Last week, I wrote about how I’d gotten in touch with an old boyfriend (in Connection), but that was just the most recent connection with someone from my past. This year has been one in which all manner of friendships have been reestablished.

It’s not as if I’m new to the Internet; the opposite is true, as I’ve been online since the earliest years. But I still marvel at what it can do for me in terms of getting back in touch with people, as the tools for doing so improve and more people use them.

Oddly, though, some of the reconnections have happened in the most archaic fashion. My friend Larry from college called my childhood phone number, which he found through directory assistance. My father spoke with him on his quaint land line, and then gave him my number.

It was particularly nice hearing from Larry. In my freshman dorm, his room was approximately across the hall from mine, and we were like family. We visited each other’s homes during school vacations, and each of us had memorable “firsts” at the other’s place: his first subway ride, my first (and only) time skeet shooting, using a hopelessly heavy pellet gun. (I keep the empty pellet and a piece of the broken clay pigeon on my book shelf.)

Clay pigeon remains. Somehow, the pellet has disappeared.

But things went sour at some point, and by the time we graduated, not much of our friendship remained. (Surely this was due in large part to my misbehavior.) The last I had heard from him was when I received an invitation to his wedding a couple of years after graduation.

I was so happy when he got in touch. My youthful indiscretions had clearly been chalked up to youth, and any mistakes I made were long forgotten. Most important, we still each contained the essential piece of soul that defined us back then, but with so much more grace.

One of the really touching things about the reconnection was how I had been preserved in Larry’s memory as an energetic, optimistic 18-year-old. I told him about my son’s illnesses and their impact on my life, about my struggles with depression, about the difficulties I’ve had in my personal life. But Betsy as World-Weary Adult was an abstraction for him; Betsy the buoyant and uninhibited party girl was real. In his mind, I’m “all bouncy and vivacious.” Hearing this description didn’t make me long for those days or feel bad for how I suffered by comparison; instead it pleased me to see my faded but familiar reflection and have a moment of recognition.

I found another one of my old best friends on Facebook. She and I went to camp together for a couple of summers in the early 1970s. We kept in frequent contact during the winter months through letters, long-distance phone calls (do you remember waiting until 11 p.m. for the rate to go down to 10 cents a minute?), and an occasional visit to the other’s home a four-hour bus ride away. We last spoke in 1979, and there didn’t seem to be any more energy between us. But the connection and rapport were easy to reestablish when we talked on Facebook, and now we are planning a trip to Italy together. Amazingly, we both seem confident that we will get along.

There have been quite a few old friends I have found or who have found me, and it provides an odd sense of relief to converse or e-mail with them. What seems remarkable is that they still seem to love me. Somehow I thought I would have become unlovable, both for things I have done and for how time and life have changed me. I have always loved them; each person is like a tiny puzzle piece that’s been missing, as if my essence has been scattered across the globe. Little by little, it returns, and with each return, I feel more complete.

In the wild world of dating, occasionally the wires get crossed.

Take the time I went to a concert on a double date. I used to hang out with Randy after work with our gang of friends. While we had never gone on a date, we were sort of seeing each other, due to the fact that we necked in the car every so often. This “seeing each other” status appeared to be confirmed when he showed up at my cubicle, flanked by our friend Paul, and asked if I wanted to go to a concert with them and another woman, Stacy. I accepted, and was pleased we were finally going on a date.

The night of the concert, we met at Stacy’s house, and we all drove into Boston together. At the concert hall, since we had two sets of two seats, naturally I paired off with Randy.

When we got back to Stacy’s house, I was expecting a goodnight kiss or something. But then Randy indicated toward Stacy’s house, and said, “I think I’m going to go in for a cup of coffee.”

Holy shit! I wasn’t on a date with Randy; Stacy was on a date with Randy, that cad. Was I on a date with Paul? Yikes. To add to the embarrassment, months later, I thought I heard Randy mutter something about “paying for tickets.” It would never have occurred to me to pay for the tickets; I wouldn’t have gone to that concert unless someone was taking me.

