The Lost Cookie

How in fact does one bake a memory? I am finding this out.

In or about 1960 CE, my grandmother Julia Regusic Davidovitz would come to visit with us in our flat on Hayes, between Cole & Clayton, usually at Easter. It was right across the street from my first grammar school. We were in the upper flat, a classic San Francisco apartment with two bedrooms on each side of the hall, the toilet separate from the bathroom, and a sunroom at the back. The place was really quite salubrious especially on a junior high school teacher’s salary.

When she came to visit Grandma Julia would take over my mother’s small yellow kitchen and cook. You might think that I am a force of nature but that’s only because you never met my Grandma Julia. She went out to the back garden and planted zinnias, she and then come back into that little kitchen to make sarma (stuffed cabbage) and other Yugoslav delicacies. And she made sweets. Among others she made very particular orange-flavored crescent cookies. 

Like so many memories made of taste, these cookies are essential to my early life. I know how the dough should smell, I know how the cookies should feel in the mouth and what sort of sweet they should be. And, because they are so connected with her, I never tried to make them. Neither have any of her daughters. Not Mary, her eldest daughter and one of the greatest hostesses I’ve ever known. And not to my mother Katherine who taught me everything I know about making salad and pie.

 

 Please find the aforementioned Katherine

The recipe and its methodology went with my grandmother into the arms of Jesus when she was only 69 years old. (They eat really well in Heaven.) For decades I either ignored or was too afraid of the orange crescents to ever attempt them. But now, at 62 years of age, I find myself wanting to make these orange crescent cookies. Yes, but how?

‘To the internet, and beyond! I began by just looking up recipes, first for sour cream dough; I quickly knew that that wasn’t what I wanted. Cream cheese was the answer. It was Alice Medrichs (an important chocolatier, writer and all around smart foodie) whose cream cheese dough I found. If she says that a particular recipe is the very one, who am I to question? And so I began, with very basic instructions for one of the elemental cookie/savory doughs in all of Central Europe, the search of the lost cookie.

3 1/2 cups of flour, equal parts (12 oz) butter and cream cheese, a little salt and not enough sugar (more about that later). It sounds so simple. When I started to blend the elements a certain if very gentle smell came to me, rich and slightly sour. And once the orange zest was added, there was what I was looking for, there was the smell I remember. Having worked with doughs that need to be kept cold, I knew what to do, and that was to put all parts into the kitichenaid, blend it up, roll it up into a tube and put it in the fridge overnight.

As said, there was not enough sugar in this, the first iteration, but there was cream cheese and orange zest. When I opened the dough tube I smelled that combination and knew I was on the way. (But, dammit Alice, there isn’t enough sugar in your recipe. Not for cookie use. Rather than three tablespoons I need at least a third of a cup.) So I made three different bakes of this terrifying cookie. 

The first bake was undercooked and nowhere near flavorful enough (not enough marmalade). The second bake was better but still not enough marmalade. The third actually worked except the sugar (read: marmalade) baked onto the cookie sheet and made the cookies very difficult to scrape loose. The folks at work wolfed them down even as I bleated that these weren’t right yet. The dough needs to be rolled out thinner. It’s naturally dense (you know, cream cheese and butter) but it needs to flake up more. And I’m a pie and biscuit maker, this I can do.

There is another element to this story. I look like Grandma Julia. When I was young, she lived in Las Vegas with Uncle Danny and Aunt Charlene. Yet many people in Sierra Madre remembered her and they would tell me how much I looked like Julia. But she was Grandma and my 10 year old mind did not want to look like Grandma. And then the pictures showed up. An image of her just before she came to the US, at about 16. And in her wedding picture, wherein my Grandfather Rudolph looks almost pleasant, there is my face. There is the rectangular forehead, the broad cheeks and the stubborn chin. My mother says she had a lovely soprano but I cannot remember her singing. I did become quite proud that I look like her. The eyes were always wrong though, I have my father’s eyes. 

