While food sustains the body, memories feed the soul

The Rubber Band Cheesecake is a unique tribute to loved ones with Alzheimer’s disease.

Currently, 4.5 million Americans have this disease, and while advances have been made to better understand the origins of Alzheimer’s and slow its progress, there is no cure. By 2050, it is estimated that up to 16 million Americans will have Alzheimer’s, and that this disease will become our nation’s greatest economic and social challenge. The enormous impact on individuals and families will overwhelm not only personal finances, but will forever alter the path of family history.

Yet nestled within The Rubber Band Cheesecake are glimpses into the exceptional lives that contribute to these alarming statistics: A grandmother who held out for only the best linen available from a Munich warehouse; a mother who temporarily changed a time honored 1940’s Stanford tradition with her exceptional cooking skills; an architect; an award winning watercolor artist; Miss New Mexico 1924; a former journalist recently diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s; and more.

The Rubber Band Cheesecake celebrates loved ones for who they were before the disease, to create a legacy of healing through its simple message of remembrance. It celebrates life and helps soothe the ache of profound loss by offering inspiration and hope to those affected by the devastation of Alzheimer’s. It is a reminder of days gone by that conjures up feelings of love and warmth that once emanated from the kitchens of childhood homes and encourages readers to embark upon their own nostalgic journey to revisit the family recipes and memories that were once an integral part of their lives.

My mother was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at the age of 49. At the same time, her mother was also diagnosed with the disease, and I began to lose two of the most influential people in my life. Healing came by remembering their part in my happiest childhood memories of numerous family get-togethers that infused highly entertaining stories, laughter and lively conversation, with a multitude of irresistible smells drifting in from the kitchen. It seemed as though something was always cooking, and someone was always telling a tale. This spirit of family is captured in The Rubber Band Cheesecake as an offering of love and hope for generations to come.

“The best part of the entire (The Rubber Band Cheesecake) submission process was including my children in the cooking of recipes and sharing of family stories as they discovered tastes that were an integral part of my childhood. I found it to be a deeply rewarding experience, and one of the finest ways that I could honor the memory of my Omi, a woman I so greatly admired.” Gisela Snyder, “Only the Best will do.”

100% of the proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit Alzheimer’s disease research toward finding a cure, and each story is a tribute to a loved one with the disease.

A note from my editor

I’ve had the honor of being involved with Sherri McLoughlin’s book project over the past couple of years, watching it evolve from a hopeful notion to a labor of love. Sherri is compiling a collection of memories and recipes from families who have lost a loved one to Alzheimer’s Disease. Proceeds from the project will be donated to research for a cure.

While death is the cruel result of many diseases, the loss of self suffered by an Alzheimer’s patient is a particularly painful process, profoundly affecting the lives of family, friends, and caregivers. The goal of Sherri’s project is to provide a forum where the Alzheimer’s patient will be honored and remembered by family and friends. If you or someone you know has a story to share, please consider submitting a celebration of a loved one’s life.

Participants in the project have found the process of writing about their loved ones to be cathartic, heartbreaking, joyful … and ultimately healing. Anyone can contribute, regardless of whether you consider yourself to be a writer. Everyone has a story to tell, and if you are unsure where to start or how to tell it, Sherri and I will help you.

This is a wonderful chance to be generous with your memories on behalf of those who lost that most precious gift during their lifetimes.

It’s a beautiful cause — spread the word.

David Rochester, Editor, The Rubber Band Cheesecake

Share your Family’s Story

What Is The Rubber Band Cheesecake?
The Rubber Band Cheesecake, a Collection of Recipes and Memories, is a charming and diverse collection of “food-inspired memoirs” written by a family member in honor of a loved one with Alzheimer’s. The stories reveal the spirit of the person with Alzheimer’s in a heartwarming and meaningful way for who they were before the disease.  The title of the book, The Rubber Band Cheesecake, was borrowed from the story submitted by writer/actor Bonnie MacBird; about her mother whose wonderful sense of humor played a starring role in one of Bonnie’s fondest childhood memories.

The Rubber Band Cheesecake is not a cookbook, however each story includes a recipe to capture the love and warmth that once emanated from family kitchens of long ago.

What Is A “Food-Inspired Memoir?”
A “food-inspired memoir” is a story about a person that relates to a particular dish they enjoyed or made throughout their life. A recipe representing the dish mentioned in the story will follow, along with a “vintage” photograph of the subject of the story.

