What have I got to do to make you love me
What have I got to do to make you care
What do I do when lightning strikes me
And I wake to find that you’re not there
What do I do to make you want me
What have I got to do to be heard
What do I say when it’s all over
And sorry seems to be the hardest word
It’s sad, so sad
It’s a sad, sad situation
And it’s getting more and more absurd
It’s sad, so sad
Why can’t we talk it over
Oh it seems to me
That sorry seems to be the hardest word
What do I do to make you love me
What have I got to do to be heard
What do I do when lightning strikes me
What have I got to do
What have I got to do
When sorry seems to be the hardest word

According to the newspapers, a new campaign will be starting, in The Netherlands *soon*, to encourage people to be more *friendly*.

A well meant campaign, it is still a bit odd.

Of course one lets the person behind you with one item go before you, and of course, the elderly, well, one helps them to find the applesauce.

My spoken Dutch sucks. But like the French, the Dutch seem to appreciate my efforts, although I have gone into a store and all conversation stops, all eyes staring at me and so I wonder if I have a dab of toothpaste on the corner of my lips.

What, really, is friendly ?

Is it simply just taking a moment to chat ?

Yesterday I went to the market to buy The Girl some chicken egg rolls that she likes fine. I myself prefer vegetarian ones, preferably Vietnamese, but in a pinch… So I’m standing there in line, in front of the chicken guy’s stand, and there is this little old lady next to me, complete with one of those help me walk push car sort of things. She came after me, but, I’m sorry, I let her go first.

She bought her various and sundry bits of chicken, and more people joined the line. I should have been next, but some how or another, she and I began talking. I just let the people go before me, as I chatted with her, in my stinkin’ Dutch. She was 93 years old. I told her that I never would have guessed that, she ( honestly) did not look a day over 70. And her eyes, gray like the North Sea, looked off to the right and she told me how very painful it was for her, feeling so young in her heart and being so handicapped by her age.

How on earth could I stop chatting with her, simply for some chicken egg rolls ?

And today I chatted with our Butcher. I was standing there for awhile, and then he popped in. I wanted some pork loins ( I think , but they must be much smaller then the American version) and Blinde Vinken ( I have no idea what these are in English). As he did his business, I asked him if he sold a lot of the Dikke Lende Lapjes ( this is something cut from the rump, and it just makes for the best stews and soups). Oddly enough, he told me, that just this morning he was thinking about that. Yes, this cut of meat is really a hit, basically.

I told him that I had looked up this cut of beef on the Internet and discovered that it was from…the rump. Pointing to the cut of beef that I used to use for soups and stews, I said, ( and I really have a major problem with doing verbs in polite Dutch), oh, and this is from the shoulder.

No, they are both from the rump.

But I told him that I liked trying Dutch dishes, that whole business with the gingerbread and mustard, and he recommended some odd cut of beef to use for soup. I will most likely try it.

And then he told me that certain parts of a cow had odd names, in the Dutch tradition, like the donkey, the sparrow….

Our Butcher is actually rather famous in Europe, for his pates. Won prizes left and right.

But I am not a pate sort of person.

In fact, pate reminds me of meow, meow, meow, cat food.

As usual, I ramble.

So the Dutch government ( read : taxpayers) is going to spend all of this money to encourage people to be more friendly.

What, really, is friendly ?

Virginia Carbis was my Great Great Grandfather’s maternal Aunt. As far as I can find, there are no photos of his mother, Maggie. And so this photo, courtesy of Piedmont Fossil, a third or fourth or you get the idea cousin of mine has been a treasure to view. He also provided his family stories, printed below.

My Great Great Grandfather, Sam Kerlin, with his daughter, Eva Kerlin, 1915. Now, this is a horrid photo, most likely made by the family photographer, the older sister Gretta Kerlin ( named after Maggie Carbis) with her shiny new brownie camera. The sleigh , though, is to die for and hey, this is in the part of Pittsburgh that my family refuses to let me visit ( Thompson Street). Now, I knew my ( Great )Grandma Eva quite well, she was about 4 square when I knew her, 5′2 to 5′4 inches tall and just about as wide. But if you look at the man and girl sitting in the sleigh, they seem to be about the same height.

I think that I killed a scanner blowing up this picture. Sam Kerlin’s eyes turn down at the outer corners, as do Virginia Carbis’. They have the same rather skewed eyebrows. And they both look like they have never smiled in their entire life.

And that is all of the tat that I have.