So here is the key. I am her age and so proud to be one of her grandchildren. And of all of them I am the most interested in home cooking. I make sarma, I throw a mean Easter and now I am willing to pick up the gauntlet of the orange cookies. I pick it up with gratitude and all love. Thank you so, Grandma Julia.

 strength for the journey

When I kneel at the Altar rail Mauricio or a lay Eucharistic minister comes over, displays the Host and says, “The Body of Christ.” In many Episcopal and other Protestant churches, this statement is followed by, “Strength for the journey.” Going up to Portland to actually lay eyes on our Kirk, to visit Julie, to meet new babyWren and love her older sister Mathilda, has given us strength for the journey.
Ever since we learned, a little over two months ago, that Kirk’s cancer had turned so badly that the most drastic response was necessary, I have been crying. The tears have been sitting right behind my eyes, like water behind a dam. One Sunday I was crying so much I didn’t go to church because I couldn’t sing. Taking the breath necessary to make the sound brought on the flood. Philip went in and out. Some days he just sleepwalked, going through the motions and only breaking down when he got home. We traded off coming apart, trying to address the possibility of losing of our darling Kirk. With that on our hearts we planned to go to up to Portland to visit our young family.
I drove my poor boss quite mad because the dates kept on changing but finally the weekend of 02/17–02/20 came and we headed north. It was raining when we left Oakland airport and raining when we got to Portland. The day before our trip I had a terrible thought: “Is it still snowing in Portland?” But no, thank goodness, just cold wet rain. Lots and lots of cold wet rain. We landed, got to the rental car pick up and that’s when I realized I left my wallet on the plane. I took it out to pay for a drink and put it in the back of seat pocket. But the drinks never came because of turbulence and I forgot my wallet. The first rental car was a sub compact. That’s what I asked for. The dear woman at the rental counter looked at Philip and didn’t believe that he would fit in the car. She was too right, he didn’t. She laughed at him when he came back to the front desk. He got the great big Jeep and was a very happy man. Someday I’ll tell you about my husband, a Jeep and a New Mexican road we should not have taken.
Kirk and Julie’s new home is a whole five minutes from Oregon Health and Science University (OHSU) which is on a steep hill in SW Portland. This hill holds multiple hospitals including one that specializes in eyes and a Shriners. (There is something very dear about a statue of a man in a suit, holding a child’s hand and wearing a fez with a shoulder length tassel.) Kirk has walked to appointments at OHSU many times.
The house is up many stairs on a large uneven lot with much lush greenery including a huge very old conifer (no, I don’t remember what kind). The front room is solid windows with a lovely fireplace and beautiful new floors throughout. It is the perfect house for our gardener, her lover the massage therapist and their divine girls. We didn’t call from the hotel, as I faithfully promised I would, so we had to wait for them to come back from the store. Kirk had his new shunt put in earlier that morning in preparation for the chemo dump that was to come. He was thinner than the last time we saw him yet still has some eyebrows. Oddly his beard is there but it is tow colored, just like when he was a very little boy. All that really mattered was we could see and touch and talk to Kirk.

