On New Year's Eve, we do the "Twist."

Young and old alike loved the best dance of my lifetime, the "Twist."

Don't know how to Twist? "There's no, no Twistin' like the slow, slow Twistin'."

Chicago, Illinois, December 31, 1964. Members of three generations—my Grandparents' generation, my Parents' generation, and my generation—enjoy the "Twist."

Let's Twist (Again)

My lifelong friend, Kris, was reviewing some of the older posts on the blog, and she paused on the "Twist" one.

She then sent this gem to me:

Suburban Chicago, December 1963. A group of kids from our suburban Lithuanian enclave staged a "Twist" floor show for the adults during another basement party. My friend Kris is the older girl behind me. I'm wearing that red velveteen jumper. And tights.

Both Sides of the Table

Suburban Chicago, January 1962. The woman with the elegant French Twist is my Mom's best friend, Donna. Her husband, Vytenis, looks over her head. There is "French Brandy" on the table, and I see that we're serving both Cranberry-Jell-o Mold and Lithuanian head cheese. Oh boy.

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Suburban Chicago, January 1962. You've met some of these people in earlier posts. Lily gestures in conversation, and my Dad's twin sister, Jonė, laughs. Jonė's husband, Kadis (also partially obscured by the French Twist), sits to her left.

The Funny Face Controversy

In 1967, the Chicago Sun-Times included a Funny Face Drink circular in a Sunday edition of its Comics Section. The circular promoted new flavors of the drink mix. It also included a contest entry. The contest directed children to color a Funny-Face character.

My Parents subscribed to the Chicago Tribune, so we did not get a Funny-Face Drink circular in our edition that Sunday. My Best Friend's family, however, got the Sun-Times. When her Parents saw the art contest circular, they picked up a couple of extra copies of the paper so that my Best Friend, her sister, and I all could submit our entries.

We all sat at my Best Friend's kitchen table, and we completed our entries. My Best Friend's Parents mailed the entries. Then we forgot about the contest for a few months.

I don't know whether Funny Face executives judged the entries. Perhaps the contest was only a drawing for which the company randomly selected winners from the submitted entries. I couldn't tell you if artistic talent was a factor in the contest or not.

My Best Friend was—and is—a talented artist. We believed the contest was based on artistic ability, and we were sure my Best Friend would be declared a winner.

One Tuesday afternoon, after school, a delivery man brought a big box to our house. The box was addressed to me. I was a winner of the Funny Face Drink sweepstakes. I received a wonderful prize: a modern Barbie and a Barbie Dream House.

I felt badly for my Best Friend because she was both the artist and the person who made it possible for me to submit an entry. We thought the contest had tested young talent. I was less artistic and, therefore, I did not merit the prize.

But I was very happy with my new toys. It's the only thing I've ever "won."

Suburban Chicago, 1967. Here's the Barbie (the kind with the twist waist) that caused the heartache.

UPDATE: Ah! Here's the entry form.

"The Ex-Husband Sweater"

Oh, gee whiz. It's a twist on the sweater curse (namely, the "rescue mission mechanism "):

The rational explanation of the sweater curse is that a handmade sweater is typically thick, elastic, and clingy: it suggests that the woman who is making it wants to surround its recipient and enclose him. To be presented with such a garment is a signal to a man that its maker has serious plans for him. If he is not ready for this, the gift will embarrass him and may frighten him away. (The same phenomenon, according to one of my informants, has been observed in relationships between two women.) It has been claimed that knitting a deliberate mistake into the sweater will break the curse, but according to one of my friends this doesn’t usually work. Knitters would therefore be well advised to wait until after the wedding to start any such project—especially since it is also believed by some that a sweater made for a husband both warns off other women and keeps him safe at home.

The Independence Day "Minejimas"

Today, February 16, is Lithuanian Independence Day. The children from our Lithuanian School prepared for the annual "minejemas," or commemoration, every year. Although we participated in many cultural programs, the Independence Day "minejimas"was our most important "programa."

The Displaced Persons who made up the Lithuanian population in our suburban enclave sometimes organized the event at the hall of the local park district. (It's now called "Bulger Park," but boomers will remember it as Veterans Park.)

Often, the Independence Day celebration intersected with a more formal occasion, the "Balius" ("ball") that the local Lithuanians annually hosted. The Balius was a formal occasion, and it was one of the few adult parties that the children attended.

The locals rented a large, then-attractive hall operated by the Melrose Park Fraternal Order of Eagles. The hall stood on the second story of the village's main shopping district, near the intersection of Broadway and Lake Street. The hall was a large space, with a stage, a dance floor, and an annex in the back with a bar. The lighting and acoustics were decent. We felt familiar with and comfortable in the hall especially because one of the nice Lithuanian families in our community owned the store that stood on the first floor of the same building.

