Category Archives: InCity Yum Yums

“Saint behind the glass”

By Rosalie Tirella

pics: R.T.

I’m eating lunch, and there he sits, between my make-up “counter” to the left and my cocktail shaker-mini bar to the right, behind the tip of Cece’s tail in the photo: Saint Behind the Glass.


Jesus behind the glass. Or, more accurately, the Infant of Prague behind the glass. He used to have a change of costume – one for winter and one for summer. But his summer wardrobe has gone missing, so he wears his maroon velvet cape, fur trimmed,ย  year ’round. There’s a light bulb at the top of the inside of his glass house and, when you screw it tight, it lights up. Still. For night show.

The Saint Behind the Glass was my Mom’s for 50 years. It’s been mine for almost six, the number of years since her death. It’s been sitting in my kitchen, watching over me and my crazy life, ever since.

The Bishop of Springfield, my mother’s old boss, gave it to her when she left Springfield to move back to Worcester. He also gave a Saint Behind the Glass to each of my mother’s two sisters, my aunties, as good-bye gifts. They too were leaving the Bishop for good. Now, in their early 30s, and having successfully supported Bapy, Jadju and themselves through the Great Depression and World War II, my mother and her sisters’ family obligation was fulfilled. Their mission accomplished – not with missiles but with maids’ brooms, dust pans and sponges. Working for the Bishop as live-in maids/housekeepers for 10+ years kept the money coming in during hard times: kept them well fed, well clothed, warm and sheltered. My mother and her two sisters ate roast beef at the Bishop’s house, after the Bishop ate his big meal, and where Ma and my aunts shared a big bedroom, while many Americans went without. Or worse (hungry AND homeless). Their friends back in Worcester, included. Ma and my aunts bought themselves snow suits, Doberman pinschers, took in litters of stray kittens…

Rose’s mom in Springfield, holding one of her and her sisters’ several adopted kitties!๐Ÿ’œ

My aunt bought a new car for herself. My mom and other aunt saved their money for their futures: kids, husbands, a home … They all chipped in and bought Bapy a nice new ringer washer, Jadju a new television set on which he could watch all his cowboy shows, and, for the both of them, a kitchen set from Millbury Furniture, a Green Island dream store for many Polish immigrants.

The Bishop also gave my mom and her sisters radios, his personal, older plush rugs that he replaced with new ones and his older office furniture, which he also replaced with new goodies. My mom got the Bishop’s HUGE, hand-me-down, stand-up mahogany radio with a record player on top and lovely gold cloth and wood trim in front. Inside, when you opened the heavy wood lid, you saw the green faded felt turntable where you played your 33s under the heavy shiny silver arm with stylus at the end. I remember that radio from my childhood. It was in our parlor on Lafayette Street – twice as tall as I was and gorgeous, even old. It was too tired to play records any more, and the radio didn’t work either, but I believed it was magical! As a child, I dusted it with Pledge on a cloth, every Saturday morning – a fun chore – to make its wood shine. I’d turn its big, black, shiny knobs, pretending I was tuning its radio or upping its volume, all the while singing one of my mother’s favorite songs to myself, the one that she always sang around the house:

She just loved that country song! She really got into it when she was cleaning our tenement or making French toast for us kids on a Sunday morning! She’d dance around the kitchen, one shoulder up, then the other … she’d clap her hands in a downwards motion. She looked so young and pretty in her flower covered “duster” from the Mart, her dark brown, almost black, hair in a curly perm, clapping, singing loudly (and off key!). I’d peek out from under the covers in my bed (I was still in bed, it was Sunday, after all!) and loved my Mother more than anything in the world! I’d jump out of bed, ready for my French toast!

I know all the words to Jambalaya by heart, having them “imprinted” on me as a toddler!!

Back then, in Green Island, Jesus Behind the Glass had his complete wardrobe. I’d watch my mother change him every winter and spring, staring in wonder as she took the Saint out from behind his glass, lifted his glass house ever so gingerly above his head, carefully untied his cape and, one arm then the other, lifted his delicately embroidered “dress” off. I watched, raptly: Did Jesus wear underwear? What did He look like naked? Like me? Would Ma wash him in the old tub in our old bathroom, like she washed me?