Will It Be Published?
I plan to publish with a major book publisher, and 100% of the proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit Alzheimer’s disease research.

How Can I Be Involved?
The Rubber Band Cheesecake is a collection of stories and recipes contributed by family members who care for, or have a family member with Alzheimer’s disease or dementia. People who fit this criterion may participate by submitting a story, recipe and photograph to be considered for inclusion in the book.

What Kind Of Story Are You Looking For?
Each story should be interesting and entertaining. It could be funny, sad, dramatic, but must be about a family member who has, or had, Alzheimer’s or dementia.  While the intent of the project is to honor a person through their culinary contributions or favorite dish, the story behind the person is really the key ingredient. Food can be the entire focus of the story, or a small part, as long as the recipe that will be included is mentioned.

How Long Should My Story Be?
1000-2000 words are ideal, about 2-3 typewritten pages.

But, I’m Not A Writer!
That’s okay! Your story doesn’t have to be perfect, and don’t worry about grammar, proper spelling, etc., because we will edit and polish as needed. As long as you provide enough content, and are willing to provide additional information if needed, either via e-mail or over the phone, it will be fine. Telling the story is the important part, not the structure.

But I’m *Really* Not a Writer!
That’s okay, too. I am happy to interview you to help create your story.

Will My Story Definitely Be In The Book?
Unfortunately, due to space considerations, I can’t guarantee that each story I receive will be in the final book. However, when the book is published, each person whose story is included will receive a free copy, in appreciation for his or her contributions.

How Do I Send The Story, Recipe And Photograph To You?
E-mail is preferred, although I will accept material through the regular mail. Stories and recipes may be submitted to me as an attachment or as plain e-mail text. Photographs (in jpeg format) may be submitted as an e-mail attachment, or through regular mail. Please type “The Rubber Band Cheesecake” in the subject line of your e-mail, so I will easily recognize it. All photographs will be returned. I retain the right to edit each submission for clarity and content.

Will I Be Paid For Writing A Story?
No. Because this book will act as a fundraiser, participation is voluntary. All proceeds from the sale of the book will be donated to Alzheimer’s disease research, so each person’s submission will be considered a donation to this cause.

What If I Have Questions?
Please send e-mail to me at: sherri68@earthlink.net
I am happy to answer any questions you may have, or provide clarification.

Thank you for your participation with this worthwhile and heartfelt project!

Inherited Memories

This story was written by my aunt, about my mom

By Jeannette Paulson-Hereniko

Writer, producer and founding director of the Hawaii International Film Festival

My younger sister, Sheilah, and I loved the summer. We knew it meant leaving our northeast Portland home to travel together by Greyhound bus to Seaside, Oregon, on the Pacific Ocean. This is where our “Grandma Seaside” (Natalie Schreiber-Bartholoma) would welcome us, ready to hug, spoil, and fill us with the food and stories that came from her childhood in Russia. Grandma Seaside (our nickname for her) was born and raised in the close-knit Volga-German village of Norka, along Russia’s famed Volga River, until leaving for America in 1910.

Grandpa Seaside, (Jacob Bartholoma), was born and raised in the nearby Volga-German village of Walter. He was much quieter than Grandma, but boy, could he play the zither, and hum songs from the old country!

Grandma’s big brown eyes sparkled and her voice filled with emotion whenever she talked about the beautiful village of her childhood. She would tell Sheilah and me stories about her handsome father’s flourmill and that her four brothers and three sisters helped make the bread for the entire village. We’d sit on her large couch that smelled of incense and tea, sliding downward on its puffy pillows as she told of sledding with her family in the winter and playing games in the woods with her friends during the beautiful summers. Grandpa would nod his head in agreement as she talked, while sitting nearby, silently staring out the window. Sheilah and I easily imagined that our grandparents grew up in a fairy tale-like kingdom full of happiness and laughter, so much more ideal than our Portland home, where life seemed so much more serious.

As a young adult, I often heard the stories of why Gram and Gramps left their Volga-German villages in Russia. More and more of the Russians resented the Volga-Germans, especially as the Bolsheviks gained power, and they wanted to rid Russia of Volga-Germans, and others such as Jews and intellectuals. Although my grandmother didn’t talk about that part much, as an adult, I’ve read books that described the persecution of the Volga-Germans, and realized how fortunate my grandparents were to have escaped as young adults. They had been sweethearts in Russia, and were reunited upon immigrating to Nebraska in the early 1900’s. Together they made their way westward, settling in Seaside, Oregon, where they raised five children and built a business together renting cottages to tourists.