As children, we looked forward to the Balius because we got to fool around at the party as soon as our performances ended. We ate Lithuanian sausage, braised sauerkraut, boiled Russet potatoes, and rye bread. Usually, the younger set hung around in the back annex, where, after dinner, we danced and drank 50/50 or Canada Dry Gingerale.

The adults conducted a "loterija," or raffle, at the end of the evening. In 1967, I was declared one of the winners. I learned I could choose one of several prizes. I remember standing at the prize table with my Mom, deciding what to take home. Mom saw a Napoleonas torte among the options, but I was unmoved. I wanted a record album. The only LP on the table was "Tubby Chess and His Candy Stripe Twisters do the TWIST," which of course spoke again to the Lithuanian immigrant community's branding paralysis: whoever selected the prize as a lure for the "young people" could not distinguish Chubby Checker from an imitator.

The organizers felt badly for me and Mom, and I took home both the torte and the faker LP.

I went back to the Balius several times when I was in high school and college. The event was a good chance to recycle prom dresses.

The Fraternal Order of Eagles Hall burned in 1989; I don't know whether it still stands.

Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1965. I take a bow after finishing my poetry recitation. This was my first performance at an Independence Day event. Look! My lifelong friend Kris sits on the far left.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1965. The children from our Lithuanian School sang folk songs. I stand in the first row, on the far right, and Kris is directly behind me.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1966. After the children sang, we danced. Kris and I are in the center, holding hands. The adults watch patiently. There's the back annex.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1965. We are having fun! You can see the "FOE" letters suspended above the stage.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1966. Our Lithuanian School sometimes had more girls than boys enrolled.  

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1966. After our successful performance, we show our gratitude to our Lithuanian-School teachers.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1966. It's the end of our segment of the "programa."

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1965. We then sit and wait, oh my, during the rest of the performance. Usually some soprano sang Lithuanian tunes. Kris is behind me, again.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1967. I give a bouquet to the soprano, too.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1967. Ha ha! There's my Mom, holding the Napoleonas torte prize. I hadn't noticed the torte until I posted the photo. I instead was focused on the Lithuanian sausage in the front, on the right. There's my Mom's best friend, Donna, smiling beautifully on the far left.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1967.  There's the rye bread.

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Melrose Park, Illinois, February 1966. It's the end of the night because I've taken off my folkdress crown. Mom and her friend, Jadzė D, are keeping an eye on it. Both women wear knitted dresses.

Related by Marriage: A Sunday Visit with a Twist

 

Marquette Park, Chicago, Illinois, November 1965. Mr. Irene and his family visit with Uncle D and his wife during Ignas's visit to Chicago.

Related by Marriage: A Twist on the Sunday Ritual

Suburban Chicago, Summer 1964. The family changes the routine and spends a Sunday together at Mr. Irene's home. The furnishings identify the house: there's that coffee table, and Skippy's cage is in the corner.

Left to right are Mr. Irene's maternal Grandparents, Stanley and Anna; Mr. Irene on his Dad's lap; Aunt Martha and her husband Wally; and Anna's sister, Petra.

The Window Incident, in Three Takes

I mentioned recently that I once fell out of a window. The incident occurred when I was in college, on a lovely spring Saturday. A friend and I had been listening to music and goofing around in my dorm room. We stepped outside and realized that the keys to the room were on my desk.

The dorm was not conventional; it did not house several hundred students. Instead, it was a converted apartment building in which about thirty-six students lived. When my friend and I realized we were locked out, we walked around the building to see if someone might help us because my studious roommate was at the library. No one responded.

The room stood above a garden level on an elevated first floor. It had French-door windows overlooking a narrow balcony. The windows were open that day. I decided to try to reenter the building by reaching for the railing and jumping onto the balcony—I planned to walk in through those windows. I did fine at first: I grabbed the railing and started to twist over it. But I lost my balance, and I fell about ten feet.

I didn't feel much pain initially; I walked around without incident for about thirty-six hours. The next day—early Sunday evening—I was studying at (another) friend's room for a midterm. I felt suddenly "green," and I fainted. My friend telephoned the campus police, and an officer drove us to an emergency room. There, the physician told me I had broken my ankle. I was in a cast for about eight weeks.

 
My Dad drove up to campus to inspect the window and determine how I could have fallen out of it.

Evanston, Illinois, April 7, 1978. The room's windows are right above the green van's hood.

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Evanston, Illinois, May 17, 1978. I model my cast at the site of the injury.

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Evanston, Illinois, October 2000. I return to the spot where I fell.

A Twist on "Granny Squares"

Do you remember crocheting "Granny Squares?" Did you make them in the 1970s and use them to craft cool articles of clothing?

