Igpay Atinlay

Oday ouyay eakspay igpay atinlay? You may not recognize this strange language in its written form but if you heard it, you would understand it to be Pig Latin. I think it must be the non-bilingual's poor attempt at a second language. However, when I was young, I thought it was cool!

My mother and her mom would speak in Pig Latin. Of course they used the language to speak about adult things or something we children weren't supposed to know. They would carry on whole conversations in Pig Latin, or perhaps a few key words to confuse us. As we children got older we began to understand the "secret language" and we began to try to figure out the adult conversation. Victory was within our grasp--almost--then my mom and grandmother started speaking Pig Latin faster. Curses, foiled again!

As we got older we were able to follow most of the Pig Latin talk, so that it only became effective to use in front of the younger children. Eventually, I became fluent in Pig Latin. My mom and I would use the language to speak in front of my youngest siblings (victory at last!) and even some of the older kids couldn't follow a fast-paced Pig Latin conversation. My youngest brother, Glenn, became so tired of hearing Pig Latin and being out-of-the-loop that he started to mimic the language: "Oopday, Poopday, Shoopday!" He would crack us up and then tell us to talk in private if we couldn't speak openly in front of him. True, perhaps, but not as much fun as speaking Pig Latin.

Once in a while my mom and I will have a few words in Pig Latin just to drive my brother crazy--so much fun to tease him, hee hee!

Opehay ouyay avehay aay eatgray ayday!

Baking Traditions

My grandmother's measuring cups and my mom's recipe book are treasures.

I never had an opportunity to bake with my grandmother. It is comforting to know that I use them just as she did, scooping flour and sugar into the cups, leveling the contents with a knife. Lovingly preparing goodies for her family. Though she is gone from the earth, she lingers in my memory, and we are connected.

My mom and I frequently use her recipe book though its backbone is torn and has been repaired with duct tape, its well worn pages are stained, creased, and smudged. Mom was industrious so some of the pages have typewritten recipes, but most pages are in my mom's lovely handwriting. The book has long since outgrown the envelopes after each section for inserting recipe cards or clippings from magazines or newspapers and instead the book bulges a bit from all the recipes stuffed under the front cover. I am quite familiar with the family favorite recipes, but there are many recipes that mom collected that have yet to be tested and tasted.

My mom passed her love of baking on to me and many of my siblings, patiently teaching us how to read recipes, measure ingredients, explaining mixing versus folding, preparing the pans, and testing for doneness. Mom was giving us more than life skills, she was giving part of herself. Time in the kitchen with mom was truly a gift of love.