32nd Anniversary of A Blind Date!

And they lived happily ever after!

Thirty-two years ago today, I met a blind date who changed my life forever. This is the way it happened:

In the days before Match.com and eHarmony, blind dates were arranged by friends or family. Mine was envisioned by a recently hired co-worker, Teri. Over lunch our conversation turned to the sad state of the dating pool. I bemoaned the fact that none my last five dates warranted a relationship.  

“I need to date around,” I sighed.

“I could set you up with a couple of guys I worked with before I got laid off. One is real macho and the other is sweet and sensitive,” she proffered.

“I’ve had macho. I’ll take sweet and sensitive.”

“I’ll give him a call. Maybe we can all go to lunch.”

When Sweet and Sensitive called, we chatted with ease. In fact we were so comfortable we decided not to include Teri on our Friday night date.

Friday, October 29, 1982, was a fun day at work. We all dressed in costume. Everyone brought food. We turned the music up and played all afternoon. If Facebook had been around at the time I’m certain some embarrassing photos would have been posted.

 When the clock struck five, I had one hour to turn from a wicked witch into an appealing first date. I raced to retrieve my 2 year-old daughter from the babysitter. Once home, I threw her a cup of apple juice and turned on cartoons. Zipping down the hall I discarded clothes and a long dark wig. I ripped off the false eyelashes and hooked nose as I jumped into a still cold shower. Shampoo flying, I washed my hair, scrubbed green paint off my face, and the remaining spirit gum from my nose. The hairdryer wasn’t the only thing turned on turbo as I dried my hair and quickly reapplied makeup. At exactly 6:00 pm Baby and I were dressed and peeking out the window when Sweet and Sensitive pulled into the driveway.

“He’s cute,” Baby said.

“Yes, he is.” I replied while hauling out my mental checklist: attractive – check; prompt--check; suit (employed) – check; late model car (not a beat-up truck w/empty cans in the flatbed)—check. So far, so good, I thought as I opened the door.

“Come in. I’m Lacene. This is my daughter.”

 He smiled and shook her hand.

 “Thank you for letting me pick you up right after work,” he said. “I work here in Norman, but live in Oklahoma City. I thought it would be more efficient to pick you up before I go home. I'll take a quick shower and we can go on to dinner. I made reservations at a restaurant close to my apartment. I’ll bring you home before you turn into a pumpkin." He finally took a breath.

I had some concerns about a stop at his apartment, but I liked the idea of a restaurant which required reservations. I had a date with one man who thought Furr’s Cafeteria was the perfect place to celebrate a new job. It was also the last date with him.

“That would be fine,” I said. “Would you like to sit and have a drink first?”

“If you don’t mind, why don’t we go on to Oklahoma City. We’ll have a 45-minute drive to visit.”

“Okay, let me grab my purse.”

He opened the car door for me and placed Baby in the back seat. He made sure the tail of my dress wasn’t hanging out before he shut the door. Good manners—check.

Baby screamed, “Oh, Mommy! My fingers!”

I jumped out of the car and grabbed her from the back seat. He was already at my side.

“What happened?” he asked.

He was so distraught I hated to tell him. “You slammed her fingers in the door.”

“Let’s get some ice on them.”

He took the screaming child from me while I dug for my house keys. I opened the door. He raced to the freezer, grabbed an ice cube and placed it on her fingers. She sat in the crook of his arm contemplating him with teary eyes. She had stopped screaming the moment he took her from me.

He knows how to handle children – check.

After a few minutes of ice and soothing words, Baby let us look at her fingers. They were red, but not bruised or broken. Luckily they were caught in the rubber weather-stripping and not the door itself. We breathed a sigh a relief that this date would not take place in the ER. We took her on to the babysitter’s where he insisted on paying.

Whoa, that wasn’t even on my checklist, I thought. I never had a date offer to pay the babysitter, much less insist on it. I may just marry this guy.

As we drove to his apartment I learned he was recently divorced after seven years of marriage. He had a five-year-old son. His visitation on alternate weekends never seemed enough, so he kept his son as much as possible during the week. His business administration degree came from OU. He went on to get his CPA while working for Arthur Young. The hours were long and hard on his marriage. When he and his wife separated he took a job in the private sector. He was now a financial manager at an oil well instrumentation company in Norman. He had been Teri’s boss before she got laid off.

Ahhh, that explains his efficiency and promptness.  I like it.

