did a really stupid thing. Well, I probably did a lot of stupid things, but this one landed me in the emergency room with my fingers stuck in a plastic toy. It was one of those boxes where you hammer in a shape. The shape was stuck and I thought it would be easy enough to stick my finger in and push it out. The problem was my ring…the emerald… got caught on an edge. After a few teachers prodded and pulled at my hand, my finger swelled. I was in tears by the time they got me to the hospital, but not because I was in any pain, I was terrified my ring would be destroyed. Fortunately, my ring survived, the toy wasn’t as lucky.

The emerald is the symbol of rebirth, fertility, and love. It is believed the owner of an emerald will have foresight, good fortune and youth. It may even cure stomach problems and ward off panic, keeping the wearer relaxed and serene. I’m not so sure about that, relaxed and serene are not two words anyone would use to describe me!

My grandparents have been gone many years and I now have Nana’s rings. Every Mother’s Day I wear them to honor her. Gemstones may have healing powers, but this emerald holds the power of keeping the memory of my grandparents alive for me.

Readers: Do you wear your birthstone? Have you investigated the history and meaning of your stone?

The Detective’s Daughter — Seeking Fortune

By Kim in Baltimore where April is living up to its shower promises.

On Mulberry Street, a mile or two from where I grew up, sits an abandoned shop that once housed my family’s favorite Chinese restaurant. It was called The White Rice Inn. When Nana didn’t feel like cooking her traditional Sunday feast, or I had a good report card, or some family tragedy had befallen us, we visited The White Rice Inn.

It was an exotic place for a little Irish girl who was use to white potatoes for dinner. I loved it all – lo mein, chow mein, fried rice, chop suey – but none of that compared to what was served afterwards.

At the end of each meal, along with the check, fortune cookies were delivered. There was one for each of us. First you ate the cookie, then everyone had a turn reading aloud what was written on their paper. You had to choose your own cookie, no one could hand it to you.

Through the years I have eaten hundreds – really, I’m not exaggerating – hundreds of fortune cookies, and I have saved nearly every single fortune paper that was tucked inside. I have boxes of fortunes, tiny papers stuffed in drawers, hung on bulletin boards, taped on my laptop, pressed between the pages of books and bursting from my wallet.

In 2004 my family and I took our first cross-country trip to San Francisco on the Amtrak. With such beautiful sites as the Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower and Lombard Street to see, I chose the most spectacular of all for our initial tour…The Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory.

Opened in 1962 and family owned, the factory is located at 56 Ross Alley in China Town. We headed down the alleyway unsure that our directions were correct and finding the sign, stepped into the small establishment. In a cramped room an older woman sat at a table pressing snips of paper between the edges of warm cookies. The aroma of vanilla was heavenly. I held my camera up to snap a photo, but the woman put out her hand towards me.

“No, no. One dollar,” she said. I gladly unfolded the dollar bill from my purse and gave it to her. She shoved it on a shelf where a wad of crumpled bills overflowed from a cigar box. I would have given her ten dollars for the photo had she asked.

I bought so many bags of fortune cookies – who knew they came in chocolate! – and worried they would be eaten or crushed in our suitcases before we returned home. The Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory is always the top item on my itinerary anytime I visit San Francisco.

Did you know that fortune cookies originated here in the USA and that they were not available in China until 1993? In China the cookies are advertised as “Genuine American Fortune Cookies.” I tried my hand at baking these several years ago for Chinese New Year. The cookies tasted good, but they hardened so quickly I couldn’t get the fortunes inside. Instead I had my guests take a cookie then choose a fortune from a bowl.

Last week I went away on a retreat with my good, good friend, Ramona. About twenty-five writers attended and we were each asked to bring a dessert to share. No, I didn’t bring fortune cookies, but someone else did. A lovely lady named Teresa had baked them herself and they were delicious. Maybe even better than the factory cookies! Inside she had tucked sweet messages such as “eat a brownie” or “what would Dr. Phil say?” Most of them, though, had messages related to writing or being mindful which was good considering we were participating in the Mindful Writers Retreat. Teresa was kind enough to share the recipe with me and gave me permission to share it with you. I haven’t attempted this recipe yet, but it’s on my to-do list.