Julie sits on the love-seat in the beautiful bow windows, to nurse Wren. The little bird is on a tear. She wants to eat all the time, sleep some of the time, dance when someone will lead, and grow. It had been many years since Philip danced a baby to sleep but he hasn’t lost the knack. As for me, I am simply amazed at this creature who changes as I look at her. At six weeks she holds her head up and the gaze of power is beginning. In her first pictures it appeared she might be dark haired, like her wonderful mother. But no, the red will not be denied and the old Saunders strain is coming through. We shall see.
Mathilda takes the bus across town to her school. Mathilda draws all of the time. Mathilda wrote a report on Rosa Parks that she would present to the 4th and 5th graders. (I have to talk to her about how that went.) She can be crazed as only a 3rd grade girl can be. When we went out to dinner on Friday night, we brought along a school friend and they dissolved into a whirlwind of eight year old madness. In Mathilda’s eight years of life her father has been fighting caner for five. She loves her grandfather very much and I pray for the time when seeing Grandpa is not equated with Daddy being in the hospital. This is a very strong family.
Dinner: it was our plan to take care of our family as well as they wanted. Portland has lousy weather, let’s just admit it. London, Berlin and many other great cities have drippy, rainy weather when one just prays for a sight of the sun. So it is with Portland and yet it has its own joys. One of these is a treasure trove of brew restaurants. I cannot call them pubs because they are too large. The food in these places is good to very good and Friday night we went to one of these. Kirk’s palate has been deeply affected by all the chemo so foods and beers he used to love are no longer available to him. But some new flavors have come forward so he and his father were able to discuss the brewers art at some length. Kirk still loves caramel.
What city has enough parking, certainly not Portland. But there are parking structures dotted around downtown so it really wasn’t bad. We did discover that Mathilda has a super power. She, like my sister, has powerful parking juju. After we have circled the block and found the big old parking building, parked and walked to the restaurant, we would find the rest of the family. They had already put our name down for a table. P and I never had to wait more than five minutes. All of this is because of Mathilda’s magic parking power. He father swears that the mere invocation of the girl’s name can find a convenient parking wether she is in the car or not. Her mother supports this assertion. That’s some big time juju.

We stayed at a motel about three minutes from Kirk & Julie’s. This gave them some privacy and us the comfort of our own space. OHSU is so important that the hotel gave us a special rate because we were visiting a patient at one the hospitals. Sunday morning we slept late (for us) and went down to the sports bar that was part of the hotel and found that they had FIFA direct and while I wrote up my travel notes, Philip watched Barcelona eventually do their job. Trust me, when we go up again, we will stay there.
Sunday was a day of obligation. We had planned to take Kirk to Powell’s. Julie chose to join us and thus the entire family invaded one of the greatest bookstores in the world. For those of you who are not bookstore centric, Powell’s fills an entire city block in downtown SW Portland. They carry new and used books. They even carry music thus Philip was tempted by a score of The Makropoulos Affair by Janáček. It was just too pricey.
I on the opposite shore stood in the middle readers section of a massive children’s room and tried to focus. Primarily I was shopping for Mathilda. At Christmas I sent her The Dark is Rising by the great Susan Cooper. But it is too old for her now; maybe next year. Having seen the girl and her bestie at dinner on Friday, stories about two girls growing up together seem perfect. So I’m turning her on to the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace.
(Standing at the ‘L’ shelves I saw a very old friend. When I was in 4th grade I read the works of Hugh Lofting. The stories of Dr. John Doolittle were my meat and drink. Yet I’ve never owned one of them, till now. A citizen of Puddleby-on-Marsh, Dr Doolittle put his mind to the language of animals and their care. My copy is a Canadian edition from 1923.)

And then suddenly it was Sunday afternoon. We sat by the fire in the front room, ate pizza and tried to pretend that the grandparents didn’t have to go home. Philip did try to get a job in Portland. Three times the same position, at Nike in Beaverton, has showed up online. The job description could have been lifted from Philip’s résumé, Each time he applied he heard nothing back. Always looking for the silver lining, I’m seeing a problem at Nike. The same job turning over three times in 16 months? Something is wrong there.
Our flight was very early so we made our goodbyes Sunday evening. Leaving was difficult. After hugs and kisses, all we could do was walk down the stairs and into the dark evening. Yet, by the time we blearily walked down the long concourse of Portland Intl. Airport, the difference was clear. Terrified parents went up to visit with their sick son and his family. The son is still very sick but his blood is strong and his family is even stronger.
With that in our hearts we came home to live, to love and to look clear eyed into this next year. Strength for the journey.