I gestured with my hands as we talked, and saw a flash of black. I looked down at my hands. To my horror I realized my nails were still painted black. (In 1982 Goth was not a trend, nor was blue, green or black nail polish. It was just weird!)

“Oh my gosh! I am so embarrassed,” I said. “In my rush to get ready, I forgot to take off the black nail polish from my witch costume.”

“It’s okay,” he winked. “I thought you were just kinky.”

I blushed and contemplated crawling under the seat. What kind of checklist is he keeping?

“Don’t worry about it. You look fine. It doesn’t matter," he said and meant it.Our conversation continued until we reached his apartment.

“Come on in,” he said opening my car door. I followed him to his first floor apartment. He unlocked the door and held it for me. I entered tentatively not knowing what to expect. I dated men in the past who decorated their living rooms with weight benches and barbells and smelled of old gym socks.He stripped off his coat and tie. “I promise I won’t be more than 20 minutes. Make yourself comfortable. Here’s the TV remote.”

I took the remote and set down on the couch. From that vantage point, I could see 400 square feet of tastefully decorated space. Ornamental pillows perched atop a crisply-made bed. A scented candle adorned a tidy kitchen counter. A bar set with two place-mats created the dining space. The tiny living room walls were hung with tasteful artwork. I was impressed. Did he do this? Or was the ex-wife still in the picture?

True to his word, he walked out of the bathroom 20 minutes later. Dressed in a starched white shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and a Houndstooth blazer slung over his shoulder, he was a vision of masculinity. I followed his well-fitting jeans out the front door and tried not to stumble as I enjoyed the view. No well-worn circle from his chewing tobacco--check.

“Do you like Japanese food?” he asked.

“I love all kinds of Asian food. I was raised in the Philippines and Guam.”

“Good, I’ve made reservations at a Japanese restaurant that cooks your food on a Hibachi grill in front of you.”

“Perfect, that will be fun,” I smiled glad that it wasn’t a stuffy formal restaurant.

“We are a little early. Do you want to have a drink in the bar while we wait for our table?”

“I’d love to.” I said eager for a something to calm my nerves.

Over drinks I learned his mother and aunt had decorated his apartment, but the tidiness was all him. I told him: about my nomadic childhood as a preacher’s kid, and a missionary kid; how I married two weeks after my eighteenth birthday to our much older music and youth director; about the dissolution of our nine-year marriage, and the joy I found in my daughter. I shared how I had been laid-off from my well-paying job as a landman with the oil bust of ‘82. Being an unemployed single parent with no health insurance was a scary proposition. I took the first job I could find even though it meant a pay cut. I met Teri when she came to work after being laid off. 

We were deep in conversation when the hostess interrupted to tell us our table was ready. She led us to a long table in front of the grill. He pulled my chair and seated me. After perusing the menus, we placed our order. A few minutes later, I leaned over and whispered, "I think all that liquid has gone straight through me. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the ladies’ room.” I stood up and pushed my chair with the back of my legs. The chair stuck. I gave it another little nudge. It fell onto the folding screen behind us. The screen crashed to the floor startling everyone in the restaurant. All eyes were on me as I reached down to pick up my chair.

Sweet and Sensitive leaned over and whispered in my ear,

“If you’re not embarrassed, you ought to be.”

“I am. You horse’s behind!” I said angrily.

As I straightened, I caught his teasing eyes. The embarrassment faded and I laughed with him. After all he did slam Baby's fingers in the door. In a way it felt like we were even. This guy definitely had potential.

Did you see the fingers of God’s grace in my life? I found it much more traumatic to be involuntarily unemployed than to go through a divorce. If I had not taken the job as an administrative assistant, I wouldn’t have met Teri. Teri wouldn’t have introduced me to what I have called, for the last thirty years, God’s gift of grace to me, my Soul Mate.

Agi’s Gulyás and Forralt Bor

This lovely Hungarian lady is Agi. Ben and Megan have tried many different variations of Gulyás, but the one Agi makes has a depth of flavor not found in others they tried. Not able to put their finger on what made it exemplary, Agi generously purchased all the ingredients and taught us how to make it.

As always, we gather the ingredients. The paprika in the jar was grown by
Agi's godparents. The orange tube contains gulyáskrém. I am unable to read the
Hungarian, but my taste buds tell me this Hungarian household staple contains
tomato paste, beef bullion and spices. Agi says she carries it with her
 when she travels and spreads it on a piece of toast for a taste of home.