I can’t even turn the episode into a piece of advice. When someone says, “Would you like to come to a concert?” and you’ve kissed that person, isn’t it safe to assume he’s asking you on a date? I guess the only thing I learned from that was that making out with a guy in a car does not a boyfriend make, which, honestly, is a lesson I have not paid enough attention to.

On the other hand, I can trace the reason for what happened when I was 19 and working at the local television station. One of the high-profile creatives had been flirting with me, and I definitely had a crush on him.

He was quite a bit older—31—but at the time I had a thing for men in that age range. I suppose I found them more established and interesting. At an after-work party one night, he and I found ourselves at the bar, chatting and flirting. The event was held at a restaurant that featured a scenic bridge that overlooked a waterfall, and so he asked if I would like to go for a walk with him. I did.

After viewing the falls, we sat on the steps that led down from the bridge. Then he leaned in to kiss me. I kissed him back, but a question had been on my mind throughout the evening. I drew back and said, “You’re not married, are you?”

He blinked at me in surprise. “Of course. I’m wearing my wedding band in plain sight.”

I can now see the root of this misunderstanding. He felt he was communicating everything he needed to by wearing his ring. The problem was that it wouldn’t occur to a 19-year-old virgin to look for a wedding ring. It certainly didn’t occur to me, or I wouldn’t have asked the question.

But I think we both understood what happened next perfectly well. When I told him I had a problem with his being married, he told me that he was in an open marriage (oh yes he did!). He assured me that his wife could do what she wanted, and he could do what he wanted, but they still saw some point in being married.

Maybe I had just fallen off the turnip truck, as evidenced by my utter stupidity at having been in that situation to begin with, but I learn quick. What he was saying was, “I would say anything to get in your pants.” I’m sure we both knew this, though he was doing his damnedest to convince me he meant something different.

We parted company politely, and I don’t think I ever spoke with him again. I did learn a lesson, though: always check the ring finger. It was a sad lesson for a 19-year-old, but one that I’m sure prevented at least one or two future misunderstandings. With all the potential for confusion, every little bit counts.

Dating disaster? Advice? Please comment or send me your story!

We always have something Jewish on the table at Thanksgiving. When my grandmother was alive and cooking, she usually made chopped liver for “forshbeis,” which essentially means appetizer. “Before the bite,” or before you really eat is probably what it translates to, because that’s how Yiddish works.

Sometimes she’d make sweet-and-sour meatballs, or chicken soup with matzah balls. If she was bringing a side dish, it was sometimes latkes, sometimes blintzes (I am the only one who seems to remember meat blintzes, because we would never serve cheese blintzes with meat, even though we didn’t keep kosher at all), and sometimes kreplach.

Kreplach are Jewish meat dumplings. They are cooked in salted water or chicken broth and can be fried up with a little chicken fat (shmaltz) before serving. The arrival of kreplach was always cause for celebration at our table; we practically punctured each other with our forks trying to get to them. And my grandmother, who could do no wrong in the kitchen, made the best kreplach.

Though kreplach are the family’s favorite Jewish food, they’ve been the hardest tradition to carry on because they are not as easy to make as, say, latkes. (Chopped liver is easy too, with the advent of the food processor, but no one makes it anymore because it is not particularly healthy). But my grandmother one day showed me how to make them, and I give it a try every few years.

When I think about the day we made kreplach together, I can see my grandmother’s hands and the competent way they handled the dough. (My grandmother, like so many jews of her day, was also a seamstress; she really was talented at any kind of handwork.) As she worked, she unconsciously tensed and relaxed her mouth, emitting pleasant smacking sounds that she always made when at work, whether with a thimble on her finger or a rolling pin in her hand.

