By Janet Manders

Yesterday was one of those sub-zero, bone-chilling winter days in Wisconsin. I had no desire to bundle up and leave the warmth of my house, so I poured a second cup of coffee into my favorite Christmas mug, grabbed paper and pencil to make a shopping list, and opened my wooden Longaberger recipe box. I pulled out a loose-leaf piece of paper titled “Grandma’s Cheese Torte” and paused to revel in warm memories of a dessert that’s a yearly delectable delight.

My siblings and I aren’t 100% sure when our tradition of indulging in this holiday treat began. As youngsters, cheese torte made by either our grandma or our Great Aunt Reggie was a seasonal treat that we eagerly awaited. Years later, when both were gone, and our own children were young, Mom became the baker, creating something that looked and tasted even better than we remembered from our youth. Did she change Grandma’s recipe? Or did she start from scratch with a new one? My sister thinks the latter is true and that it was lifted from the Philadelphia Cream Cheese box cover. She is the proud owner of a recipe card, written in Mom’s neat handwriting, and now yellowed with food stains in the corner.

I copied that recipe onto a loose-leaf page, and it’s pristine white. I tried to make the torte once in my early twenties, but it didn’t live up to my family’s standards, so I filed the recipe and left the making of the masterpiece to Mom. Luckily, in the years to follow, my daughter, Sara, and my nephew, Ben, showed more persistence than I did. Each of them learned Mom’s secrets to preparing this family tradition. Without them, our yearly indulgence may have become nothing more than a memory, just like the multitude of three-by-five-inch cards crammed into my Longaberger box.

The layers of the torte remind me of my mom’s personality. The bottom layer, a crust, is made by mixing 24 crushed graham crackers with ½ cup of melted butter and ¼ cup of sugar, then pressing it into the bottom of a 13×9-inch pan and along the sides. It’s baked for 5 minutes at 300 degrees.

Mom’s interactions with others could feel as brusque as the crunchy crust. She knew exactly how something should be done and was rarely patient when watching others do it slowly or in a way she didn’t expect. Sara remembers her grandma teaching her the art of one of the steps for the torte and saying, “Not like that. Give me that spatula. Do it like this.” 

Despite her curt approach to instruction, Mom was deeply loved by both her children and her grandchildren. Like the crust, she was recognized as the firm foundation in our family. We all admired the quiet strength she showed in her mid-nineties as she cared for my dad when he succumbed to Alzheimer’s, and then marveled when this was followed by her living independently, for the first time in her life, until the age of ninety-eight.

In contrast to the crisp base of the torte, the filling and topping are creamy, providing a melt-in-your-mouth sweetness. The soft middle includes 16 ounces of cream cheese, 3 slightly beaten eggs, 2/3 cup of sugar, 1 teaspoon of vanilla, and ½ teaspoon of almond extract that are beaten with a mixer, poured over the crust, and then baked for 25 minutes at a slightly higher temperature of 350 degrees. Once cooled, 16 ounces of sour cream, 1/3 cup of sugar, and a ½ teaspoon of almond extract are mixed, spread over the middle layer, and then popped into the oven for 10 more minutes.

Those two sweet layers feel like the epitome of my mom to me. She loved her family with a sweet, fierce quality. Although quiet, she was very intelligent and had an amazing sense of humor that could take you by surprise. She also took great pride in seeing her cheese torte legacy preserved.

This year will be our first Christmas without our mom and grandma. We’ll all miss her dearly. But the cheese torte and the memories that are almost as satisfying will both be there.

©2026 Janet Manders

Janet Manders writes stories about her life, with the hopes her children and grandchildren will appreciate them years from now. Recent works of hers have been published on True Stories Well Told, on 101words.org and as part of the 2025 Birren Center’s Anthology Collection entitled Second Chances. Janet’s memoir, The Marrowthon, will be published next year by Written Dreams. Janet lives in Madison with her husband, near her daughters, grandchildren, and writing friends.

By Faith Ellestad

 I am standing at my dresser with six socks in my hand, trying to decide which degrees of blackness make up the best pair. On closer inspection, I decide one is probably navy blue, and stuff it back into the sock drawer.  OK. I think I’ve got a match until I notice that one of the very blackest socks is about 2 inches longer than the other.  It must be from one of those extra-long pairs I bought, thinking they wouldn’t pinch my toes, but in fact, bunch up in my shoes.  Time is marching on. I have already spent 15 minutes angsting over the color of my footwear, and am still dressed only in a towel, getting later and later for work. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I can wear boots and no one will have any idea what color my socks are. Picking up the pace, I fling on my outfit of the day (sweater, plaid slacks, boots), and head out.  I am expected to be there on time, all the time.  It’s important.  I am the department scheduler.  All assignments lead, ultimately, to me. I should really have a backup for such emergencies as this.