While Agi cut up the beef, Megan and I chopped all the vegetables

You can buy stew meat, but Agi prefers to cut up a chuck roast

Agi likes to use duck fat to saute the onions and garlic.
It may be one reason her gulyás is so rich. I'm not sure where
I can get duck fat in Rockwall, Texas, but if you see me trying
to capture one of the plump fowls on Lake Ray Hubbard, you'll
know why. Bacon fat, coconut oil or any other fat will work.
**Be very careful not to burn or overcook the paprika or the gulyás will be bitter.

Agi doesn't like parsley floating around in her
gulyás, so she ties it up with twine, throws
it in the pot, and removes it before serving.

For the same reason, she doesn't chop up the
celery root and removes it before serving.

While the stew is simmering, make your pasta.

Pinch off peanut-sized bits of dough and roll into balls.

To avoid clumping add a few at a time to salted boiling water.
 Cook until done in the center, 7 to 10 minutes.

Megan made a video of the pasta-making, However, it is stuck in the Cloud somewhere never to be retrieved until one of my grandchildren can instruct me on the fine art of downloading videos!!

Agi’s Gulyás

2-3 T of fat, beef, pork, or duck. (*Note from Ben--Americans, don’t be afraid of this ingredient)
1 medium onions (~2 cups diced)
3 cloves of diced garlic
1 T paprika
1 ½ pounds of cubed beef chuck
2 T gulyáskrém
1 T salt
8 cups of water
¼ of celery root
5 potatoes (~4 cups diced)
6 carrots (~3 cups diced)
2 turnips (~1 ½ cups diced)
1 bunch of fresh parsley
2 whole cloves of garlic
1 cup of dry, red wine
Salt and pepper to taste
1 egg
White Flour

Directions:

1.       On medium heat, warm the fat in a large pot until sizzling.
2.       Add onion and chopped garlic. Cook until onions are translucent.
3.       Increase heat to medium high, add beef and paprika and cook until beef is barely white. **Be very careful not to burn or overcook the paprika or the gulyás will be bitter.
4.       Add water until the beef is almost covered, but not quite.  Add the gulyáskrém and salt.  (In Hungarian, this staple is called “pörkölt”.  By substituting chicken for beef and by omitting the gulyáskrém, you can make another famous Hungarian dish called Chicken Paprikás.)
5.       Bring to a boil and turn heat to low. Let the pörkölt simmer for approximately an hour or until beef is cooked and tender.  Stir occasionally and add water as needed.
6.       While the pörkölt simmers, dice the potatoes, carrots, and turnips. Bind up the parsley using kitchen twine.
7.       After beef is cooked and tender, add the vegetables, whole garlic cloves, wine, salt and pepper. Return to  boil, reduce the heat and simmer until vegetables are bite-tender (approximately 1 hour).
8.       While gulyás is simmering, make pasta.
To make pasta:

1.       Crack on egg into a bowl and lightly beat with a fork.
2.       Add flour and mix with fork until smooth.
3.       When you can no longer mix with a fork, knead flour in with your hands until a hard ball is formed.
4.       Pinch off peanut-sized bits of dough and roll into small balls.
5.       Boil water in a small pot and add about a teaspoon of salt.
6.       Slowly add pasta to pot and stir to prevent the pasta from clumping together.

7.       Boil pasta until no longer raw in the center. 

8.       Strain and serve.

Season gulyás to taste with more gulyáskrém, salt, pepper, or wine to taste.

To serve, add some pasta in the bottom of your bowl and ladle gulyás on top.
Makes about 8 servings.

If that doesn't warm your toes up enough, try the Hungarian mulled wine Forralt Bor!

Simmer together:
1 bottle of cheap red wine 
2/3 cups sugar
2 cinnamon sticks
10 whole cloves (I put these in a tea ball so I don't have to fish them out)
2 tsp. lemon juice
1 orange, peeled and sliced.
Do not boil.

Jo Étvágyat!

Grocery Store Scavenger Hunt

I cut the Snickerdoodle
Blondies into the shape
of the Lone Star State

The United World Mission team in Hungary sets a wonderful example of how we are to care for each other. A team member delivered a delicious meal to us every day for ten days. Not only did each meal provide nourishment for our bodies, it also warmed our hearts with love. As a thank you for making my job so much easier, I decided to make Double Dark Chocolate Shortbread and Snickerdoodle Blondies to be placed in the returned containers. (In addition to he links above, these recipes are on my Pinterest board “Sweet Treats”.