No such luck. Jesus was just wearing a plaster robe. Ma dusted him off with a cloth, softly whistling, and quickly put on his new outfit. I didn’t dare ask to play with this beautiful doll! I never even touched him in all the years Ma had him! Ma let us all feel He was sacred. Like the statues in church or a museum.

Saint Behind the Glass! Just cool vintage decor for me these days, but such a living presence – God Himself! – when I was a little girl growing up in Green Island, when The Saint Behind the Glass belonged to my mother! First it sat in the parlor, along with the stand up radio, where all the fancy furniture was located. But Ma closed the parlor all winter long to conserve heat – we only had the gas stove’s “gas log” to warm the entire tenement during winter, plus a space heater for my bedroom – so Jesus Behind the Glass was cut off from family life. Which I’m certain is the reason why Ma hauled Him out of the parlor one November night, right before she shut the parlor door for winter. She moved Jesus and his glass abode into my two kids sisters’ bedroom – on their bureau, between their matching twin beds. There Jesus Behind the Glass sat, at night his light on. My sisters had the coolest night light in Worcester!! During the morning, before Ma woke us kids up for breakfast and school, around 5:30 a.m., she’d grab a wooden kitchen chair and softly place it before Jesus Behind the Glass. Then she’d kneel on the chair’s seat, holding on to its stiff, high back, and say her morning prayers. Sometimes, from my bed in my bedroom, I’d watch her praying in the early morning light, with my sisters still sleeping in their beds, looking so cute and huggable… Ma would “bless” herself (make the sign of the cross), lift up her two strong arms to heaven, murmur softly “Oh, Infant of Prague, have Mercy on us sinners … .”

But we weren’t sinners! We were one, poor, single, car-less, clothes-dryer-less Mom, her old arthritic Polish immigrant Mama and three little girls – our existence precarious! Hanging from a thread! Hanging from Ma! Our Daddy was a useless fool! Gone most of the time and abusive as soon as he set foot in our door way! Ma was the bread winner, the payer of rent and bills, the grocery buyer and getter, the cook, the teacher, the coach, the doctor, the EVERYTHING. No wonder she prayed to the sweet-faced, pale blue-eyed Saint Behind the Glass! two to four times daily. He was Jesus! Son of God the Father! He held the whole world in his hand! He’d hold ours, too!


Keep Ma, Bapy, my two little sisters and me safe! Keep us from entropy! Now and forever, Amen.

Ma was before the Saint Behind the Glass feverishly saying her night prayers every night, fervently whispering her morning Novenas every morning, stopping in sometimes just to look and say a few prayers, words of grace, to Saint Behind the Glass. Saint Jesus of Lafayette Street!!

Saint Jesus smelling the morning coffee Ma brewed. Listening to Ma scrape butter on her two – always two! never three! she was the most self-disciplined person I’ve ever known – slices of toasted Wonder Bread. Enjoying the warm April breeze as it separated and blew through the pretty, flowery! rose-covered plastic draperies in my sisters’ bedroom window, just bought special by Ma from White’s Five and Ten on Millbury Street. For 50 cents.

Oh, Saint Behind the Glass! Tight-lipped just like Ma! Never showing your true feelings to the world! Instead, listening to the beautiful Beatles music and the peppy Polkas blaring from Ma’s old radio atop our round-edged refrigerator. …Watching my two little cute sisters sleep, their faces so open and peaceful … Catching Daddy stick his big red face into the bedroom where Ma is praying to You to yell: HEY, FUCK NUT! SIMPLE AS THE DAY AS LONG! KEEP PRAYING!!

And Ma does.

Robert Redford: a love song

pics: R.T.

By Rosalie Tirella

It was a spring day in 1974. I was a seventh grader at Providence Street Junior High School, located at the top of Vernon Hill. I was riding the 11 Upsala bus downtown – “Prov” had just let out – and my classmate, Patty, was talking about sex and Robert Redford in the hit movie THE WAY WE WERE (also starring Barbra Streisand). I was not close friends with Patty – she could be a little snobby. Her dad was a professor, she owned a horse and went on real vacations – out of the country! to places like Ireland. Most of us Prov kids had blue collar parents and went to places like Leicester or Rutland for vacation (camping), and we only “rode” horses during neighborhood carnivals. Still, I was riveted … Patty was talking about Robert Redford’s love scene with Barbra Streisand – when he crashes at Barbra’s apartment, too drunk for SEX!!, but still in her bed!!! And gorgeous!!