My sister, Sheilah, loved animals. She was especially fond of a grey and black striped kitten that would visit her daily during our summer visits. Although the kitty officially lived next door with someone else, it could often be found snuggled up and purring in Sheilah’s lap, contently sleeping off the milk provided from Grandma’s refrigerator at least three times a day. Our mother was scared to death of cats and never allowed them near our Portland home, so Sheilah’s bright blue eyes lit up with special joy whenever it was summer in the early 1950’s, and we were in Seaside, Oregon.

One of my favorite memories is of Grandma Seaside making Grebbles for Sheilah and me. We loved punching down the dough after it had risen, amazed that it had doubled and sometimes tripled in size. When the Grebble was through cooking and puffing in the pot filled with crackling hot oil, Grandma would remove it to the waiting paper napkins that were spread out on the table. Sheilah and I would roll the piping hot browned Grebbles in powdered sugar with a little cinnamon thrown in, sometimes adding the tiniest pinch of nutmeg before gobbling them down. I really didn’t care for the nutmeg part, but Sheilah did, and sometimes I would let her have her way.

The white powdered sugar stuck to our fingers, and we would lick them clean before the next batch of Grebbles was ready to be dunked in the sugar concoction. I can still recall the satisfying taste of biting down on the puffiness of warm, sweet fried dough and eating Grebbles until our stomachs complained and we could eat no more. Grandma and Grandpa never told Sheilah and me that we had to stop eating them. They were just happy that we loved them as much as they had, while growing up in Russia.

Part Two:

As the founding director of the Hawaii International Film Festival for fifteen years, I was immersed in thoughts of planning the upcoming festival in June, 1995, when I heard the news on CNN: “Headlines In Health,” announced the broadcaster, followed by the words of a cheerful woman who smiled as she shattered my world forever:

“Today the University of Washington Medical School announced the results of a six year study that proves that 50% of all Volga-German descendants of immigrants who migrated to the United States in the early 1900’s from the Russian village of Walter are carrying a defective gene. This gene initiates the early onset of Alzheimer’s – sometimes affecting people as early as their mid-40’s. In some families, everyone carries the gene, while in other families; only a few members are affected. Presently there is no test to see who carries the gene. And there is no cure. For more information, call 1-800 …”

I froze at my desk, then quickly called the 1-800 number and received a test, which revealed that I had a 50% chance of getting early-onset Alzheimer’s. If so, I would join my beautiful blonde little sister Sheilah, who, in her 40’s, was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and was living at The Hampton’s Alzheimer’s Special Care Center, outside of Portland, Oregon. Once a busy person with a full life, who white water rafted, skied, traveled the world and passionately supported social causes, she now spent her days sitting and staring, unable to speak or recognize her children, or me, any more.

My mother had just died from Alzheimer’s, being diagnosed when she was in her 60’s. Just as her father, my Grandpa Seaside, had, and my cousin, Natalie, had died from Alzheimer’s in her 60’s.

I contacted the University of Washington, and was able to learn more about this rare defective gene mysteriously transmitted through relatives of those immigrating to America from Walter, Russia, where my Grandpa Seaside was raised.

I decided to quit my exciting but stressful career as Film Festival Director and take the money I had saved to travel around the world. If I were to get early-onset Alzheimer’s, I wanted first to live every moment as though it were my last.

Ten months after hearing the news on CNN, Ellen Niemans from the University of Washington called to tell me that a test had been developed that could identify if one carried the Alzheimer’s gene, and would I be willing to take it? YES, I would!

After careful counseling required prior to genetic testing, I entered the doctor’s office to hear the results of the test. I was told that I was one of the lucky 50% who does not carry the gene. This means my children do not have it either.

My immediate reaction was “It’s not fair!” How come I am spared, but not my sister Sheilah or my cousin Natalie? Another surprising reaction was the realization that I would have to give up entertaining the threat of early Alzheimer’s. In a strange way, I knew that I would miss it. During the last ten months I had been living each moment as though it were my last. I wanted to continue living life this way. The encounter with Alzheimer’s has encouraged me to take risks and live life to the fullest. The tragedy of my family reminds me to enjoy every moment and embrace the people you share the moment with.