Arriving at the hospital, my intent is to hide out in my office and accomplish all the projects I didn’t finish yesterday. Immediately upon opening my door, I detect a flashing message light on my phone. I’d better check voicemail before I start anything else.  It’s a sick call. I’ll need to fill out a form.  Crap, I’m almost out of sick slips.  I really should order more before I forget. Of course, I can’t remember where in my computer files I stored the order forms so I start a search.  Perusing my folders, I find all sorts of outdated documents and begin deleting. Eventually, I stumble across the order requests and fill one out. While I’m at it, I should probably order supplies of the other forms I use.  There’s no telling if I will remember where to find them next time, so I complete and print out three more requests.  Normally, I would ask a student to deliver these to the mailroom, but there are no students today. It’s exam week and they are all off studying, so I take the forms down myself.

 Back at my desk, I decide to check my email. Fourteen since yesterday, some time-sensitive, some not, two junk. Delete. Delete. I wish the computer guys would fix the junk filters.  I answer the ones with immediate need, then  “mark as unread” the rest so I won’t completely forget about them.  Phone message light is flashing again.  Am I ready with tomorrow’s Operating Room assignment list? Honestly, how could I be?  I’ve been extremely busy. I’ll get it ready now. Except I’m very hungry.  All that sock business this morning took up valuable breakfast time. Luckily, on my way out, I stashed a piece of raisin bread in my purse to eat during break.  But what is a break for, if not coffee?  I trudge down several corridors to access the machine. 

Finally, mission accomplished, I head back to my office to prepare the personnel list for tomorrow’s OR schedule.  Almost instantly, someone appears in my doorway with an urgent need, requiring an adjustment to the assignments for Friday.  I remove him from the available staff list, and fill out a sick slip from my rapidly dwindling supply, knowing we will be short-staffed in the OR come tomorrow.  But if you need a root canal, you need one, and frankly, I would not want anyone in that type of pain performing a medical procedure on me.  I’m sure the OR director will understand why I didn’t consult him before approving this request. Executive decision by me.  I take a moment to bemoan the sad fact that I am not paid an executive salary, and to congratulate myself on my timely reorder of sick call slips.

Time ticking away. I have made no dent in yesterday’s unfinished business, and am building up new chores by the minute.  Another presence looms in the doorway.  She needs an early out tomorrow to attend a meeting she forgot to mention last week.  Oh, and two other faculty will need to be relieved for the same meeting. She sits down in my extra chair. “Oh please,” I pray silently, “don’t tell me the story of your life again right this minute.  I am so busy.” Prayer goes unheard. At least her tale is only 20 minutes long this time.  My, this day has taken a downward turn, and not just for me.  Imagine the OR director discovering he’ll have to deal with all this tomorrow.  At least he gets well paid for it, I snark silently, as I head down to the cafeteria to buy lunch on my hourly salary. I bring the plastic shell of pasta salad back to my desk to eat while I work. Pasta salad is cheap and can be inhaled quickly when I am feeling pressed for time. I eat a lot of pasta salad.

Assignment schedule completed on paper and delivered to the Operating Room director, I begin to enter it into our new database program.  But something is not right.  Many names are not showing up. The schedule should have been published on-line long before this.  My call to the IT guy goes to voicemail.  He will be back from Canada next week.  Great.  No help there. Sadly, I will have to enter everything by hand and publish it the old way. Another precious hour of my day unexpectedly co-opted by technical failure.

 I know a barrage of calls is forthcoming from people who can’t figure out what they are doing tomorrow because THE SCHEDULE IS NOT ONLINE. They will just have to go to voicemail. I am already too busy to listen to whining, even my own. Overtaken by a sense of urgency, I type, copy and deliver paper schedules around the entire hospital, including the many people who request them each day, but often don’t even bother to glance at them. Irritating, but at least this futile exercise will allow me stretch my legs.  Maybe I’ll even run into someone who would enjoy sharing a complaint or two. I’ll make time for that.  Yep, there’s Amy. And Mel.  Especially Mel.  Another 15 minutes gone.  Therapeutic, though. 