Family stories are odd little bits of information. I grew up hearing stories about my Grandmother’s maternal grandparents. He, the story said, was a Captain on a riverboat and she the daughter of a plantation owner in Covington, Kentucky. Why, her Mammy even came with her when she somehow found herself in Pittsburgh, PA. My Grandmother remembered seeing Mammy and that Mammy had a very fancy funeral in the black part of town, for in the end, Mammy wanted to be with her own people.

This is a family story. I know that it is very politically incorrect, as well as not- for the most part – being true. But the point of family stories is that they often contain a grain of truth which has been covered over generations with exaggerations and a dollop of romance.

I cannot recall why I started looking into the family tree, perhaps because Sundays here are so very boring, all of that soccer. I chose to research the Kerlin name, as all of the other family names were the Irish equivalent of John Smith, a dime a dozen.

I quickly came into contact with a cousin of mine ( a cousin of sorts…. the young woman in the Flick’r photo was my Great Grandmother Eva and my cousin was descended from Eva’s oldest brother) . We exchanged information, including a copy of my Great Great Grandfather’s death certificate. Perhaps because she is in the field of science and still in the Pittsburgh area, she rather pooh- poohed the old family stories. I can live with that, I tend to be the Doubting Thomas as well.

Show me those holes.

But I zoomed in on the death certificate until it was the size of a wall. I stared and stared at it, until I finally came up with the names of my Great Great Grandfather’s parents. Maggie E. Carbis and Henry T. Kerlin.

Now, Carbis is even more unusual than the name Kerlin. In fact, it is usually spelled wrong. which makes Census trawling very difficult.

I found their marriage certificate, which listed their parents names. At that point, it was very easy to place both Maggie’s and Henry’s families : one in Ohio, one in Pittsburgh. And Maggie’s father was a steamboat captain. Or mate, you get the idea.

Sam Kerlin, my Great Great Grandfather seems to have been raised by his grandparents. His father, Henry T.Kerlin, died before Sam was 3 years old and Maggie Carbis, his mother, remarried. At 3, he is living with Maggie and the new husband, at 13 and 23 he is living with his grandparents, Samuel Carbis and Mary Ann Logan.

Anyone searching out their roots, early 1800’s, in Pennsylvania or Ohio, with the name Logan is bound to hit the Chief Logan stories. And yet, I did indeed find the riverboat/ steamboat Captain of my Grandmother’s stories, didn’t I ?

One never knows.

The letter from a descendant of my Great Great Great Grandmother’s ( Maggie Carbis) sister ( oddly enough, my Grandmother was named after her ):

Mummy Dearest,

Historical
records show that the Tuscarora Indians originated in North Carolina, but
sometime about the early 1700s they were forced out of their homelands and
migrated north, first to Maryland, and later to western New York
State. This seems to fit with the birthplace
listed on the census for Rachel Logan.
So, is Rachel Chief Logan’s wife instead of Mary Coye? It is
entirely possible that my mother
misremembered the name of Chief Logan’s wife. But if Rachel was
born in Maryland, what was the basis for
the family story of her being Irish Catholic? Maybe her parents
were Irish, or perhaps the census is wrong
about her birthplace. Another
possibility is that there might be a generation missing in our oral
history. Perhaps Rachel married a
son of Chief Logan and Mary Coye?
Since I don’t have any dates for Chief Logan, other than that he was
contemporary with Davy Crockett (1786-1836), it’s possible that Rachel (born
1794) could be his daughter-in-law rather than his wife. However it
may be, I am inclined to
believe, based on your census data, that Rachel is the mother of
Mary Ann Logan.
I hope you can make sense out of all this and that it helps you in
your research.
Regards,Mike

Is this working ?

Last night, I held a three month old baby on my lap. It was better than chocolate.

I am not the sort of person that will say, oh, can I hold the baby ? For Babies can be so fey, and can simply scream their heads off if a stranger insists upon grasping them away from the tried and true.

I am the person that you want to visit your new baby or grandchild, for I find them all so terribly beautiful. The baby can’t help it if they look like Yoda, if they had a choice, I am sure that they would not want to have pointy, green ears.

This morning, when I did not have to run out of bed, I thought about many things, including why I find all babies so terribly beautiful and why I cry at all weddings. I think that it is because both are a new beginning, filled with such love and potential.

But our baby sitter of about 10 years said, hold the baby, as she went to get the coffee. Plop, I had a baby in my lap. And she was so pretty- and she did not scream and her fingers were so tiny, I truly had to resist the urge to pull off one of her socks, to see her tiny toes.

I know. But I kid you not.

Luscious is a baby.