Grandma Seaside’s Raised Buttermilk Grebble

6 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons sugar
Dash salt
2 teaspoons allspice
1 cup butter, softened
2 cups buttermilk
6 eggs
Shortening, for frying

Mix all above with wooden spoon and cover the bowl with a dishtowel. Let stand for about an hour or so, until dough rises to double its size. Punch it in the center and knead slightly.
Roll the dough on floured surface until about 1/4 inch thick. Cut into squares about 2 1/2 x 4 inches long. Make 2 slits in each. Pull one corner of the cut dough through the opposite slit. It is now ready to dip in the hot shortening (see next step).

While preparing the dough, melt shortening in a large cooking pan (or deep fryer until it’s hot enough to brown the Grebble. Drop the cut dough inside the hot shortening. Be careful not to splash hot oil on yourself.

Watch Grebble turn a lovely golden brown. Turn it, so it’s golden brown on all sides. Do not fry the Grebble too long because that will make it tough.

Sprinkle with powdered sugar with a tiny bit of cinnamon mixed in the sugar. Eat while still warm. Yummy!

An Artist in the Kitchen

By Bonnie MacBird
Writer, actor, teacher, artist, graphic designer

It was a very different time and place, where I grew up. The fifties and early sixties were my childhood years, spent in the comfort and security of a small, knotty pine-paneled, two-bedroom tract home with a swing set and a pet beagle in the backyard, in a foggy, working class suburb of San Francisco. It was Howdy Doody, and the Mickey Mouse club for me; Girl Scout cookie sales, bridge nights, cocktails and neighborly barbecues for my parents.

My urban, Chicago-raised mom, Rosemary (Simpson) MacBird, with her super IQ and considerable artistic talent was probably not ideally suited to suburban mommy-hood. Before the war, she was close to completing an intensely challenging and very competitive fine arts painting degree at the renowned Chicago Art Institute, and left only months shy of graduation to join the Navy during WWII, as she felt very suddenly and urgently compelled to sign up to defend her country.  I suppose it was right after Pearl Harbor.  She said there was a wave of young people joining up and she just had to do it, intending to return and finish her degree, but she met my dad and got married and never lived in Chicago again.

As a hospital corpswoman at Mare Island, she met and nursed back to health, my Navy pilot dad, who was recovering from losing his right arm in a plane accident in the Aleutian Islands. Their fifty-two year marriage ended the way it began, with her by his bedside from 1997 to January of 2000, helping with his final passage as he died slowly from diabetic complications.

But back to the fifties, and early sixties, in California. Optimistic times. Convenience foods, all new. Coffee cups made out of the same material as rocket cones! Drive-through hamburger stands. Chips and dip, and Polynesian cocktails, and marinades for barbecue, and later, Julia Child’s new innovations, and plenty, plenty, plenty in the supermarkets for children of the Depression and WWII, like my parents. We drove a ’57 green DeSoto with fins and a pushbutton transmission. Etch-a-sketch was magical and it was a time of wonder and relative peace.

Compared to her past history, Rosemary’s new life was … tame. But she jumped right into it with full enthusiasm – leading my Brownie and Girl Scout troupes with panache - getting us horseback riding lessons and leading us in elaborate arts and crafts projects. She was a PTA mom, and brought cupcakes (with great decorations) to all of my classrooms. I remember one Halloween, when she hand carved tiny jack-o-lantern faces into 33 oranges, one for every member of my fourth grade class. If you cut the oranges carefully, leaving the whitish yellow of the rind to shine through the features they look like little pumpkins, lit from within. It must have taken her hours.

In 1964, she delighted my friends at my birthday party with not one cake – but four, one each with a cartoon portrait of Paul, John, George, and Ringo on it - that she had skillfully drawn on with frosting! Completely recognizable, and very, very cute! Each child got a piece from her favorite “Beatle” cake.

To keep her sanity, while she chauffeured me to and from guitar, dancing, and judo lessons, my mom studied for her night classes in psychology, French, and Spanish at San Francisco State. And she was always reading; Mario Pei’s The Story of Language, Vance Packard’s The Hidden Persuaders, The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone, and other thought-provoking works.

During her “mommy years” Rosemary put her artwork on hold, something I regret, but she does not. She did so willingly, enjoying her “mom” time. She poured her creativity into our family life. It is interesting to note that after I (an only child) moved out, she took up her painting again, and went on to win national awards and sell prolifically as a watercolorist specializing in portraits, florals, and character studies.

