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Volume 12      Number 56
US Library of Congress ISSN: 1530-3292
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Cheeseburger Meat Loaf

1 pound lean ground beef
3/4 cup uncooked regular oats
1/2 cup milk
2 tablespoons minced onion
1 large egg
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon dry mustard
1/4 teaspoon garlic salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 (12-ounce) bottle chili sauce
3 packaged Cheddar cheese slices, cut into 1-inch strips

Stir together first 10 ingredients in a large bowl just until combined.
Place in a 9- x 5-inch loafpan.

Bake at 350F for 40 to 45 minutes. Pour chili sauce over meat loaf, and
bake 20 to 25 more minutes or until meat is no longer pink in center.

Arrange cheese slices in a crisscross pattern on top of meat loaf. Let
stand 10 minutes before slicing. Yield:  Makes 4 servings.


(nutritional info not available)
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AT THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

By Walter Mills


A Box of Sunshine

My plane flight to South Florida was quick, three or four hours spread
out across three airports. My brother met me at Ft. Lauderdale and we
stored my bag in his van before crossing to the Delta terminal to pick
up my younger sister coming in from Cincinnati.

I have never gotten used to the way an airplane ride can tear us away
from our lives and thrust us into another world in the time it takes to
mow the lawn. At five a.m. I was shivering in the cold of a central
Pennsylvania morning, and by lunch time I was stepping out into the
glare of Florida sunlight, feeling a jet lag more radical than crossing
time zones. I was at least a season or two behind.

My family was there for the memorial service for my Aunt Clare. Clare
had been spending more time in the emergency room than on the phone in
the last few months, and from what I gathered from those at the service,
she had spent most of her waking hours on the phone. Sometimes it is
evident that one's time is measured in days and weeks instead of years,
and Clare was staying in touch and saying farewells with a clear
awareness of her approaching finale.

The church was a third full, with the average age nearing eighty. My
brother and I had agreed to speak briefly after the opening words of the
Baptist minister. All morning we had scribbled our thoughts on sheets of
yellow notebook paper, crossing out the inappropriate remarks and trying
not to top each other's stories. His thoughts were focused on recent
memories of Clare, her irascible moods, her struggle to survive, and the
calls he received from her four or five times a day at work. She was
preparing the groundwork for her transition to a better world, one that,
from her comments, looked a lot like Miami in the old days, but where
everyone spoke English.

My earliest memory of Aunt Clare was of her green Nash Rambler pulling
up the long drive to our little house out in the orange groves twenty
miles south of Miami. When she stepped out of the car she was dressed in
a suit, which hardly any women wore in my small circle of acquaintances.
She was smoking, waving her hands, and talking nonstop, as usual. Small
and sharp featured, she reminded me of a fox.

When I was young, I always thought of Aunt Clare as the glamorous one.
She was the relative who had been to nightclubs and fancy restaurants,
who wore sophisticated clothes and fashionable black rim glasses and
rode trains to distant cities, like New York and Boston and Chicago. She
was the one who drank Manhattans in the club car and went to Broadway
shows.

She was my father's older sister, repository of all family lore, some of
it of dubious accuracy. One of her more irritating habits was to portray
my father as perpetually lazy and irresponsible, the way she remembered
him as a boy of twelve or thirteen. But aside from certain odd
distortions, her memory was reliable.

In the frequent letters she wrote me over the last year, I heard again
the old stories from what seems like another age. Her father was born in
the 1870s; she had grown up in the 1920s, when Miami was turning from a
village into a small town. She was a direct link to the Florida of the
Indian Wars, alligator poachers, and cabins on stilts with palmetto
thatched roofs.

Once I was old enough to no longer be afraid of Clare's sharp tongue, I
came to enjoy her company. We would leaf through her old photo albums
together, and she would tell me the stories behind the yellowing
snapshots.

The past several winters Clare sent us, her northern relatives, a large
box of oranges and grapefruit.  This year's box arrived the day after we
learned that she was dead.  It was sad and strange to receive it, but
still the fruit tasted good, like distilled sunshine, and we missed her.





(The above column originally appeared in the Centre Daily Times and is
copyright © 2009 by Walter Mills. All rights reserved worldwide. To
contact Walt, address your emails to    [email protected] ).
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