It’s strange having a quasi-photographic memory, because I can see my grandmother’s hands so clearly now, down to the wrinkle. But it’s more than that, because I can feel them, too, smooth and warm. Sinking my hands into the dough made me think of her and that day right away. It’s one of two days I can remember seeing her cook—the origin of the marvels that came out of her kitchen were largely a mystery.

Kreplach starts with a dough of flour, egg, salt, and water, which you knead it until it’s well mixed. If you overhandle it, it will become too tough, as it did today. The dough must be rolled out thin—more like pasta than pie crust. Each dumpling is made from a square piece of dough.

The dough is rolled out

Usually the meat filling starts with a leftover piece of flank steak or brisket. I optimistically save leftover meat (which I hardly ever make) and put it in the freezer in the hopes of using it for kreplach or meat blintzes someday. There was a sad piece of meat in my freezer, but I decided instead to cook up some ground chicken, which I food processed with a raw onion, and then mixed in an egg to hold the meat together.

To make the dumpling, put a small amount of meat mixture in the middle of the square, then fold the dough diagonally to form a triangle. Squeeze the edges together, using a bit of water to help seal it if necessary. I think some recipes stop right there, but my grandmother took the two ends and joined them, making a little pocketbook.

Meat filling in place, ready to roll

You can cook them in boiling salted water or in chicken broth. When they are dropped in the liquid, they sink to the bottom and pop to the surface as they cook.

The kreplach sink to the bottom when first placed in boiling broth

They pop to the surface as they cook

Such a pretty sight!

Here’s the first batch. Making kreplach is a bit of a pahtchke (nuisance, fussy work), but worth it. After I made this batch, I realized I was going to have to tell people “just one,” because the dough made only 20. I hated the idea of uttering those words, plus I had a lot of filling left, so I decided to make another batch. The second dough was a little harder to work with, but I don’t think it got so tough. We shall see. I think the ground chicken worked out well, in any case. The onion is responsible for so much of the flavor.

The first batch of kreplach, plated

As I was working with the dough, I was thinking about what I am thankful for. It’s hard to believe with how poorly the year started that I feel I have so much to be thankful for now. Here are a few things, in no particular order.

For my three boys, for the kind, fun, interesting people they are, and for the strength of my relationship with them.

For every day Matthew has had since May, 1996. I am so very thankful to the family who donated their son’s liver, for being so brave and generous during such a devastating time. I am thankful for more things having to do with Matthew’s health than I could list.

For my home, for my relative economic stability.

For every precious hug I get from my 10-year-old,

That my parents are still with me, my family is close by, and that we all can be with each other for Thanksgiving this year.

For having had the opportunity to learn how to make kreplach from my grandmother. I am thankful for every memory I have of her.

For my cousins, for their love and friendship.

I am so sad for the loss of my aunt, but grateful she is at peace after a difficult struggle and for the love and devotion she felt from her three daughters, and for the quality of care she received until the end. I am grateful I was able to say goodbye to her, to tell her how she influenced me, to tell her how much I love her. I am thankful for the joy George, her cat, brought to her, and for having seen the way she lit up when she talked about him.

For the Internet and social networking, which have brought me back in touch with people I never thought I would speak with again. I am thankful for renewed friendships, and for the planned reunion in Italy with my old camp friend.

For my friends—old, new, and in between. For those from childhood (that’s just the one, my dear Julie), my neighborhood, motherhood, my writing group, Little League, college, work—past and present, school, and around town. For ex-boyfriends who are still friends. For my dog, when he’s not barking, and for my cat when he’s not on the furniture.

For my health, for hair that’s still more brown than gray, for genes that are working out okay so far.

Finally, I am thankful for the tools I’ve been given, for an ability that fulfills me and pays the bills, for a brain that can see all sides, for common sense, logic, and practicality, and for any opportunity to use these assets to help someone or make the world even just the tiniest bit better.

And for WordPress’s word count feature, which tells me I’ve written quite enough.

I am thankful to you, as always, for reading.

Love to all,