July has been very good to us. Last week we had Kirk, Julie and Mathilda in town. They were housesitting for old friends up in very south Berkeley. I knew that neighborhood when I worked at Cody’s 4th St. It was mostly rented shotgun Victorians that weren’t well kept up. But the wheels of gentrification are turning. The place the kids sat is a really nice Craftsman bungalow, bought at the bottom of the market ten years ago and now a spiffed up sweetie. It’s happening all over. As I drove my old way home after dropping them off, on every block there were four or five houses already fixed up and others on the way.
We dined with them, visited with them and then on the final morning my Saunders men being silent together. Kirk seems well, the blood numbers stay low and he eats well. Julie is in good shape with some taste and smell vagaries because of her traveling companion. When Mathilda was on the way all Julie wanted was water. All this person wants is pickles. The baby is due in early January. We are starting to talk of going up for Thanksgiving.
Because of scheduling at work, Philip and I weren’t able to take our anniversary weekend until 07/01. On the traveling day he got himself home as soon as he could and everything was packed up. I was hoping to get us to Murphys by sundown, but the I 5 had other ideas. So, we drove up to the hills shrouded in gloaming. But we found the place because our hostess gave perfect directions. Our room was just as advertised, cozy, very private with an ensuite bath, good wifi and a nice strong ceiling fan. It gets really pretty warm in the Sierra foothills in early July.
Breakfast appeared magically out our door and we headed out and  down to some dear smartass winemakers. Some may want fortune, some may want fame, I want to be recognized at the Twisted Oak winery in Vallecito California when I walk from the car. (We hadn’t been there in two years and it was the only wine club we held onto, hoping for better days.)
We were welcomed with two cases and a full description of their contents. I confessed having an ‘06 Spaniard to the lady of the house and she was sharp with me. She forcefully (well, forcefully for her) told me that we must drink it right away and send a review.
Once down the hill and back into beautiful downtown Murphys. There is a little service station on Main whose color changes from time to time, and it is the home of Milliaire Winery. It is our other fav in Murphys. We had cancelled our wine club membership with them but they were so welcoming. We tasted and bought and put the cases (yes that is plural) in the back of the Cruiser. (Otherwise known as the Little Blue Opera House—we can get to Murphys with one opera and an oratorio. What? you thought we listened to the local radio??)
We had a lovely lunch and checked out two of the other 22 tasting rooms in that little town. It was in the second room, Tanner, that a problem raised its head. Power went out, and then it came back on, and then it went out for good. There was a fire a valley away that brought down a tower, so phone, electricity, wifi all were gone. The last time we heard anything was that it would be up by 5:30. So we went back to our digs to relax, read and wait. It didn’t happen. We drove to Angels Camp, no power; in fact we were told it was out all the way down to Farmington. California Highway 4 was dark and would be till Sunday afternoon.
So we went back, packed up, left our lovely little nest and headed out towards Lodi. We’d planned on a night there after the two nights in Murphys. As soon as we turned right on the 49, just out of a dark Angles Camp, there was electricity. We could see lights in houses, there was power in San Andreas and in Valley Springs where we stopped at a lovely little bistro called Taco Bell. But no place for our heads. So, we pointed our faces down into the hot darkness of the Central Valley.
We stopped at the big gas station at the junction of Old 99 and the curve of the 12. There I phoned the Motel 6 with whom we had the next night’s reservation. But there was no room for us. They were full because of the fire. Yet fortune smiled and we found a Budget Inn where the sign said “Vacancy.” Would there be rest for the fire-chased weary?
There was. We were greeted by a lovely young South Asian gentleman who answered the pertinent questions. “Yes, we have a room, yes, we have wifi. Just sign here.” Our room was just past the still populated swimming pool, where children cavorted  in the chlorinated air and gentlemen spoke amongst themselves.   Worn but clean it had a big old hotel air conditioner that made a hell of a noise and just pumped out the cold air. It was perfect. Philip had been able to nap in the afternoon but I hadn’t so he enjoyed the joys of being reconnected and I turned into a blissed out turnip.
The next morning, with the fire behind us (power did not come back to Murphys until Sunday afternoon), we were in search of breakfast and after that, wine. We came to Lodi to taste the Zinfandels for which this appellation is duly famous. But breakfast was necessary as was the cancelation of our reservation at Motel 6. This was far more complicated than I could have imagined. Since I hadn’t left a credit card #, I thought to call just as a courtesy. But no, there was a whole phone process that happily ended as expected. Cancelation without fee.
We found the Denny’s, just off Kettleman Ave. This is clearly where the elite meet in Lodi. Sitting on the bench and waiting to be called, we were told that a specific waitress was the best in the place. And so she was. I was able to inform her that Mr.Sandoval  recommended her mightily.
Have you ever watched line cooks at Denny’s or Ole’s or any other short order place? Well my friends, hear me talking to you. One can go to the Cordon Bleu or the CIA, and these are great institutions, but the grill line at any cafe is where you learn to cook.
Our first stop wasVan Ruiten Winery. We knew little of it but that was also true of Milliaire and Twisted Oak when we first found them over 15 years ago. We went in and started to be simply blown away. This is a very delicate terroir and its base is white clay. Van Ruiten makes clear, specific wines including a Pinot that knocked Philip right to the floor. Having been struck by lightning once, we had some mercy on the suspension of our little blue opera house and headed home.
I love the 12 as it crosses the Delta. There was more rain this year and everything looked lush. After that wonderful breakfast, lunch at Isleton or RioVista seemed superfluous. I just wanted to go home.
And so we did. It had been an eventful and wonderful 25th anniversary trip in the best place in the world, the glorious state of California. With the very best husband, Philip Milton Saunders.