I lived in my mother’s house, in Green Island, the poor cousin to Vernon Hill. It was an Old World, conservative, Catholic household. I was an Old World Conservative Catholic girl: prayers every night before bedtime, mass every Sunday after breakfast, Catechism class at St. Mary’s every Monday, 4 p.m., after public school. God above all. Sex? What was that? Only for old, boring married people who did it just to have kids.

Patty was really spicing things up on the 11 Upsala! She was educating me! No, Rose, Patty said, Barbra didn’t have an orgasm in that scene in the movie. She was just stroking “Hubble”‘s (that was Redford’s character’s name in the movie) hair and FANTASIZING about IT. The SEX.

We were sitting in the front of the bus, and the bus driver, a moody guy who always wore white socks with his black bus driver shoes, was whistling as Patty talked. I had seen THE WAY WE WERE too but hadn’t gotten as much out of it as Patty had. I sat on the edge of my seat and listened to Patty: Yes, they were really really in love, Patty said. But it wasn’t meant to be! Her sentence was freighted with significance.

And then this: She too had a handsome boyfriend, and he kissed her exactly the way Robert Redford kissed Barbra Streisand in THE WAY WE WERE!


I was so far behind! I had a crush on the big Swede in homeroom, but I never spoke to him – let alone kissed him deeply. With my tongue. I did sit directly behind him where I could admire the way his thick blond hair cascaded down his beautiful neck. I so longed to caress his blond locks, his blond bangs, just the way Streisand caressed Robert Redford’s in THE WAY WE WERE!!

I knew I loved my homeroom boy AND Robert Redford and that some day I was going to meet a boy in college (I WAS going to college!) just like Robert Redford. He’d be a writer like Hubble, too. And he’d fall deeply in love with me – also a writer. The most important thing: He’d be unspeakably handsome – look like Robert Redford. That was the whole point of having a boyfriend, after all, wasn’t it?

Even though the Kings of Movies/Acting/Directing in the 1970s were all Italian Americans – Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Martin Scorsese … the list went on and on AND I DID GO to see all those films – most girls, myself included, wanted Redford. The Italians, like my crazy, abusive Italian father, were too visceral. I was for romance … romantic, candle-lit dinners, romantic, slow long kisses on the beach, romantic, slow dancing in front of a roaring romantic fire … listening to the radio together on a Sunday afternoon.

My mother, a movie freak, wasn’t a Redford fan in the least. Ma lusted for Al Pacino, saw all The Godfather movies!


She could relate to all the crazy, I guess, having chosen Daddy as her one true love. I, on the other hand, wanted the opposite of my Italian Daddy who walked around our Lafayette Street flat talking to his sister on the phone in Italian and slamming walls. He cheated on Ma, slapped her across her pretty cheeks. No, I would have none of that. I wanted blond, cerebral … a quiet talker, someone who didn’t shoot his mouth off, hit women and talk wicked fast in Italian – the exact opposite of my old man. Whom I loathed. To this day, I have never had a relationship – or even dated – an Italian American/Italian. It would be too traumatic. Never “dramatic,” like in the movies.

Like I said: I joined the millions of American girls and women who flocked to all the Robert Redford movies, all, by the way, wonderful: The Great Gatsby, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, Jeremiah Johnson, All the President’s Men. The ’70s was the era for magnificent ethnic actors, yet there was my WASPY Robert Redford, a great actor too but underrated because he was so stereotypically handsome. A man who, in his movies and real life, personified the Modern Age, a new America. He embraced a woman as his equal. He was aware, progressive – always did the right thing. He loved his guy friends (see Paul Newman ๐Ÿ’œ), the environment (see Jeremiah Johnson) …


… Native Americans (JJ again), THE TRUTH (All the President’s Men). Why wouldn’t millions of girls and women in the liberated, liberating 1970s fall – and fall hard – for Robert Redford?

I can still picture the afternoon: My cousin Ann and I sitting in the red plush velvet seats of the Paris Cinema – before it became an XXX movie house – along with 300 or so rabid Robert Redford (and Barbra Streisand) fans, waiting for the red curtains to noisily part on THE WAY WE WERE, the lights slowly dimming, the big chandelier hanging from the red vaulted ceiling dripping jewels.