Refreshed, I return to my office, prepared, finally, to tackle yesterday’s backlog.  Right after I check my voicemail. And my email.  And restock my absence slips. 

Wow, it’s 4:30!  Where did the day go?  I guess the in-basket will still be there in the morning. Maybe if I just wear sandals tomorrow, I can get an earlier start.

© 2026 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents.  Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.

By Carol Blatter

Carol described this as a “runaway story, or collage essay”–in other words an essay in which one thought prompts the next, the writer following in wonder at where the mind goes.

This huge truck, the longest truck I had ever remembered seeing in months, maybe years, pulled up next to our home. But, it did not come onto our driveway, that would have been a disaster, the truck was much too long to fit. On it was a mega-sized picture of an animal that after eating papers, the remains were flying all over, fitting for a shredding destruction mobile service.  Four boxes of clinical counseling charts and two boxes of miscellaneous house files, like old tax and medical records, were emptied and fed into the shredding machine. Remember when I was first licensed as a clinical social worker? Remember when I started seeing people? A long time ago.  

Anyway, about the boxes, clinical charts went through the machine, charts of individuals and families, poof, all gone, like death to people. Proof I was no longer a clinician. And death is getting closer, I lost two friends over a few months, poof, they were gone before they told me they were leaving. They just got up and left. I’m at the age when people, without my permission, leave. They die. Just like that, they leave. They die. And I’ll leave, too, I’ll die, and I won’t have any say in when it will happen. 

I was going to be an actress. That’s what I thought when I was a kid, after taking lessons for years, you know the kind that prepares you for the theater, acting, voice and diction, and dancing to help you move on stage, no klutzes, only actors who learned to move with grace and dignity. Grace and dignity, I can’t say that was me during those years, I was still a klutz, dancing helped, but not too much, I was who I was. Imagine I got here eighty-three years ago. My parents decided I had no say in entering life, and I’ll have no say in leaving it. Loss of control. I can’t control anything. Even getting up in the morning is beyond my control; it just happens. So I say a prayer thanking God for getting me up. 

Does God plan it, or is it dumb luck that I get up and even make it through the day? Carol died, not me, another Carol, she was sick. Colon cancer. She left behind two adult children, a third who disappeared and was never found, and five grandchildren. Fran died; she wasn’t sick, at least they didn’t think she was sick. She recovered from a hospital stay with pneumonia and was well, so she and her husband thought. Off to Florida for vacation, and in the wee hours one morning, she lay on the couch, her husband found her, and she expired. She left behind two adult children, they’re married and have children, yes, she had five grandchildren. I miss my friends. No one to call, chat, and share what’s happening in our lives. 

And the people I helped, I wonder what happened to them. Maybe they like themselves better. Maybe they like their spouses better. Maybe their kids are doing better. Less arguments. Less tumult. Less misery. What if things didn’t get better? I would feel sad. Many times I feel sad, and I don’t know why. Maybe getting older is scaring me and making me feel sad. Death may come at any time, and I will be taken. That’s scary. I’ll leave my husband, our daughter, our son-in-law, and our granddaughter behind. That’s our family, we’re small. I never wanted many children; one was enough. I never really liked kids, yes, I was a babysitter for many years, and I had to like kids then, and I needed the money for clothes so I saved my money from babysitting.

My parents are dead, my dad died of lung cancer at the young age of fifty-six, my mom died of atherosclerosis, plaque build up in the arteries of the heart, at age seventy-five and a half. Forty years ago, she died. Had her first heart attack at age forty-two, I was ten years old. I was scared she would die. I’ve outlived my parents, but outliving dad wasn’t difficult; he was so young when he died, and that’s because he was a smoker. If he hadn’t smoked or stopped years before, he would have lived into old age like others in his family. Never much of an earner. Never much of a Dad. Never had time or knew how to be a Dad. 

I am in good health with one exception. I’ve lost height, which I couldn’t afford to lose. I was always petite at 4’9″, and now I’m three inches shorter due to the fracture of vertebrae in my spine last year. I’m ashamed of the changes in my body. My breasts, diaphragm, and abdomen are all squished together. It’s hard to feel feminine. 

I don’t want to die. I want time with our granddaughter. She lives with her parents near DC, in MD. They make two visits to us a year. I’m tired of goodbyes. It’s because I’m old I have to say many goodbyes. To people. To my career. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die;. . .” Thankfully, I am still here. 

© 2026 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to The Gift of Long Life Personal Stories on the Aging Experience 2024 Birren Center Collection, Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.