The night I arrived home from my retreat I was tired from driving and didn’t feel like cooking. We ordered Chinese food. After dinner I went in search of the cookies only to discover someone (I’m not going to mention any names, but if you’re a wife you have one of these!) threw away the take-out bag before removing the cookies. This will never happen again.

Here is the recipe:


5 tablespoons butter, melted*

1 cup sugar

1 pinch salt

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon almond extract

4 large egg whites

1 cup all-purpose flour

5 tablespoons milk

Plug in fortune cookie maker and preheat for 5 minutes (until ready light is on.)  Combine egg whites and sugar in a bowl and mix until frothy and well blended.  Sift flour and salt into egg white mixture and stir until fully incorporated and lump free.  Add melted butter, milk and extracts  and blend until the batter is thick and smooth.  Coat top and bottom of fortune cookie maker with melted butter and apply a tablespoon of the batter into the center of each plate.  Close cover.  Cook for 2 minutes, until lightly golden brown, then remove cookie.  Working quickly, place fortune in center of cookie and use the folding tools to shape.  Fold as directed.

*  Let the butter cool after melting, it should be lukewarm when you mix it into the batter.

NOTE:  The amount of sugar in the batter determines how dark the fortune cookie gets with baking.  Add less sugar to make lighter color fortune cookies.

Kim, this Fortune Cookie Maker comes with a ladle, a fork-shaped thing to lift the cookies off the griddle, two little plastic pieces to hold either end of the cookies to help close them and the top of the plastic box they come in has two indentations to help keep the curved shape.  When I need room for the next two, I use a cupcake pan to completely cool them.

I hope you enjoy them!

Readers: has your love of a certain food inspired you to take a trip? Do you keep your fortunes? Do you have a favorite?


The Detective’s Daughter — Slither!

Kim in Baltimore watching the snow melt on the first day of spring.

I don’t like snakes, never have. Growing up in the city amongst concrete and black top, I’d really no reason to come across one, but it didn’t stop me from checking under the toilet seat or searching under my bed before I went to sleep.

Most children are afraid of the dark, afraid of some inanimate object eerily coming to life in their room, or of a monster lurking under their bed or in their closet. My fear was something I could name, a reptile I could visit in the zoo or, worse yet, at the circus my mom and Nana insisted on dragging me to every March. The circus train would pass our house each spring on its way to Penn Station. On many occasions it would stop just outside our back doorstep, waiting for what I was never sure. It was in these moments, as the train sat silently, I worried the most.

Suppose one of those slithering creatures escaped? I was never concerned about the lions or tigers, they’d be missed immediately. But how long would it take to notice a lone missing snake?

It was Thanksgiving morning. I was fourteen years old. We had just begun to prepare the relish trays, I was in charge of the pickles and my sister took care of the olives. The sirens from a radio car and fire engine broke the calm order of our holiday. We were good neighbors, so we shuffled outside, coffee mugs in hand, to stand with the rest of our block. We did our duty and showed our concern by standing on the pavement and gawking at the house where the emergency vehicles were parked.

“Kitchen fire,” said one neighbor.

“Heart attack,” said another. But there was no ambulance. Seconds later Animal Control pulled up. One man carried a large stick, the other man held what looked like a laundry bag.

“Snake,” Dad said.

The poor woman in that house had found an eight-foot python behind her stove. A young man several blocks away had been in search of his pet python, Serena was her name, all morning. Fortunately, Serena had been well fed and cared for by her owner and the woman or her Toy Poodle had not been on the python’s Thanksgiving menu.

I learned two things that day; snakes seek out warmth, and that my fear was not as unfounded as my parents led me to believe. There’s more than one benefit to sleeping in a cool room, I thought.

When I was twenty-five years old I taught preschool. A local nature center came to give a presentation one afternoon. The center was known for their care and rehabilitation of wild animals. I arranged for this program because I wanted my inner-city students to see these animals up close and to learn how to respect nature. The director of the center brought along with her quite a few animals that included an opossum, a barn owl, a hawk, and, of course, a snake.

“I need a volunteer,” she said to the crowd. My principal pushed me forward. “This was your idea, after all,” she  reminded me.