And we saw: sail boats, flowers, Redford in a tux AND officer uniform!, Redford jogging on a college campus. And for me: Heaven – having your one true love read your short story! … A WASP falling for a Jewish girl during the 1940s … I can still hear the signature Redford voice – clipped, almost terse, always “manly”: “Really, Katie?” Or, to Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy: “I can’t swim!”

How could you not love a man so vulnerable – even while sporting a moustache or beard? That was the golden word back then, manifested by our golden boy: Vulnerable. Men being vulnerable. Sharing. Their feelings. Maybe for the first time. Every woman in America was listening to James Taylor and Jackson Browne emote. How could we not listen to Redford, too? And he listened to us! Our opinions mattered! It didn’t hurt his cause that he was charming as hell. Even when he was the bad good guy in The Sting.

Or in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

What a name! Sundance! It evokes everything ’70s! Joy, light, nature, free love, music!

Redford isn’t very tall – he used to put lifts in his shoes for his films. But those eyes, especially when they squinted at you … those white wolf teeth glinting in the sunlight and, of course, the Redford fine, flaxen hair … and that funny bump on his cheek, an imperfection today’s actors would laser away. Redford kept it. Made him more beautiful.

Redford’s dust-covered cowboy boots in Butch Cassidy, his boring neck ties in ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MEN, his scruffy beard in Jeremiah Johnson


I see Redford walking towards me from movie screens all across the old Worcester, a vision of quiet elegance – or burly elegance. Often accompanied by a horse.


As a tween and teen, I waited excitedly for each and every Robert Redford movie. I went to see all genres: Western, romance, suspense. I watched them when, three or four years later, they were on TV. The Movie of the Week. There were no videos, VCRs, nothing, back then. Just you making a date with your favorite cousin to go drool over Robert Redford while he shone on THE BIG SCREEN, greasy yellow popcorn making our chins shine! But Redford was always fresh. Something new for me and all American girls: The sensitive male. The guy who actually talked to the girl. No pedestals, thank you very much. Just a level field. Sun drenched, certainly.

As a freshman at Clark University here in town I met boys who may have been as cute as Robert Redford but did not have his gravitas. They were not political enough (at least back then), and I was searching. So I transferred to UMass Amherst for my sophomore year and changed my life. THE ENTIRE PIONEER VALLEY WAS hip! to EVERYTHING!! Die-ins, marches, protests, rallies, poetry readings, the women’s center, organic gardening – I tried it all. I heard Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem speak at a campus event one night – the crowd went wild! I had a very cool boyfriend who sold weed, got 800/750 on his SATs and took me to Sarah Vaughan concerts. I was home.

Sometimes I think Worcester needs to get more Robert Redford. As in progressive, liberal, clean, open. But we’re too gritty, too ethnic, too repressed, for that. Which I kinda like, perversely speaking. You’ve gotta mix in the Pacino’s with your Sundance. It’s the way of the world.


By Edith Morgan

Edith, in her living room, waiting not so patiently for Spring! photo submitted

Spring! We all know it is coming, and it comes every year in its own unique way. The seasons change here in New England, and there are always more or less four of them! But what makes life so interesting and challenging here is that you can never be sure when, or how long, or how intense, each of our seasons will be.

So, I still run out to see the first snowflake of each winter โ€“ though I have seen so many of them through the decades! And now I go out to see if I can spot the first crocus poking its tiny spear through the snow or through the mud or through the leftover mulch or deteriorating leaves still on the ground.

pics: R.T.


But even before I have spotted any sign of life, I know the bushes and shrubs and even a lone vine or two in my hedge will need help.

The forsythia is already showing signs of swelling buds and should soon be in bloom. It is usually the first to burst upon the still wintry scene, straggly from its last burst of leafy growth in the fall. Every year I cut a few sprigs near the end of winter, stick them in water and watch them blossom in my house. Often they even root and can then be put in the ground once it has thawed – so you can start a new bud!

My property is not large enough to have a whole row of forsythia bushes, but they are a glorious golden wall in those yards that can accommodate them, at least for a while, until the blossoms shrivel and drop to the ground to be replaced by green leaves. Forsythia is a very โ€œthankfulโ€ plant โ€“ it tolerates our winters, needs very little attention and will thrive almost anywhere. But if you want lush growth, mulching and fertilizing helps. And it will assume a variety of shapes, if trimmed back properly in the spring. I have admired round, golden balls of forsythia, squared-off shapes and whole hedges! So, hereโ€™s to forsythia!!

