In 1968, Capt. Daniel K. Kuhn and I got married in Honolulu during a two-week R&R he managed to wrangle from his tour in Vietnam. We had been previously in each other’s actual presence for exactly two weeks—one at my parent’s Lake Michigan cottage where he was visiting my brother and I was just home from England and a broken engagement ( another story), after which I’d flown to California to be with him for his last week of in the U.S.. He then returned to Vietnam and I to Ann Arbor to finished my M.L.S. at University of Michigan. We were both writers, corresponding intensely, but when Dan took shrapnel in the back, we panicked and eloped.
It was crazy, but Dan just felt right. He was kind and decent and I trusted him. I was 26. I hadn’t just been around the block—I’d been around the world. Like me, Dan was a Missionary’s Kid. Born in China, he’d escaped the Revolution, trekking for days out of China with his mother when he was six. We had both been children in the Third World, and we understood each other in some indefinable way.
When Dan returned from Vietnam, I met his plane in San Francisco. I’d just finished my master’s degree. I was so shocked to see him in person, my right hip gave out as we walked away, and I fell. I was married to a stranger! We spent following months in Munich, learning German at the Goethe Institute and renting a small room where we pushed the twin beds together. Our older landlord would often apologize for The War. Sometimes he’d open our door without knocking, enquiring, “Haben Sie Feuer?” We did!
After exploring Europe for a few months, we settled into a small Chicago south end apartment. Dan started attending grad school at U of Chicago and I got a job at the Chicago Public Library, back then, a beautiful old building on Michigan Avenue. Our Chicago period was happy. We hung out with interesting grad students, went to movies, saw Hair live twice. I often went to the Chicago Art Institute. I bought a sewing machine at the new Sears Tower, lugging it home on the subway.
Soon Dan and I moved to a larger apartment we shared with Bob, a grad student. It was large enough for his baby grand, upon which a friend and piano Ph.D. student, John Cobb, one afternoon performed for us a memorable Charles Ives’ Sonata that probably shook the building.
I loved Chicago. I was born there, in 1942, at St. Luke’s Hospital. Now I was shopping at Marshall Fields, where my pregnant mother had lunched with my Aunt Mame (for whom I was named). I could walk the pier on Lake Michigan. I could do yoga in Washington Park. I was so happy there. But Dan did not take to city or academic life. He yearned for mountains, like the ones he’d known in China. He wanted to move to the Rockies.
Next stop: Wyoming.
NOTE: Despite our divorcing after seven years, we parented our son Dylan together, corresponding for decades with long letters, until Dan died of Parkinson’s at 79.
Mulligatawny
I think I got this from the Chicago Tribune in the late Sixties. Just beginning to cook, it was my first fancy recipe. I start with homemade or a quality commercial broth. As with Keema, I prep this in steps. I just made it again to see if it’s as good as I remember, and it is! (I even made this with a Cosco chicken!)
1. Sauté in 1 TB butter + 1 TB oil
1 cup diced onion
2 large diced carrots
2 stalks diced celery
(diced red or green pepper)
2. When tender but not brown, add
2 TB flour mixed with
2 tsp curry powder
3. Fry for a minutes or two. Then add
1 cup broth.
4. Dump into a soup pot or wok and add
1 diced tart apple
1 TB lemon juice
2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1/4 tsp dried thyme
5 more cups of broth
* I add a whole cut up chicken breast in 1-inch cubes.
At this point, the soup can be refrigerated.
*
5. Before serving, the heat soup, and add
1 cup half and half
Serve over rice in soup bowls.* (I use coconut milk for vegans)