Can anyone see this photo -

here

Has to do with the genealogy stuff, which is very neat right now, but some sortof distant cousin can´t seem to access my photos.

I would really appreciate any help about this…

I try recipes from the local newspaper, I confess. We live in a house which multiplies Jack Sprat and his wife by 2. 5 : The Father won’t eat cheese, The Boy won’t eat peas, The Baby loathes mushrooms , The Girl winches up her face in disgust at any meal that does not start from a 1 Euro sauce packet from Knorr and I have trouble with most ground meats, sausage or otherwise.

We eat a lot of chicken. Breasts, no bones, for The Father dislikes bones. Not that I am a bone cruncher…

So, today, we had experimental cooking once again. From the newspaper. Everyone liked it fine, excepting that it should have been served with french fries, not the boiled potatoes I dished up. Really, let’s clog those arteries good and well.

While I found it a bit drab, it is indeed the perfect Stoofvlees to scoop over frites , french fries. Just like the frites tent. And so I shall save it here, but make no pretensions of it being any more than a local dish, perhaps even an acquired taste.

STOOFVLEES MET APPLESTROOP

( Stewed – I think- meat with apple syrup)

Hoofdgerecht, 4 personen. De appelstroop en plakjes ontbijtkoek geven het stoofvlees een nostalgisch tintje.

( Main course, 4 people. The apple syrup and slices of gingerbread give this stewed meat a rather nostalgic flavor)

Vervang water eventueel door bouilon of fond ( uit een pot) of door een flesje bier and een flink scheut water.

( Replace the water with bouillon or fond – from a jar- or with a bottle of beer and a good bit of water )

Overigens, de appelstrrop kan ook vervangen worden door perenstroop.

( The apple syrup can also be replaced by pear syrup)

INGREDIENTEN

stuk winterwortel; dunne prei; boter om te bakken; 1kg runderlappen; 1-2 eetlepels mosterd; 2 dunne plakjes ontbijtkoek; 1 takje tijm; 1 laurierblaadje; flink lepel appelstroop.

( Ingredients- this is really a Grandma recipe, be forewarned.

-a chunk of a large carrot ( I used one about a foot long)
-a slender stalk of leek ( I used one about 2 inches thick)
-butter to braise and cook with
-2.2 pounds of your favorite stewing beef- I use something from the rump, called *Dikke Lende* here
- 1-2 tablespoons of mustard ( I used 1, a smooth Dijon)
-2 slices of gingerbread ( about 4 inches square, and an inch thick. If someone wants to actually measure ontbijtkoek, be my guest)
- a sprig of thyme
- one laurel leaf ( or is it a bay leaf ? You know, one the Victor wore about his head…)
-a large tablespoon of apple syrup. And it looks just like maple syrup, not apple butter at all. )

BEREIDING

-Maak het stuk wortel schoon en snij het in kleine blokjes.
(Scrape the chunk of carrot and dice it into small squares)

-Snij de prei in ringen.
( cut the leek in small rings)

-Verhit boter in een stoofpan en fruit hierin de blokjes wortels aan. Voeg de preiringen toe and fruit samen zacht.
( I have no idea what a * stoofpan * is: I use this big butt cast iron pot. Ok, it is not big butt, about 12 or 15 inches across …) In any case… heat the butter in a *stoofpan* and saute the diced carrot. Add the rings of leek and saute them together until soft.)

- Snijd het vless in blokjes.
( cut the meat into small chunks)

- Schep de gefruite stukjes groente uit de pan, voeg eventueel wat extra boter toe en bak het vlees rondom aan.
( remove the sauteed vegetables from the pot, add more butter if necessary and brown the meat. Ok, I am hearing Jo saying * brown is flavor* and 2.2 pounds of meat is one heck of a lot of meat. Yes, more butter.)

- Draai de warmtebron laag.

( Turn the heat down low- I moved the pot to our * slow burner*)

- Kruid met zout en pepper en voeg de gefruite groente toe.
( Season with salt and pepper and add the sauteed vegetables)

- Schenk zoveel water in de pan dat het vlees net onder staat.
( add water to the pan until the meat is just under…water)

-Bestrijk de plakken ontbijtkoek met mosterd en leg ze op het vlees.
( Smear the mustard on the gingerbread and place on top of the meat )

-Voef tijm and laurier toe en los de applestroop in het stoofvocht.
( Add thyme and bay leaf, stir the apple syrup into into the …the… watery part of the pot)

- Stoof het vlees in ca. 2.5 uur gaar.
( cook the meat slowly for about 2.5 hours, until tender. Well, it takes me much longer to get the meat tender, but, hey, I am just trying to translate…)

Like Tuna Casserole, one will never find this on any menu, anywhere. This is Dutch comfort food, best served over a plate of crispy fries with perhaps blanched green beans on the side to make one feel less guilty.