It is now nearly time to tend to the other bushes around our foundations and elsewhere in our yards. Raking away the debris of winter, giving plants a good new coating of mulch and pruning back dead or broken branches will help them to put their strength into good new growth. I am really not enough of an expert to detail here how each species needs to be cared for to get the best results โ€“ and there is not space enough here to deal with all the varieties that grace our yards. But if you use the resources available to you (the library, your computer, the various stores that sell fertilizer, shrubs, seeds, and all the small hardware and nurseries) you can do well. I have always found that those who deal in these goods are more than willing to help with advice. So you can get free education anywhere! … If you have gotten to the age where you cannot do the heavy lifting anymore, there is lots of help out there.

Now we just have to wait for the warm days of spring, for the ground to soften, and the whole process to begin again!


Good luck, good gardening …

The Canal District – yesterday: Green, Water, Millbury streets

pics: R.T.






Taken the day before; still cookin’ as of yesterday!

The City, sabotaging its success, as usual…

The Canal District is in the middle of a really POOR neighborhood. It’s not Highland Street, surrounded by the WPI community, or even Shrewsbury Street with its mix of small biz and mostly tidy, tiny homes. Residents around the Canal District LIVE IN GHETTO-LIKE CIRCUMSTANCES, they will ALWAYS BE SNEAKING shit into the Canal District trash receptacles.

THE CITY OF WORCESTER NEEDS A NEW SOLUTION FOR THIS UNIQUE MESS: We suggest daily rounds of DPW crews emptying the Canal District trash barrels, which are supposed to be “decorative,” as well as convenient.

The Canal District business association can’t eradicate – shouldn’t have to! – a social ill: grinding poverty.

Or…how about coupons for FREE yellow city trash bags for low-income residents here? So people can afford to “buy” the $10 trash bags, a sad fact of life for many on Ward, Perry, Endicott, Siegel, Lafayette, Lodi, Bigelow, Grosvenor, Washington streets …

WE NEED SOLUTIONS. Now. This isn’t rocket science.

The district bloomed without help from the City of Worcester. The very least our elected officials can do, besides riding on the district’s coat-tails and getting out of progress’s way, is to send a few g-trucks down Millbury, Green and Water streets with a couple of strong g-guys to do quick clean-ups! Daily!

– Rose T.

It’s Palm Sunday … Holy Week begins๐ŸŒพ …

St. John’s Church, Temple Street

St. Johnโ€™s Church Holy Week/Easter Mass Schedule:

โœ Palm Sunday:
Saturday, March 24: Masses at 4:15 and 7:15 p.m.
โœ Sunday, March 25: Masses at 8, 10:15 a.m., 12:15 and 7:15 p.m.

โœ Holy Thursday, March 29: Mass of the Lordโ€™s Supper at 7:15 pm.

โœ Good Friday, March 30: Downtown Way of the Cross 12 noon, Commemoration of the Lordโ€™s Passion at 7:15 p.m.

โœ Holy Saturday, March 31: The Vigil of Easter at 7:15 p.m.

โœ Easter Sunday, April 1: Masses at 8 and 10:15 a.m., 12:15 and 7:15 p.m.


My man

Imalay … so strong๐ŸŒท๐ŸŒท๐ŸŒท

By Imalay Guzman

Would you believe I met the love of my life when I was just 19? I had just had my daughter and moved to Boston. At that point in my life I was just getting my shit together – the goal was to be a good example for my daughter. I was living in a shelter, attending Roxbury Community College and, in my spare time, I went to gym.

It was a while ago, but I still remember: I left the gym and I was waiting for the bus to go home… This real cute guy passed by me while riding on his bike and, as he passed by, said, “Hey, beautiful.” I remember he came back around
to talk to me. This was the conversation that changed my life. We were both very young and deperate to be loved.

My husband had a very hard upbringing: His father was deported when he was very young. But before he was deported, his father accomplished much – he owned two different auto shops. Thanks to his dad, my husband learned the art of being an auto mechanic, which came in handy in the long run. In his spare time he would change breaks for people or do oil changes for a few extra dollars. I am proud to say he always managed to keep our bills paid and we never went without.