My job was to hold the snake. I thought I was going to faint. I could actually hear my heart beat in my ears along with great swooshing noises. I swallowed my fear and held out my hand for the small yellow and brown corn snake. Her name was Lipstick and her skin felt soft as silk material, not like slime or leather as I’d feared. She gently moved her body around my wrist and up my arm flicking her tongue in and out. It was the only time I’ve ever held a snake.

My dad was sixty-one years old when he came to live with me and my family after his house  burned down. As the months passed, it became apparent he was not well. It was hard for him to put sentences together or to walk very far. We turned our family room on the first floor into a bedroom for him where he’d have easy access to the bathroom and the back porch where he could go to smoke.

By year’s end he began to have mini strokes and was now unable to move around on his own. I took him all his meals and sat with him drinking endless cups of coffee while watching game and talk shows.

One evening, after everyone was asleep and  I was up reading, I began hearing odd sounds. I checked the children, but they were sleeping soundly. The dogs were curled by the fireplace. After checking each room without discovering the source of the shuffling sound, I decided to check on Dad. He had been asleep for hours. I opened the door at the top of the stairs and saw a brown pattern move on the steps. I screamed and flipped on the lights. There was Dad slithering up towards me, his tongue twitched from side to side as he slid on his belly maneuvering his way up the stairs.

“Did I scare you?” he asked and rolled over on his back. I could barely breathe. My body shook so hard I had to sit down on the floor. I reached down and touched his shoulder to reassure myself it was only my dad. His face was covered in sweat from exertion.

“I want that brown stuff in a mug,” he said.

“Coffee?” I asked. “I will bring you your coffee.” But I still couldn’t move.

“I scared you,” he said again and began to laugh.

He laughed so hard for so long he sent himself into a coughing fit. It took the fire department to get him off the steps and back in bed. He continued to tell the story and laugh about it for days afterward. I believe it was the last hearty laugh he enjoyed.

In my childhood I was not afraid of ghost or the dark, but of something slithering near me. My dad has been gone from this world for eleven years now, but there has not been one time since that evening that I have not been leery of opening that door and just a bit terrified I might find him slithering up towards me.

The Detective’s Daughter: The Lost Art of Letters

Kim'spolicehatNot long before Dad’s house burned down, he gave me the family photos. There were boxes upon damaged boxes of photographs, letters, postcards and telegrams dating back to the early 1860’s. They had sat in the dampness of the basement pushed behind trunks of dishes and forgotten housewares on the bank under the house.

I will admit that I was snooping. For the last year or so I had been keeping an extra eye on him since his illness. I’d show up every few days to clean or make him a meal and to toss out the tower of pizza boxes that accumulated no matter how often I’d visit. He never let me take anything home and always insisted he was just about to use whatever I wanted to throw out or donate. When he gave me the mangled boxes to take home, I was surprised.

“You like all that stuff,” he said and helped me drag them to my car. I can spend hours, days sometimes, sorting through the photos and trying to figure out who is who. My favorite things, though, are the letters. I still write letters, but I must admit, they are usually sent as an email. When did letters go out of style? Occasionally I receive one in a Christmas card, and even those are usually printed from a computer.

My grandmother was a great letter writer. She had family across the country and overseas that she kept in touch with through the years. I love reading their responses to her and try to imagine her reading them at our kitchen table in her housecoat drinking a cup of coffee.

Letter from Uncle Al to Nana.

Letter from Uncle Al to Nana.

The letter I cherish the most is one written by my Uncle Al. He was my grandmother’s older brother and also one of her closest friends. By the time Dad was two, my grandmother was a widow. On her first Mother’s Day without her husband, Uncle Al sent her a letter, a poem really, that he sent to her from Dad. It is sweet and I keep it alongside a note my own son wrote to me on a Mother’s Day not so long ago.

Email is wonderful to send a quick note, but it will never replace the excitement a letter brings when received in the mail, nor will it ever hold the faint scent of lavender or be tucked between the pages of a favorite book. I think it’s time the handwritten letter made a comeback.

Dear Readers,
Please tell me the last letter you wrote or received and how that made you feel.
Best regards,
The Detective’s Daughter

The Dective’s Daughter-A Heartfelt Memory

kimspolicehatKim in Baltimore watching the snow falling…again!