First I had to conduct a scavenger's hunt for ingredients. I set off with my shopping list, a determined spirit, a credit card, two nylon shopping bags, and enough Hungarian vocabulary to say, “Good Day”, and “Thank You.” I wish I had read Megan’s blog post, Grocery Shopping 101.

I bundled up like an Eskimo for the four-block walk in freezing temperatures. The wind stung my face, but the rest of me remained toasty. The Hungarians are evidently cold-blood creatures because the buildings are kept at a temperature equivalent to Texas in August. I tried to get a shopping cart, but didn't know which denomination of coin to use, so I grabbed a hand-basket. With no buggy to throw my coat in, I tied my scarf around my purse, unzipped my coat, and shoved my gloves into my pocket.

I had been to the grocery store twice before, but this time I was looking for specific items. I confidently hit the produce section. Ben had instructed me, “If it’s in a bag, put it in your basket. If it isn’t, bag your produce, weigh it on the scale by selecting the corresponding code or picture, and place the printed tag on your bag.” I successfully bagged and tagged the pears, but could not find the code or picture for cauliflower. Unable to ask for help, it went back in the bin. My confidence wavered as my temperature rose.

I forged on to the baking aisle. Oh, wait, there is no baking aisle. With Ben’s instructions, I successfully found the flour and sugars. They do not have chocolate chips, but I found chocolate bars across the aisle from the wine. After studying the rows of chocolate, I bought four bars of premium dark chocolate. (When I got home I discovered I bought four bars of premium dark chocolate with raspberry bits. Oh, well, I used them anyway). I never found the powdered dark cocoa. My upper lip began to glisten.

Butter and goat cheese were my next challenge. I looked in the dairy case and found six different kinds of margarine, but no butter. Tentatively, I asked a stocking clerk for “butter or mantequilla.” (Spanish is of very little help in Hungary). She looked at me like I had something hanging out of my nose and shook her head. I looked hard at the existing product and still couldn’t find the butter. I called Ben. He confirmed I was looking in the right place. My arm pits moistened.

My confidence disappeared. I left the area to pick up some Serrano ham, and went back to the dairy case. Sweat pooled in the waistband of my jeans. I girded up my loins and asked a different clerk for “butter”. She pointed to what appeared to be an empty spot in the dairy case. There in the back of the case I found the elusive cube of goodness. The last container of goat cheese was in the same case. Mission accomplished!

With a sigh of relief, I unloaded my now heavy basket at the checkout stand. I stuck my hand in my coat pocket to retrieve my shopping bags. Only one bag appeared, not two. This problem I could solve by throwing a little money at it! I purchased a new shopping bag and wiped my forehead.

I began to relax as I quickly bagged my groceries. The checker ran the goat cheese over the scanner. She looked at me with distain, pointed out the lack of a bar code, and put it aside.  Tears threatened to appear as I made a futile attempt to apologize and explain that it was the only one in the case. She picked up the phone for what I imagined to be a price check and shared a look with the customer behind me. After several waiting minutes of waiting for a response, I offered my credit card with a trembling hand and said, “Never mind.” That she understood. I signed the slip and offered an apology to the woman behind me. She graciously said, “It’s no problem.”
I cooled off and composed myself on the walk home and remembered my daughter’s wise counsel to never buy more than you can comfortably carry.  On the first trip to the store I opted to walk up the six flights of stairs because I only had eggs and bread to carry. However, I learned an important lesson. If your bag inadvertently bangs the stairs once or twice you will have broken eggs and a bag to clean up before you put away the rest of the groceries. This time my arms were shaking from the weight of the bags, so I took the elevator.

Barely room for two and a stroller,
but we have squeezed in all three of us.

The elevator looks like it came straight from the Tower of Terror at Disney World. Every time I close the doors I expect to hear Rod Sterling’s voice and the Twilight Zone theme. I understand it has provided reliable service for the last 60 to 70 years.

My missing shopping bag greeted me in the front hall where I dropped it.
Please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t think the Hungarian clerks treated me any differently than an American clerk would treat an immigrant with no knowledge of the English language. I’ve just never been the one who was unable to communicate. I have a new perspective of how vulnerable and helpless you feel. I commit to take a course in Spanish when I get home. I will be more aware of times when I can assist some who feels as ignorant as I did.

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.” John 13: 34-35

Since my first trip to the store, I've gone back with Ben and asked a dozen questions. Today should be easier. Whatever happens, it's all worth it for this little guy.

My little guy now looks like this.