My generation grew up with new ideas of women’s place and women’s opportunities, but the prevailing social scene, and the lack of support for working women, back then, made the fulltime mommy choice right for her. And she loved her family dearly. And still does, she says, as I read this to her. “The best part of my life” she says.

Rosemary’s kitchen was more about art than food. There was a large metal cabinet, painted turquoise and just a few feet from our dining table. It opened to reveal a giant, messy cache of art supplies, conté crayons, charcoal pencils, colored pencils and paints, glue, glitter, and special “invisible ink” that appeared only if the paper was heated. Another kitchen project was another kind of ink that embossed the paper when heated. I remember thinking of that big turquoise cabinet as a cabinet of delight.

I learned to draw and paint at the kitchen table, and always came out from my room to do my homework there while she cooked dinner for my dad and me. My father, Harry Dickson MacBird, “Mac,” was the real cook of the family – a self trained gourmet chef, specializing in refined American cooking. No one did steak, roast beef, gravies – and later, more adventurously, cassoulet, paella and Coquilles St. Jacques – like my dad. He took infinite pains with cooking, loved everything about it, and later shared that with my gourmet cook husband, Alan. They cooked some tremendous and tasty “gut buster” dinners together.

My dad, in fact, did all the holiday and company dinners, and we entertained frequently. But during the week, he worked long hours at the Veteran’s Administration in San Francisco, coming home exhausted, and Rosemary did the day in, day out, shopping and cooking. In retrospect this must have been quite a strain on her artistic temperament. But she didn’t complain. She just did it. “I bellyached a little,” she says. “I must’ve.” Children of the Depression, and veterans of WWII, both of my parents were considerably less apt to complain than members of any subsequent generation. They just, as we say now, “sucked it up,” and carried on.

My dad’s gone now, passed away in January of 2000, after seeing the new millennium in. My mom, weakened by the horrible strain of watching him go incrementally, and staying by his bedside all day every day for three years, now suffers from severe memory loss, diagnosed as vascular dementia, very similar to Alzheimer’s disease.

My mom had a wacky sense of humor, and still does. She can no longer handle the daily rigors of life without considerable help, but she’s still capable of enjoying good theater, good company, and good food. I’ll be making sure she gets that as long as she’s able.

When I think back to her cooking… two recipes come to mind… There were several standbys that she did superbly. Spaghetti and meat sauce was my favorite, and always my birthday request. Pork chops with applesauce was another, but one of my dad’s and my favorite’s was her Classic Meat Loaf.

My mom, as I said, has a wacky sense of humor. When we had company over, my dad would cook the main courses, and my mom frequently would do her specialty, the desserts. In fact, when I left home at seventeen, I had not bothered to learn any cooking from either of them with one exception. I could make perfect two layer birthday cakes and decorate the hell out them. I still do this, when I can find someone who will eat the carbs.

On one occasion, we had some special guest, and my mom decided to stretch her skills. She had read about a great apricot glazed cheesecake. She studied the recipe, and went to work, with great concentration.

But my dad, with only one hand, required her help as a kind of “sous chef,” so she was helping him unwrap and clean vegetables, and doing other things in the kitchen, as she made this wonderful cheesecake.

Anyway, the meal was a gourmet treat, and capped off with the pièce de résistance, which, uncharacteristically, was my mom’s part…. the cheesecake. Slices were cut and served and…. people were exclaiming over its flavor when suddenly someone paused, and asked her, “What are the blue things?”

She said, naturally, “What blue things?” And our guest held up his plate.

Embedded in his piece of cheesecake was a large blue rubber band. The thick kind that holds stalks of broccoli together. Oops. It must have fallen into the unbaked filling as my mom helped my dad!

She turned beet red and the entire table was convulsed with laughter. A good sport, and loving the absurdity of it all she laughed louder than anyone, and changed the name of the recipe to what you see below. It’s a hell of a cheesecake recipe, and we all enjoy it to this day. I don’t remember its original source, but my mom’s addition and this wacky memory make it special to me:

THE RUBBER BAND CHEESECAKE

First make the cookie crust:
Stir together:
1 cup sifted flour
¼ cup sugar
1 teaspoon grated lemon rind
Blend in:
½ teaspoon vanilla
1 egg yolk
¼ cup soft butter

Press crust evenly over the bottom of a spring-form pan. Bake at 400 degrees in oven until golden brown, about 10 minutes, but watch it closely so it doesn’t burn. Cool. Turn oven down to 250 degrees.