February is a month many people think about hearts and love. Love isn’t always easy to find and a lot of us take for granted the love we receive. I think this may be especially true when it concerns family. I was raised in my grandparents home. Well, really it was Nana’s house, she allowed Pop-Pop to live there and wouldn’t let my father leave. I’m not complaining, I had a wonderful and happy childhood. I lived with four people who watched my every move more closely than Kennedy was watching Cuba. image
The most vigilant of the group was Pop-Pop. There was not one thing I did that he wasn’t at my side. I think he would have gone to school with me had Sister Angela Marie allowed him.

Pop-Pop had never had any small children of his own. He’d married Nana when my dad was seven years old. When I was born I was treated in the same manner as a porcelain doll and Pop-Pop made it his main mission in life to see I didn’t get broken.

Of course I did several times which only increased his anxiety and watchfulness of me. “Landing in Normandy was easier,” imagePop-Pop would say under his breath as Nana gave him instructions as to what I was and was not to do while we were out of the house. We were going to run a few errands for her on Light Street. I was still in an arm cast and sling from my most recent operation so there were even more rules than usual. No skipping, hopping, running, jumping or swinging my arm around. Watch where I was going. Hold Pop-Pop’s hand. Stand up straight, don’t bump into anything. The list went on.

We never made it to Light Street. Pop-Pop stopped at the corner to visit his pal Mr. Palmer who owned the tavern a block away. They watched the ball game and drank a beer while I sat spinning on the stool eating a pretzel stick and drinking a Coke. Three spins in and I went flying off the stool. Who knew Pop-Pop could move so fast? He caught me in one hand while holding his beer in the other, never spilling a drop.

imageHe was my best friend, my first friend. He took me to my first burlesque show, my first bar and a funeral parlor everyday after school to visit his friend who was the mortician. He tried to teach me to play guitar and I learned to sing every song he knew. We played poker, rummy, dominoes and any other game that I could play while sitting down to limit my chances of injury. Pop-Pop sat with me at Children’s Hospital on more than one night and when I was in middle school he watched all my soap operas and gave me a complete rundown in the afternoon when I came home. He was there everyday and I could no more shake him off than I could my own shadow.

When I was twelve he died of cancer. It was near the end of February and neither my sister nor I had been told he was sick. I wasn’t allowed to see him at the same funeral parlor where we had spent so many afternoons together. It was the greatest loss of my life.image
The day of the funeral I stayed home with my cousin. We made the coffee and put out the luncheon meats and pastries. After nearly everyone had gone home I overheard one of my aunties tell Nana she had lost her best friend. It was the only time I’d ever seen my grandmother cry.

When my son was born there was only one name I would consider for him. His name is Louis, in honor of my grandfather. I have told him every story I can remember about Pop-Pop. I think how proud Pop-Pop would be to have a child named for him and how I wish he could have lived to see my beautiful boy. I’ve done my best to teach him all the things my grandfather taught me. Louis can play rummy and poker, he knows how to sit at the bar and drink Cokes and eat pretzel sticks and can sing all the words to Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey. We’ve hung around a funeral home or two, but have yet to take in a burlesque show. Maybe when he’s twenty one.

If we are lucky, some wonderful person will enhance our life. If we are smart, we will acknowledge their gift.

Readers: Who made the strongest impression on your childhood?

The Detective’s Daughter – Sing a New Song

kimspolicehatKim in Baltimore, putting away the last of the Christmas decorations.

This morning on a television program they had a segment about 45 records. Does anyone remember those? I do and still have most of mine in a record box tucked on the shelf of my office closet. I come from a musical family. My grandparents and their siblings all played musical instruments and my grandfather and uncles even had their own music hour on the radio in the 1940’s.

 Even though my parents were definitely children of the sixties, I was more encased in the generation of my grandparents. By the time I was five I could sing every verse of Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey. I knew much more about Judy Garland and Bing Crosby than Judy Collins and Bob Dylan. We watched Lawrence Welk every Saturday afternoon and listened to Nat King Cole on the radio. My grandfather and uncles would sit in our kitchen playing their banjos and guitars nearly every Saturday night. Dad never played an instrument, but loved listening to his big band records on the stereo. Music was playing day and night in our house.

My grandfather died the year I turned twelve and the weekly gatherings came to an end. We still had the radio and stereo playing constantly, but the music seemed empty. I felt hurt and alone. Listening to Fleetwood Mac and Billy Joel, though I loved their music, did nothing to improve my mood.