But I am saving it.

For we all have our Tuna Casserole recipes and Mac and Cheese recipes, hidden far, far away, don´t we …

How can it be avoided ? I shall not add to the chorus, for who cannot feel anything but utter pity ?

This weekend we had a rather unexpected house guest, one of our oldest friends. The children liked him fine, but felt a bit skewed in their routines. I ended up with The Boy and The Baby, zapping between an Elvis show from 1972 and the big American…. show to raise money for Haiti, in the kitchen.

I suppose that I was feeling very snarky, for I have decided that Elvis actually discovered *bling bling* jewelry and had bad hair. I really should not talk, for suddenly my hair is falling out, breaking off by the handful. And before The Baby came down, I was very snarky indeed with The Boy, commenting about the celebrities who shared my bad hair problems and saying, oh, look ! for 25 $ you can talk to … name your favorite famous person.

I also asked – but did not voice- what on earth did Haiti produce or manufacture, to sustain it’s economy. All that I could come up with was corrupt politicians. And how could all of the money pouring in be managed well. America. But I am a very ignorant woman.

But trundling back to last week or so. One of the students in The Baby’s class is the child of a BN-er ( which means a Dutch Celebrity). So, it was started and decided by this child- very early on- that the children in The Baby’s class would do chores to raise money for Haiti. I made The Baby – spoiled third child that she is- actually do miserable tasks and she was very proud of the 2 Euro that she made.

Until a few days later, when another child in her class brought in 200 Euro. And other children , who lived near the BN-er were in a newspaper.

The Baby lost that good feeling that she had, about helping people and somehow descended into some bizarre maze of competition.

Last Thursday, I received a flyer from the school ( one of a cast of thousands) , announcing that The Baby’s class would be having a *sale*, to benefit…the people of Haiti. Now, this was not to be a rummage sale, a boot sale, no, the items should have some intrinsic value. CD’s, foto frames and colored pens were suggested. Items would be sold at a minimum of 1 Euro.

Now, I still have a pile of nice photo frames, still in their wrappers, but The Baby did not even want to look at them. And while I said this to no one, I was thinking, ok, I am supposed to go out and buy something for like 10 Euro and put it up for sale for 1 Euro. This is not meshing for me.

On Sunday night, The Baby suddenly perked up and showed some interest in donating something for the * sale*. We have one cr*p load of nice things here for my parents were shopaholics , and I had my eye on a Limoges box, very pretty, but I have no emotional attachment to it.

I suggested the Limoges today at lunch ( for the deadline was today) and The Girl entered the scene. She is aware of this whole dilemma, how I feel that if The Baby doesn’t bring * something* it will just look hideous, read : peer pressure, on different levels. I mentioned to The Girl that Limoges was very fine porcelain, China, whatever. And suddenly The Girl said *no way* and rummaged about in our …our…. where we hang the coats, keep the vacuum cleaner, shoes, junk, you name it, it’s in that closet.

And she pulled out a small grayish metal elephant, about 9 inches long. Opens up like a box, it does. Now, we have about 10 of these elephants, in different sizes. We also have a duck, a rabbit or so, a few dragons, a temple dog, a teapot, trinket boxes… you get the idea. We have so many of these items in our house that we no longer see them.

I washed the elephant up with soap and told The Baby very carefully that it was made about 40 years ago, in Northern Thailand. It was made entirely by hand. Sold as silver ( and by the kilo, hence the items scattered about our home ), I thought that it was copper or brass with a silver plate ( based on the only time that I ever used silver cleaner on one of them and it came out shiny gold). The Baby’s eyes shifted to the left and then to the right and she asked to look at the photo frames.

She liked the photo frames so much, that she decided to keep them for herself, and went off to school with the elephant. We set the price at 7 Euro, for- after all- it was in the closet where we hang the coats, keep the vacuum cleaner, shoes, junk, you name it.

The children in her class loved the elephant and not because it might be made of silver, but because it was made by hand ( and no doubt about that). In fact, when The Baby came home, she wanted to bring more of our embossed Thai items to school, but I said no, one was enough.

You can catch an idea of what it looks like here, although I am quite sure that our items are not solid silver.

And so we end our adventure into Haiti, although we donate money every three months to …uh..Doctors Without Borders ? Is that the English translation ?