Next, make the filling:
5 8-oz packages cream cheese
1 ¾ cups sugar
3 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoons grated lemon peel
1 ½ tablespoons grated orange rind
¼ teaspoon vanilla
5 large eggs
2 egg yolks
¼ cup heavy cream

Beat together cheese, sugar, flour, rinds, and vanilla ‘til fluffy. Using electric mixer, mix in eggs and egg yolks one at a time, and then beat until creamy on a higher speed. Pour this mixture over the cookie crust. Now here’s where you would add the rubber band. (Just kidding.) Bake at 250 degrees 75 minutes longer (if top cracks, don’t worry, the glaze will cover it). Let cool at room temperature.

Next make the glaze:
In an electric blender, puree:
1 17 oz. can apricot halves (pitted) in syrup
Stir together:
1 teaspoon sugar
4 teaspoons cornstarch
Gradually stir in the apricot puree. Cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly, until thickened and clear. Cool. Or, (and this is probably what my mom did,) Buy a can of apricot glaze (approx. 6 oz.) spread it on cooled cake, don’t heat or cool the glaze.

Serve and enjoy. You can leave out the blue rubber band. Not so funny in these litigious times. Sigh…. but it was a great moment in our family history, and a really good cheesecake.

I read this to my mom, who responded: “I guess I’ll go down in family history as a jerk!” No… I told her. A sweetheart… and a funny one, too.

Only the Best Will do

By Gisela Cashin-Snyder

Executive Studio Manager, Cheyenne Mountain Entertainment

It was hot and stuffy, and I was bored beyond belief. My younger sister and I were trapped in a fabric store in downtown Munich as my mother and “Omi,” my maternal grandmother, shopped for lace to cover the windows in our new home. It was midsummer in 1973, and there wasn’t so much as a ceiling fan to stir the thick air. We had been at it for hours, and even my mother, accustomed to Omi’s dalliance over purchases, was beginning to show signs of fatigue.

Both women stood in front of a large table where bolts of dismissed airy fabric were stacked after Omi’s perfunctory inspection and rejection. None had met with her standards. I groaned when she demanded that the sales clerk, who had been patiently displaying everything on the shelves, summon the owner of the shop.

I felt sure Omi would only be satisfied if they broke out a loom, and started weaving a design she personally dictated.

I don’t know how much longer the negotiations lasted. My sister and I fell asleep waiting. When we awoke, Omi was positively beaming with satisfaction, shaking the owner’s hand, and my mother was muttering a suggestion of getting something sweet to reward us – and no doubt herself – for being so patient. She scooped up my little sister, but I was too big to be carried. Crabby and irritable, I remember vowing to myself, “I will never, never grow up to be like Omi.” What a waste of a perfectly good afternoon, looking at and arguing over white stuff to cover windows!

Later as we sat in a coffee house eating cake and sipping chocolate milk, my grandmother recounted to my sister and me how she had found the perfect sheers for our new house in Florida, hidden away from the general public in the storage room of that shop.

“Girls, money is earned with hard work, and wasted if you spend it on anything less than the very best. And the very best is always hidden away in the back. You must let the people who wait on you know that you will settle for nothing but their finest, but you must do it with manners. Never be rude; never reject what is in the front without at least the courtesy of viewing it. This may take a great deal of time, but in the end it is always worth it.”

For many years I believed that I had indeed developed into a woman utterly different from my grandmother. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I realized just how extraordinary a woman she truly was, and how much I resembled her in temperament.

Gertrude Paul was the youngest and only daughter in a family of three children. Her father was the head accountant for the German electrical company, and her mother was a Polish “blue blood” who adored her daughter to the point of distraction. Omi was sickly as a child, and the family doctor prescribed exercise to strengthen her. Because she had such weak ankles, her parents decided that swimming would be the ideal sport for her. By the time she was twelve, she was the star member of the local swim club and exceptionally good at swimming competitively under ice in winter.

My grandmother was also blessed with stunning good looks. Her hair was jet-black, and her eyes a startling silver blue. She had the voice of an angel, and studied to be an opera singer. The depression in Germany, which followed WWI, put an end to her dreams of fame as a vocalist. Instead, she took up secretarial studies and brought home a modest paycheck each week, which was turned over to the family. Everyone worked to keep food on the table at a time when wheelbarrows full of money were required to pay for a single loaf of bread.