When his father was deported, it broke his family and, instead of being raised in a home full of care and love, my husband was raised in the streets. Fending for himself. The main reason why I fell so in love with him was because of his kindness! You could see he truly cares (even for strangers). My man is the type who, if he sees someone’s hungry, he’ll go and buy them food. He always taught me that when you decide to help someone, you do it out of the kindness in your heart because you never know if you will be in that situation some day.

His humbleness was so attractive! The fact that he was broken
but still willing to be kind and helpful was so refreshing to me, living in a shelter, just starting out…

I love my man for so many reasons. We grew together, although life was constantly testing our strength. He has his rough past, and I stick by him regardless because I believe he will change. And with time he can mature. After six years together, I have seen change in him, but the thing about change is that it doesn’t happen overnight. I’ve put so much time and effort into this relationship that to even think about walking away is not an option!

What makes us a good match is the fact that both our childhoods were rocky. That made us so close. We could relate to each other.

Right now he’s in the Worcester County House of Corrections over a failure to meet his probation. Reason why he was on probation … in the long run he took the fault for me and he dealt with the consequences. I don’t blame him for being mad about the situation having to check in with ourt all because of me. Instead of dealing with it, he is now serving the remaining time of his probation incarcerated. It has been the hardest decision. It has
been a difficult desicion on our family: my kids miss their father so much – as do I! I try to explain to my kids what jail is: For me the best way to describe it for them is “BIG PEOPLE Time Out.” So when we go visit him they understand why they cant touch him. It also teaches them that any desicion they make has consequences – no matter how old they get!

Imalay’s kids miss their kind Dad!

I hear other parents with incarcerated spouses tell their kids that their dad is “in school.” I can’t be one of those parents who
lies to their kids because, in the end, school is a positive environment and jail is the complete OPPOSITE!

While I wait for my husband’s release, I keep my mind on the positive. I keep moving towards my life goals. I go visit him three times a week, and we talk on the phone three times a week, also.
Believe me, it’s hard to balance out my life, but I manage to do it. What helps and encourages me is knowing that all my effort and hard work is going towards a better future for my family.

Homemade Chocolate Easter Eggs!๐Ÿฐ๐Ÿฐ and … Babka bread!๐ŸŒป๐ŸŒป and ๐ŸŽถ๐ŸŽถ



There are a variety of places online where you can order vegan Easter candy, and finding vegan chocolate bunnies, chocolate eggs, or jelly beans โ€” just like those you remember filling your Easter basket with as a child โ€” is no longer difficult. However, if youโ€™ve waited until the last minute to plan for the sugar fest that often comes with the holiday, finding these goodies wonโ€™t be quite as easy.

But donโ€™t fear! Those of us who tend to procrastinate โ€” or are just super-crafty โ€” can go the homemade route!

Below is a recipe for basic chocolate eggs, which you can then manipulate into a variety of designs.

Here are a few to try:

Roll egg-shaped chocolate in chopped nuts.

If you can find a cute Easter-themed mold, simply fill it with the chocolate and refrigerate.

Allow the chocolate to cool in a thin layer, then cut out your favorite shape with Easter-themed cookie cutters.

Decorate egg-shaped chocolate with dyed coconut. We recommend adding a few drops of food coloring to water and then adding your coconut. Allow to soak for a few minutes in the water, then remove and allow to dry completely before using to decorate.

Use plastic Easter eggs to get your desired shape, scoop out the center, and fill with peanut butter, nuts or another favorite candy.

Close the plastic egg and refrigerate until both sides are firm and have joined together.

Cover egg-shaped chocolate with holiday color foils or ribbons.

Cover egg-shaped chocolate with nonpareils or another small candy.

You can shape and decorate the chocolate any way youโ€™d like, so get creative with it!


Chocolate Eggs

1 8-oz. package nondairy cream cheese, softened at room temperature

3 cups powdered sugar

12 oz. semi-sweet chocolate, melted

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

Decorations: Chopped nuts, unsweetened cocoa, toasted flaked coconut

Sweet baby!


Beat the nondairy cream cheese in a mixing bowl until it is smooth.

Gradually add the powdered sugar, beating until it is well blended.

Add the melted chocolate and vanilla and mix well.

Refrigerate for about 1 hour.

Shape the mixture into 1-inch balls or egg shapes and roll them in the nuts, cocoa or coconut.

Store the finished chocolates in the refrigerator.