Lizzye's Trail Inn: Sierra Mesa Girls

Lizzye's Trail Inn: Sierra Mesa Girls:     How did all of this happen? Well, it’s Janet Starcevich (née Bourgeois) fault. She fb messaged me on 03/09/15. Janet was sitting at her...

Sierra Mesa Girls

    How did all of this happen? Well, it’s Janet Starcevich (née Bourgeois) fault. She fb messaged me on 03/09/15. Janet was sitting at her husband’s hospital bed and throwing a long net. She caught me. And then in Feb. of this year, I heard from Catherine Adde. She lives just up the street from my Mommy/Julie on Canyon Crest. And somehow we stared talking about getting together with other Sierra Mesa girls. It seemed so simple.

(this is Janet, ain’t she gorgeous?)

I come down to my old home town once a year. I get in my little car, go to Oakland Airport, get on a Southwest flight and go to Burbank Airport. This is the easiest flight in the world. Katherine E. Jenkins (the previously mentioned Mommy) has her birthday on May 3rd. The Kentucky Derby is run on the first Saturday of May. What do these two days have in common? Somewhere in the beautifully twisted DNA of my mother’s family is a gene for the love of horses. My Aunt Esther had it, Uncle Danny had it and Uncle Sam was a bookie. My sister Julie read every book on horses by the great Marguerite Henry. Every first weekend in May I come back to the house in the Upper Canyon to celebrate my mother and to watch the horses run.
In previous years, we used to cram ourselves up into my old bedroom, the smallest room of the house, because that’s where the old big TV was. We crammed ourselves into that little room with the big screen so Mommy could see the race. There is now a much bigger and easier-to-move screen in the living room.
And there is a piece of the rub. You see, if the big TV is down in the living room, where it is comfy and warm and the old lady can hold court, why shouldn’t we just watch horses run all day? Well, we did and it was so luxurious. But other people needed me.  Catherine needed me. I promised to call her and meet up at her mom’s house. I didn’t, I was watching the horses with my Mommy and Sestra for which there is no excuse.
My sister and I finally tore ourselves away and went down to Claro’s Arcadia. I had ordered two trays from our favorite Italian deli to take to the party, more about that later. I gave my name and the lovely young man said they didn’t have the order. The order was in San Gabriel. I started to get testy because the website didn’t tell me that it went directly and only to the San Gabriel store. When I called I said I wanted to pick up at Arcadia, three times. The same lovely young man said he could do the trays in about ten minutes. And so he did. We were out of the store in time to get to Catherine’s parents’ place by 2. I just adore good customer service.
We got up to the party house right at 2 and dropped off the completely unnecessary trays. The table in the dining/family room was already groaning under the offerings of 20 middle aged women. This party was going to be grand but what was it doing at Catherine’s parents house and not at Mommy’s? Very simple, look at the numbers. My sister’s beautiful side garden can, with its delightful Mission style fountain, hold about ten people, 13 at a stretch. And we don’t have enough chairs. By the week before the party/reunion the guest list hovered around 20. How did this happen? The answer has everything to do with the glorious and organized Catherine. In real life she is a very important and high end travel agent.