Omi was also endowed with a single-mindedness that bordered on the intractable. Her parents no doubt hoped that she would marry well in a time of economic uncertainty. She made friends easily, and through those contacts socialized in the upper strata of Berlin society during the 1920s. But it was a handsome, self-made son of a postal worker whom she set her cap for.

My grandfather, Johannes Heinze, was enrolled in the police academy when he first met her at an outing through a sculling club which he and both Omi’s brothers belonged to. He told her she was beautiful, to which she replied, “I know,” and laughed. He then called her a spoiled brat, something no one else had ever done before. The gauntlet had been thrown, and what resulted was a love story that lasted through some of the most turbulent decades in history.

My great-grandfather realized that Omi had made up her mind about her beau, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Rather than forbidding her romance, he chose to help and encourage her fiancé to better himself so he could provide for her properly. He personally tutored my grandfather in higher mathematics so he could enter officer’s school, and taught him the rudiments of behaving like a gentleman in society.

In 1929, my grandparents were married. Within a year, my aunt was born, and shortly thereafter, Hitler came to power. The police force was nationalized into the military. My grandfather, a pilot in WWI, was drafted into the Luftwaffe.

In 1933, he was required to provide his family tree tracing back five previous generations. Four generations back on his mother’s side of the family, he encountered the name “Spielberg,” which was clearly Jewish. He received documentation proving that this member of his ancestry had been baptized in the Lutheran church, and was excused from tracing his family further. This no doubt was due to the fact that he was a skilled pilot and instructor. My grandmother never wavered from his side, even though it was obvious that the family would be closely watched from that point forward.

My mother was born in 1935, and my grandfather was deployed for the majority of her life until after the war. Omi was moved to a small town called Furstenfeldbruck, removed from her family and friends. She settled reluctantly into the life of an officer’s wife, devoting herself to the raising of her daughters. During the war, she lost two additional children. One was still born; the other lived less than a day.

My grandfather was shipped to the Russian front toward the end of the War. Family history has it that he was too vocal in his opposition to orders coming from Berlin. He was captured in Czechoslovakia by Americans, but turned over to the Russians (occupation zones were sorted out amongst the victors). Shipped to a Russian prisoner of war camp, my grandfather was reported simply as “missing” to my Omi. She assumed the worst, and set about establishing some sort of stability for herself and her daughters in post WWII Germany.

When word came that the Americans were on their way to Furstenfeldbruck, and that they would be taking over the apartment her family occupied, my grandmother found a local farmer with an oxcart. She and her two young daughters packed up the family valuables and piano, loaded them on the oxcart and hid them in the country. They then fled, leaving only enough rudimentary household items to avoid suspicion. My grandmother’s wedding crystal now sits on her wedding trousseau buffet in my living room, thanks to her bravery and resourcefulness.

Omi was never political or prejudiced in her thinking. Once the Americans arrived and took over the airbase her husband had helped to command only a few years before, she sent her eldest daughter to them to work as a secretary. She herself took in sewing to earn enough to get by. One of my mother’s most poignant memories is of her mother serving horsemeat stew one night, because there was simply nothing else to be had and her daughters were starving.

In 1949, a postcard arrived from my grandfather, announcing that he was alive but ill. My grandmother traveled to Berlin, where he was to be exchanged for another prisoner. She found him nearly dead with typhoid. When my grandfather returned to the Furstenfeldbruck, he was a completely changed man. Not even a potato peel was allowed to be thrown away, and his nightmares of imprisonment with the Russians lasted for years. He lost his temper when he learned that my aunt was working for the Americans. He didn’t trust them, as they had turned him over to the Russians – something dishonorable in his officer’s mind. Omi set him straight though. Clearly, she had taken over the job of providing for the family and persuaded him that my aunt’s working at the air base was their only choice if they were to survive.

In time, my grandfather’s pension was restored. The family built a modest home on the outskirts of town, and he settled into a quiet life, tending his garden and doting on the woman he loved above all else. Each day Omi and Opa took a walk after the midday meal. As a child, I remember wondering why my grandmother always took my grandfather’s arm when they wandered the streets in the afternoon. She was perfectly capable of walking on her own, yet she leaned on him, and he held her hand in the crook of his arm proudly street after street.

Omi continued to run her home like a well-oiled machine. By now both daughters were working, and their paychecks were turned over each week to provide for the family. Omi took half of their earnings to purchase the contents of her daughters’ hope chests. Only the finest linens, towels and silver were bought – even if it meant years of saving before they could be paid for.