Here's a new way to look at Granny Squares. Don't miss the Cate Blanchett portrait.

Babos Receptai (Part 5)

It's time for a seasonal turn for "Babos Receptai." Lithuanians, like most Europeans, usually don't eat turkey.* A suckling pig, filled with liver stuffing, graces the Christmas table, and Lithuanians often eat roast veal at Easter. Lithuania does not observe Thanksgiving, although over the years, many people asked me what people eat in Lithuania during that holiday (pre-1991 answer: they don't eat to give thanks; they stand in line at the grocery store).

Our family adjusted to the Thanksgiving holiday, and we always served turkey. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, did not, however, stuff the turkey with the moist dressing familiar to the American table. Tatjana instead prepared that liver stuffing intended for the suckling pig. How I hated it as a child! The texture reminded me of a grainy paté,** and I gagged on the taste. I insisted on walking over to my Best Friend's house as soon as our "Thanksgiving meal" had ended so I could enjoy the real offerings of the holiday.

I've now been making Tatjana's liver stuffing for Thanksgiving since 1984. It's our twist on a traditional side dish. But it remains an acquired taste.

Here's Tatjana's recipe for the delicacy:

Here's how I modified and wrote up the recipe:

"A Very Good Stuffing for Chickens or Small Turkeys

(This proportion is enough for a 15-pound turkey.)"

2 cups water, boiling hot

1 ounce dried Porcini mushrooms

1/4 cup (1/2 stick or 4 tablespoons) butter

2 large onions, chopped (2 cups)

2 medium ribs celery, chopped (2 cups)

3/4 cup Italian (flat-leaf) parsley, minced

1 teaspoon dried marjoram

3/4 teaspoon dried rosemary

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

1-1/2 teaspoons salt

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

8 ounces bacon, diced

8 ounces veal calf's livers (or turkey livers)

8 ounces chicken livers

8 ounces ground veal

1 pound unseasoned bread cubes (part rye bread, if desired)

1/2 cup liquid reserved from soaking mushrooms

2 eggs, beaten to blend

1 cup chicken broth 

1 cup Italian (flat-leaf) parsley, minced

Combine 2 cups boiling water and the dried mushrooms; let stand for about 30 minutes, or until the mushrooms are softened. Drain through a coffee filter, reserving the liquid. Squeeze the mushrooms dry and chop coarsely.

In a large skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the onions and celery. Cook, stirring often, until the onions are very tender and translucent, about 10 to 15 minutes. Transfer the vegetables from the skillet to a very large bowl using a slotted spoon. Leave any remaining butter in the skillet. To the bowl, stir in the mushrooms, the 1/2 cup parsley, dried marjoram, dried rosemary, dried thyme, salt, and freshly ground black pepper.

In the same skillet, in any remaining butter, sauté the bacon. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and add to the vegetable mixture, leaving about 4 tablespoons of the fat in the pan. Add the veal and chicken livers to the pan and sauté until the livers are almost cooked through. Add the ground veal and sauté for about 3 minutes. Cool.

Transfer the liver mixture to the workbowl of a food processor and process, using the metal blade, until the meats are just ground.  Stir the meats into the vegetable mixture. Mix the bread cubes into the vegetable mixture. (Can be prepared one day ahead to this point. Cover the mixture and refrigerate. Cover and chill the mushroom liquid separately.)

Mix together the beaten eggs and 1/2 cup reserved mushroom liquid; add to the stuffing. Stir in enough chicken broth to moisten.

Generously butter a 5- to 7-quart slow cooker. Transfer the stuffing to the slow cooker.  Cover and cook on "High" setting for 2 hours. Reduce heat to "Low" and cook until heated through, about 2 to 3 hours.

Just before serving, moisten the stuffing with some of the turkey drippings and stir in the remaining 1 cup minced parsley. The slow cooker, turned off, will keep the stuffing at serving temperature for up to 3 hours. 

*A group of American students and ex-pats invited me to a Thanksgiving celebration when I first arrived in Venice in 1983. It was my job to find the turkey. My Italian language skills still were elementary, and I had forgotten my dictionary when I visited the butcher shop. When I arrived at the counter, I tried to explain what I was trying to buy. Exasperated, I said, in Italian, "a big bird!" The butcher nearly laughed me out of the shop.

**The liver stuffing, and a paté, were among the specialties Tatjana prepared when the family lived in Lithuania. The housekeeper was territorial about her kitchen work, and she resented times when Tatjana decided to cook. As family and guests gathered around a holiday table one year, the housekeeper brought the paté—the only dish Tatjana had prepared—to the table. A guest said, "Oh! Paté!" The housekeeper replied, "This isn't paté; it's shit."