(This was us in 1967. Some of us were in another full 6th grade class because this was the Baby Boom and our school needed 1 1/2 classes each of 5th & 6th grade. Look hard at the photo of Miss Cade. She was as glamorous as a Vegas showgirl. She drove a Mustang and went away on Easter vacation with that black hair and came back a platinum blonde.)

Sweet Jesus Catherine knows how to throw a party. She offered her parent’s house once the tally went over 15. I keep on talking about the party without defining it. What I first thought of as a get together with Catherine and Nancie and anyone else who was in the area that day. It became the grand gathering of women from as far north as Janesville, as far east as South Lake Tahoe. Debra and I came from the East Bay and Karen (pronounced: Kahren) from Los Osos. And they came because Catherine asked them. She set up the FB group, she was the contact, she was the hostess extraordinaire who made this all happen. And this was the Sierra Mesa School Girls Reunion.
I showed up with my ancient Mother. She had been asked for by several of the attending ladies. Janet’s and Catherine’s mothers were also in attendance. There was Karen Veblen, there was Linda Kunahiro and Janet Shapiro and Shelly Johnson and and and. It was pure heaven.
They were so sweet to me and sang the round that my mother taught me and I seem to have taught the rest. It was a splendid party.
Go to parties,my sweets. Meet old friends, tell old stories and figure out who you are now.
You never know what will happen.

poachng

Richard and Vickie picked us up at 9:30am. We, the four of us, went to Orinda to do some poaching. We are in search of a new music director. Dr. David Farr, having served the Church devotedly with his music and his scholarship, decided to retire. St. Paul’s needs to find a new choir boss. That’s what we were doing in Orinda.
The processes of choosing a new music director is fraught with misunderstandings. What do we as a church need? What do we as a choir, who have sweated so much blood and gotten so good, need? How do I do as a Congregationalist not blow up a meeting of sweet Episcopalians trying so hard to be nice to each other that nothing is being done? No, I don’t understand why the Episcopal Church runs itself the way it does, but it does.
Philip, the non-believing Liturgy-loving Baptist and Vicki, without whom St. Paul’s Music would collapse, are both on the search committee. Your humble servant is not, for reasons noted above. Thus it was surprising  when Philip asked, “Do you want to go to Orinda Community Church on our Sunday off?” He gave me the bona fides on the organist/choir director and I was very impressed. So armed, we headed east to Orinda.
It was a beautiful day on the other side of the hills and Vicki knew where we were going. And where that was, was a beautiful A-frame church where we were sweetly and graciously greeted. And there, in fact was the rub. We seated ourselves on the left hand of the main aisle, in the back (to quote the great Dr. Mary Ellen Kilsby, “the unholy amen corner”). There we sat, five (Sarah Smith joined us) strangers to Orinda Community Church, and tried to be unobtrusive. We failed spectacularly.
The first tip off was that nobody knew us. We shook the hand of anyone who offered, smiled and said we were just visiting. Now, this line might have worked if there had been just Sarah or even just V & R or P & E. But no, there we were, the five of us, sitting in a row and singing way too well. One can only say “we’re just visiting” so many times before it sounds ridiculous.
The music was why we were there and it did not disappoint. The choir was 17 strong with two first rate soloists, baritone and tenor. Thy did a handsome job on the anthem they sang, “Draw us in the Spirit’s tether” by Harold Friedell. We know this so well we were singing along and that was one more nail in our unobtrusive coffin. Then there was the keyboard music. The organist in question did elegant and complex changes on “the Lord of the Dance.” As the service continued and I took Communion at a UCC church again for the first time in over three decades, I was offered a Cup of juice or wine for intinction. I went for the juice and was taken all the way back to Welch’s grape juice in little glass cups, in beautiful trays passed by friends to each other. Ah yes, I remember it well. Sap that I am, I wept for nostalgia and joy at being in a Congregational church again. They have pew Bibles but why they use the Methodist Hymnal is beyond me.
We did our due diligence and listened the postlude. The director/organist played holy hell out of Buxtehude. On a very limited instrument he was able to show his real stuff. Damn, he is good, his choir is good and I for one want him very much. Now the hard work began. Could we get out of the church without one more lovely person asking what we were doing there? Not a blessed chance. From where we were sitting there was no way out except through the classic Congregational greeting line. If we tried to go out the side door, on the far right side, it would be just too obvious. So I stepped up and faced the gentle minister. “So what brings you to our church?” He was being so nice. I looked up into those mild sweet eyes and said “Do you know your organist is looking for another job?” He was a professional. First he said no and then the penny dropped. He shook my hand and I almost ran out the front doors.
We the poachers met briefly in the parking lot and exchanged first impressions. My fellow felons were not unduly wroth with your humble reporter. What else was I supposed to do? LIE? No, that wouldn’t have worked, I’m not that good.