Although Omi had grown up rather pampered, she taught herself to cook and keep house. Her meals were exemplary, and once groceries were again readily available, only the best would do for her. She passed these recipes on to her daughters. My mother was a reluctant student, but Omi’s relentless instruction resulted in years of delicious meals that I enjoyed with my brother, sister and father over the years.

My parents met through the mail. Dad saw a picture my mother had sent to a friend living in the U.S., and began writing to her in 1964. After a few months of correspondence, he flew to Germany and proposed. Mom accepted. My grandfather was less than pleased with her choice, but he remembered that he had once been a less than desirable fiancé, and eventually went along with my mother’s wishes.

We were raised in the States, but visited Bavaria every other summer as we grew up. My grandparents adored us, and devoted that time to seeing us smile. Those summers are some of the happiest memories of my life.

My grandfather died in October 1985 of lung cancer. Within a few months of his passing, my grandmother sank into the beginning symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease. It was as if her will to carry on left with Opa.

I was a new mother in America, and never saw Omi as she deteriorated. The photos that made their way across the ocean from my aunt and mother showed the same strikingly good-looking woman I had always known. It was only when you saw the blank stare in her eyes that you could tell something was amiss.

My aunt and mother cared for Omi until it became necessary to place her in a convalescent hospital run by nuns in a nearby town. She died in December 1994.

For completely selfish reasons, I’m glad that I did not have to witness Omi’s deterioration. I will always remember her as that strong and stylish woman who wanted only the very best. It was she who taught me that each of us deserves the highest quality for ourselves in this life.

OMI’S ROULLADEN

4 - ¼” slices of top round steak (ask your butcher to slice thin for you)
5 slices of bacon sliced into ¼” pieces
½ of a large yellow onion chopped
1 large dill pickle julienne sliced (like matchsticks)
prepared yellow mustard
salt and pepper
cooking twine, thread or un-waxed dental floss
olive oil
2 tablespoons flour
½ cup water

Tenderize the beef with a mallet.
Spread about a third of a teaspoon of mustard over each slice of beef.
Sprinkle generously with chopped onion and bacon.
Lay three julienned strips of pickle in the center.
Roll up each piece of beef and tie with cooking twine, thread or unwaxed dental floss.
Heat a Dutch oven over medium heat and coat bottom with olive oil.
Sprinkle each bundle with salt and pepper and brown on all sides in Dutch oven. Once the meat has browned, add almost enough water to cover and simmer over low heat for one hour.

About Sherri

When the time comes for Sherri McLoughlin to actually grow up, she is certain that she will know what she wants to be. Until then, she has tried (and rather enjoyed) the following occupations:

• Professional makeup artist and makeup special effects technician for major (and not so major) motion pictures, videos, commercials and theatre.

• Production and purchasing coordinator with a penchant for spending large, well known production companies’ money during major (and not so major) motion picture film productions.

• Executive assistant to renowned visionary and computer scientist Dr. Alan Kay, as well as his brilliant team of scientists, engineers, programmers and other really cool people.

• Certified Apple technician and professional computer nerd.

• Co-founder and director of acclaimed public charter school, The Pine Mountain Learning Center.

• Grant co-writer, scoring $430,000 for the above mentioned charter school, which was spent wisely.

• Project director for the U.S. Department of Education’s Emergency Response and Crisis Management grant through the local school district, referred to as a most “disastrous” job.

Sherri is a full-time mom to two wonderful and reasonably well-behaved children, Justin, 13 and Emily, 11, and works as a freelance computer technician when she is not stuck at home doing laundry. Her husband of 17 years, Jim, is a special effects makeup artist who has worked in the film industry for more than two decades and believes that Halloween should be a paid holiday. Along with their dogs, cats, and a pet rat affectionately named Plague, the family lives in the mountains north of Los Angeles where it snows in the winter and an occasional bear visits in the summer.

A native of Portland, Oregon, Sherri was raised in a highly entertaining family who loved to spin yarns and cook delicious food, often at the same time. Her mother instructed her to one-day “fly away from home,” and because she wanted to please her mom, she did just that and ended up in Los Angeles. Sadly, her brothers have voted to strip her of her esteemed “Oregonian” status because she was once caught carelessly admitting that she feels cold when the temperature dips below 65° and actually prefers sunshine to rain. However, they have decided to welcome her home for visits as long as she agrees to be polite when she drives and adhere to the 55 mph speed limit …

… she sure misses her hometown.