Cream Cheese Dreams
"Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don't even remember leaving open"- Rose Lane
Once in a while, life changes at a speed faster than light.
I am speaking about those moments when you know for sure that nothing will ever be the same again; for better or for worse, you just can't turn back the hands of time.
I remember the house on Chestnut street. It stood on a quiet road overlooking an abandoned park in the middle of a town called Washington in southwestern Pennsylvania; hardly familiar to anyone who lived outside a 200 mile radius. In the census for the year 2000, there were 15,268 residents, of which 81% were whites. I think the numbers for asians were like 0.02%. Can you imagine little ol'me and my family transplanted there in 1975?
The house where we first lived, where we were sent to "re-settle" after our arrival in the United States, might have been listed as a furnished-brick two story family home with four bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and a large eat-in-kitchen and fenced in yard. To me, it was and became much more personal during the five months that we resided there. It was a time of new beginnings in a new country; of learning a new language and new way of living, and a time of growing up and facing the hard realities of life even though I was only almost eight.
I remember there were eight of us in that house. My father, mother, us three kids, my brother's nanny Phu, and two other young women who had worked for my father in Viet Nam and who followed him to America - to Chestnut Street. I felt really secure in the midst of all these familiar people and thought that we were one big happy family.
I was happy there in that house because that was where my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. First I hobbled along on the grass, then onto the pavement.
"Are you ready to do it by yourself?" my father asked me "I'm going to let go. Just balance!"
A few yards after he let go of the bicycle seat and me, my weight shifted to the side causing me to lose balance and I crashed into a nearby tree and was thrown off the bike. Trickles of blood seeped out from a cut on my upper lip. I felt no pain. I was just simply overcome with happiness at the sight of my father running to my rescue.
My husband has now trained our two older boys to two-wheelerdom. Every time was the same..absolute joy and and marvel at the moment when they go off on their own. Such pride in the little things that your children accomplish.
In that house on Chestnut street was where I celebrated my eighth birthday. After an arduous trip to the supermarket with the help of a kind american woman, my mother managed to collect enough ingredients to bake me a pineapple cake. I clearly remember seeing the caramelized rings of golden pineapples nestled in the yellow cake. We didn't have any candles but that didn't steal any magic away from the moment or from the buttery-rich smoothness of my mother's cake. It is hard to remember any birthdays after the one I celebrated on that hot summer night in Washington, Pennsylvania.
It was also where I first discovered Philadelphia cream cheese...hence now you know as to the reason why I AM creamcheesedreams....I was infatuated with its taste and used to eat the packaged cream cheese like ice cream. Back in 1975, it was just marketed and sold in the 8oz rectangular bar form. I especially remember how smooth and creamy the bites used to slide down my throat; I wasn't counting calories then. These days, when I simply smear a touch of cream cheese on a bagel, I recall those long and lazy afternoons on the porch of the house on Chestnut street. Sitting back, staring out into nothingness, with a glass of lemonade, my little fingers would peel off the silver wrapping with blue writing to reveal and unleash that magical white cheese. I always tried to savor it, but it usually didn't remain in my hands for long (what else can I say? I just really really love the stuff. Can't get enough of it!!! Can't have too much of it! Cream cheese is the first thing that comes to mind when I reflect back on my early years in the United States. It made quite an impact...maybe this will have to be more picked through in another entry)
Everything was new and wonderful - Frito-lay corn chips, Campbell's cream of tomato soup and tunafish on a hamburger bun, chocolate milk, sour cream and onion dip- even the most jaded La Cave diner like me was won-over! There was hope yet for this new country.
Although not every discovery I made during my time on Chestnut Street was great (I shall elaborate more fully at a later time, if you'd like)it did mark a huge turning point in my young little life; one that can never be erased - one that I wear like my own skin; one that made a mark on me and still dictates how I live and love. How dramatic, you might think. But if you knew me, and you soon will, you will know that there was hardly a time period in my life, when anything was considered normal. Still, the one sure thing is that I am glad for all of it. I embrace all that is me and all that composed of my life..for I would not be this happy wife/mother/daughter/sister/friend/obsessed cook/pseudo-writer.
I would like to close this entry with another quote from Rose Lane -
"There is more laughter and more song in America than anywhere else."