Loretta Castorini: What am I going to tell him?
Cosmo Castorini: Tell him the truth. They find out anyway.

The work goes on.

letter to the presidents

I sent this letter at the change of the year. I have heard nothing from either gentleman.



Rev. Albert Mohler, President
Southern Baptist Theological Seminary 2825 Lexington Rd.
Louisville, KY 40280
Dear Brothers in Christ,
Rev. Mark Labberton, President Fuller Theological Seminary 135 N. Oakland Ave.
Pasadena, CA 91101

      I come to you with an honest question that I cannot answer. As a grandmother I have children to guide. As a Christian in the World, I must show the love of Our Lord to non- believers. My question is compelling because of my love for the Church Temporal in all of her sorrows and historical sins.          Why, Dear Sirs, does the Evangelical aspect of the Protestant Church obsess about homosexuality?
     Evangelical is a loose term because all Christians are called to evangelism. Conservative as a term for your schools doesn’t make much sense to me. Great scholarship is done at both of your institutions. But the attention of Evangelicals to one of the 617 Laws of Kashrut confuses me greatly. I have seen both of your photos online. Neither of you wear facial hair (Lev. 19:27) and you seem in those pictures to be wearing blended fabric (Deut. 22:11). So what is it about Lev. 18:22? Gentlemen, I just don’t get it.
     The obsession with homosexuality is not limited to the Protestant Church. The Roman and Greek churches have been terrified by man love since their inception. (No one mentions woman love in our Scriptures.) But I am asking this question of you because it is the Evangelical aspect of the Protestant Church that is making all of the noise against marriage equality. Rome has too many other problems and does not like to explain. The Greek/Russian/Syrian churches are, I hate to say it, moribund. They are not my concern as I live in this blessed land whose Constitution enshrines the separation of Church and State. But it breaks my old liberal heart to see the Church Temporal held up to ridicule. Sometimes I am left to saying, “You can’t choose your family,” because I simply don’t understand. I can’t fight the argument because it has never been clearly explained to me.
     You, both being scholars far beyond my ken, know the hard history of our faith. In this great land we have had to break through the theological supports of slavery and of the subjugation of women. Those supports were canards and deserved to be broken. How is marriage equality different? The laws of marriage in the Hebrew Scriptures have nothing to do with one man and one woman. Please explain to me, by the mercy of Christ, why this particular Hebrew law is more important than all others.
     I do understand, my brothers, that you will not respond to me directly; you are the leaders of great seminaries. But I do hope that you delegate my question to someone who can give me an answer.
Yours in Christ,