Makes approximately 5 dozen chocolates

Vegan candy and sweet treats can be found in supermarkets and on the menus of many restaurants!



1 pkg. dry yeast

1/2 cup soy milk, lukewarm

1 cup sugar

2 cups all-purpose flour

Egg Replacer equivalent of 3 eggs (or 3 eggs)

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 tsp. almond extract

1 tsp. grated lemon rind

1 Tbsp. margarine

1/4 cup raisins

Vegetable oil

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1 Tbsp. lemon juice


In a large bowl, dissolve the yeast in the soy milk.

Combine with 1/2 cup sugar and 1 cup flour and set aside for 30 minutes.

Add the remaining sugar, remaining flour, eggs, vanilla, almond extract, grated lemon and margarine.

Mix gently.

Add the raisins, while continuing to mix.

Grease a loaf pan and dust with flour.

Place the dough in the pan, cover with a clean cloth and set aside in a warm place for 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350ยฐF.

Bake for 35 to 40 minutes.

Remove from heat and, when cool, remove from the pan.

In a bowl, mix the powdered sugar and lemon juice to make icing.

Drizzle over the Babka and enjoy!
Makes 6 to 8 servings







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17 Minutesโœ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ธโœ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ธโœ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ธ

Edith at home, tending her “winter window garden”๐ŸŒฟ๐ŸŒฑ๐ŸŒฟ. pic:R.T.

By Edith Morgan

Enough is enough.

Was the murder of 17 people at a Florida High School the proverbial โ€œstraw that broke the camelโ€™s backโ€? Apparently not for Congress, for politicians on all sides, not state and local establishments.

Certainly it was just another in a continuous string of blood-lettings, to be condemned, prayed over, and regretted, but not an occasion for adults to act or to put a stop to it.

But through the miracle of instant communications, the Internet, and things going viral so fast, our young took the initiative and proclaimed loudly throughout the country, that at last, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

And, in a marvelous display of unity, all over the nation, they put together what they have learned so recently, and achieved a great first step in a battle that we old timers should have taken on and won long ago.

I was impressed with the way our high school students were able to stick to the point, but express themselves in so many ways, yet still getting the same message across. Using the well-known techniques of civil disobedience, mass action and media coverage, they took the first giant step toward slowing down mass killing, while being well aware that this was only a first step in a long and difficult battle,

But, as they said, it is they who are being killed, and they took responsibility in the battle to stop it. With homemade posters saying โ€œFear has no place in schoolsโ€, โ€œEnough is enoughโ€, โ€œNRA, there is blood on your handsโ€, and others, on Tuesday, more than 3,000 schools nationwide, from Maine to California, went out to protest gun violence.

Asking โ€œAm I next?” they left their classes at 10 a.m. and stayed out for 17 minutes, the time symbolizing the 17 victims of this mass shooting spree.

Some students wore orange, the color of the movement against gun violence, others wore maroon, the school color of the Parkland, Florida, High School.

Not all the groups emphasized their support of the same ideas โ€“ better background checks and a ban on assault weapons, among other things. But they were in agreement about the need to enable them to feel safe in their schools. Students from middle schools, high schools and colleges participated.

Adult reaction varied: It ranged from arranging for school to be suspended so the demonstrations could be carried on with minimal disruption of the day, to โ€œlock-downsโ€ where the 17 minutes had to be observed in their classrooms, to carefully orchestrated events with the heavy hand of school administrators being felt in the proceedings.

But everywhere the message was pretty much the same, even though it was expressed in so many ways, each unique to the group that was expressing it.

Here in Worcester, Mother Nature dumped another pile of snow on us all, so the proceedings were postponed, but all our high schools had plans: from the very brief to the very elaborate. But all featured speakers, music, poetry, by and for the young people. Where there was an ROTC group, the participants played taps and raised flags. While Clarement Academy and UPCS went to the Ckark University campus, students at our Technical High School were to meet in the gym. Others gathered in the school parking lot or around the outdoor flagpole. But ALL were there to observe a moment of silence, and several planned to use part of the 17 minutes allotted to read the names of the Parkland victims.

I was impressed with the way that those who were interviewed on TV all understood this was only a beginning and planned to stick it out. And they were mindful of the fact that with the voting age at 18, many would be voters very soon, and could make a difference.

After so much doom and gloom recently, I have felt uplifted and much more sanguine about the future of our country. We are in good hands.