After all is said and done...how true it is!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Once in a while, life changes at a speed faster than light.
I am speaking about those moments when you know for sure that nothing will ever be the same again; for better or for worse, you just can't turn back the hands of time.
I remember the house on Chestnut street. It stood on a quiet road overlooking an abandoned park in the middle of a town called Washington in southwestern Pennsylvania; hardly familiar to anyone who lived outside a 200 mile radius. In the census for the year 2000, there were 15,268 residents, of which 81% were whites. I think the numbers for asians were like 0.02%. Can you imagine little ol'me and my family transplanted there in 1975?
The house where we first lived, where we were sent to "re-settle" after our arrival in the United States, might have been listed as a furnished-brick two story family home with four bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and a large eat-in-kitchen and fenced in yard. To me, it was and became much more personal during the five months that we resided there. It was a time of new beginnings in a new country; of learning a new language and new way of living, and a time of growing up and facing the hard realities of life even though I was only almost eight.
I remember there were eight of us in that house. My father, mother, us three kids, my brother's nanny Phu, and two other young women who had worked for my father in Viet Nam and who followed him to America - to Chestnut Street. I felt really secure in the midst of all these familiar people and thought that we were one big happy family.
I was happy there in that house because that was where my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. First I hobbled along on the grass, then onto the pavement.
"Are you ready to do it by yourself?" my father asked me "I'm going to let go. Just balance!"
A few yards after he let go of the bicycle seat and me, my weight shifted to the side causing me to lose balance and I crashed into a nearby tree and was thrown off the bike. Trickles of blood seeped out from a cut on my upper lip. I felt no pain. I was just simply overcome with happiness at the sight of my father running to my rescue.
My husband has now trained our two older boys to two-wheelerdom. Every time was the same..absolute joy and and marvel at the moment when they go off on their own. Such pride in the little things that your children accomplish.
In that house on Chestnut street was where I celebrated my eighth birthday. After an arduous trip to the supermarket with the help of a kind american woman, my mother managed to collect enough ingredients to bake me a pineapple cake. I clearly remember seeing the caramelized rings of golden pineapples nestled in the yellow cake. We didn't have any candles but that didn't steal any magic away from the moment or from the buttery-rich smoothness of my mother's cake. It is hard to remember any birthdays after the one I celebrated on that hot summer night in Washington, Pennsylvania.
It was also where I first discovered Philadelphia cream cheese...hence now you know as to the reason why I AM creamcheesedreams....I was infatuated with its taste and used to eat the packaged cream cheese like ice cream. Back in 1975, it was just marketed and sold in the 8oz rectangular bar form. I especially remember how smooth and creamy the bites used to slide down my throat; I wasn't counting calories then. These days, when I simply smear a touch of cream cheese on a bagel, I recall those long and lazy afternoons on the porch of the house on Chestnut street. Sitting back, staring out into nothingness, with a glass of lemonade, my little fingers would peel off the silver wrapping with blue writing to reveal and unleash that magical white cheese. I always tried to savor it, but it usually didn't remain in my hands for long (what else can I say? I just really really love the stuff. Can't get enough of it!!! Can't have too much of it! Cream cheese is the first thing that comes to mind when I reflect back on my early years in the United States. It made quite an impact...maybe this will have to be more picked through in another entry)
Everything was new and wonderful - Frito-lay corn chips, Campbell's cream of tomato soup and tunafish on a hamburger bun, chocolate milk, sour cream and onion dip- even the most jaded La Cave diner like me was won-over! There was hope yet for this new country.
Although not every discovery I made during my time on Chestnut Street was great (I shall elaborate more fully at a later time, if you'd like)it did mark a huge turning point in my young little life; one that can never be erased - one that I wear like my own skin; one that made a mark on me and still dictates how I live and love. How dramatic, you might think. But if you knew me, and you soon will, you will know that there was hardly a time period in my life, when anything was considered normal. Still, the one sure thing is that I am glad for all of it. I embrace all that is me and all that composed of my life..for I would not be this happy wife/mother/daughter/sister/friend/obsessed cook/pseudo-writer.
I would like to close this entry with another quote from Rose Lane -
"There is more laughter and more song in America than anywhere else."
After all is said and done...how true it is!!!!!!!!!!!!!
posted by cream cheese dreams at 8:51 PM
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