Dad came in one night after work and called my to the kitchen. “I have something for you,” he said and handed me a paper shopping bag. Inside was a Led Zepplin album. Now, you’ve probably figured out by now if you regularly read my post, I was an extremely sheltered child. I had heard of Led Zepplin, but doubt I could’ve named one of their songs. In my young mind this was the type of music some of the older neighborhood boys listened to in their basement while getting high.

ledZI stood there, frozen in place, wondering what in the world my dad was thinking giving this to me. “Live a little,” he finally said, breaking the silence. I dutifully took the album up to my room and played it on my turn table. I laid across my bed with my head hanging off the side. It seemed to me the proper way to listen to Led Zepplin was with all the blood rushing to your brain. From the moment Robert Plant’s voice sang out “Hey, hey mama” I could feel the void in me that had been starved for months filling up. He was smooth and sometimes screaming and had an achy scratchiness to his voice I’d not heard before but could identify the same feelings within myself.

Dad never requested I turn my stereo down, nor did he ever roll his eyes when I mentioned Robert Plant the way he had anytime I’d wanted to talk about David Cassidy. The following summer we made our annual trek to Atlantic City. It would be our last visit there as a family. One night, while walking the boardwalk, Dad played a baseball game and won. Of all the prizes he could have chosen, he walked away with yet another Led Zepplin album, Bonzo’s Birthday. I was thrilled.

In Dad’s quiet way he helped me overcome the depression I felt after my grandfather’s death by introducing me to this music. One Zepplin album put me on the path to The Runaways, The Godfathers, Blondie, u2 and Nirvana. I have turned to them on numerous occasions over the years to dance, sing or even scream my way through both hard and happy times. My dad and Led Zepplin forever mingled in my heart.

Readers: Do you have a song or an album that helped you through a rough time?

The Detective’s Daughter — The Christmas Tree

kimspolicehatKim in Baltimore with the windows open and the heat turned off!

IMG_2882There’s a problem with my Christmas tree…it’s not decorated. We’ve had a light issue this year. My dog, the wonderful Romeo, has decided there is nothing better for an afternoon snack than some tasty wire and crunchy bulbs. We’ve gone through a few strands and the type of lights I like are becoming harder and harder to find. Now I have the tree surrounded with my kitchen chairs. Hopefully, before next week I will be able to hang an ornament or two that won’t become a midnight snack for him.

The last few years we’ve had an artificial tree. I am not a fan, but due to some allergies, they’re the only type of tree allowed in the house. I miss going out in the woods and chopping the tree down with my family. Well, I didn’t actually chop it, my job was to keep hold of the children and make sure they didn’t wonder away with some other similarly dressed family. Everyone looks alike in a parka!

I remember when the kids were small and watching  A Charlie Brown Christmas, they’d ask me why Lucy wanted the fake trees. Who wouldn’t want to tromp around for miles in the bitter cold and cut down a tree and then tie it to the roof of your car praying for the forty minute ride home it wouldn’t end up in splinters on the freeway?
I think I miss our yearly tradition more than I dislike the artificial tree. No matter how cold, I looked forward to the tree cutting event each year. We would all pile in the car; kids, husband, even the dogs, and be on our way. The trip always included stopping for hot chocolate.

KimxmasGrowing up we never had a real tree. I had only seen Christmas trees like that at George Bailey’s house! Our tree was silver and sat on a table in my grandmother’s living room. There was a rotating light that changed the color of the tree from blue to red to green. For years I kept the tree in our family room until the wiring became hazardous.

Christmas trees hold more memories for me than any other holiday symbol. When I see them I can hear my mom playing her Nat King Cole Christmas album on the stereo and I think of my dad instructing us on how thin the sugar cookies should be rolled out. Of course, my favorite memories of are my own children and their delighted faces when the tree was lit or leaving the plate of cookies for Santa.

This year I’ve been milling around a small business that has recently opened. They sell cut trees and wreaths and have a tiny shop filled with handmade and antique ornaments for sale. I sit by the outdoor fire and watch the families with their small children making future memories.
Readers: What type of tree do you have for your celebration? Has it changed since you were little?