musings

Mom’s Catsup

/ Julie M. McKinnon / 3 Comments
Mom and I on an Alaskan cruise two years before she died.

With Mom on an Alaskan cruise two years before she died.

My Mom canned pretty much everything. Vegetables, fruits, juices, soups, sauces, kraut, pickles, jams, jellies. If we could grow it, she would can it.

I didn’t like my Mom’s homemade “catsup” growing up, though. It was so different than ketchup from the store, which I thought was the ideal. Mom’s canned catsup was runny. It often soaked through sandwich bread. Plus, her catsup was more tangy than sweet.

Now I would give just about anything for a jar of my Mom’s flavorful catsup. Mom would be 88 today and tickled to find out her homespun, produce-filled recipes are rather trendy. Comfort food, indeed.

Our basement, a.k.a. Mom’s grocery store, always had rows and rows of her canned goods. How Mom managed to “put up” all of that food in the summer heat without air conditioning I’ll never know. I didn’t appreciate everything my Mom did for me then; I suppose few people truly do until they are adults.

Obsessing about Mom’s catsup may seem strange, especially since there are so many things I miss about her. We used to go garage saling or junking together, play poker or other games with Dad, travel even after he died, have daily phone chats, just lots of things. Even when I was a child, we would read our books in the same room and be perfectly content, silent but bonding over written words. Somehow, missing Mom’s catsup symbolizes all of those memories and feelings.

I may try to can some of Mom’s catsup this summer. It will never be the same, but it’s definitely worth trying. That would tickle her, too.

All in a Name

/ Julie M. McKinnon / Leave a comment
Grandma Olive with her husband - Grandpa Harry - and eight children.

Grandma Ollie with her husband – Grandpa Harry – and their eight children.

As a journalist, I always use my middle initial. Even when the newspaper I worked for typically wasn’t so formal, I insisted.

It may seem unlikely that someone who lives in a small house, drives a compact car and avoids doing more than blow drying her hair would want to use a middle initial. But mine is special.

My Mom wanted to name me after her Mom, but she thought Olive would be strange for a child. She didn’t want me called “Olive Oyl,” and Grandma’s nickname of “Ollie” was decidedly old fashioned. So she christened me with Grandma’s middle name: Margaret.

My other Grandma died when I still was a baby, but I have very fond memories of Grandma Ollie. I can picture her steel-grey bun, colorful dresses and eye-crinkling smile. Going to her house or on vacation with her was a treat.

Ironically, Olive McKinnon would have been a simple but distinctive byline. I doubt if Grandma Ollie was the type of woman to worry about formalities, but I’m pretty sure she would approve of my including our middle initial instead.