BJ Yudelson earned her B.A. in religion from Smith College, M.A. in Old Testament from Emory University, and M.S. in instructional technology from Rochester Institute of Technology. She was a homemaker, full-time mother, and heavy-duty volunteer, taking graduate courses toward a career, when her middle child was killed by an intoxicated driver. That crisis propelled her into the workforce, where she landed in nonprofit development and public relations. Eventually, she left to pursue freelance writing. When not writing, she visits nine grandchildren on two coasts, travels with her husband, tutors first graders in a city school, and she has also recently returned to the study of Hebrew. Her favorite place to be is in her solo canoe, searching for loons on an Adirondack lake. Since retirement, BJ has found her voice in creative nonfiction, studying with Sonja Livingston, Anais Salibian, and Len Messineo. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Colere, Democrat & Chronicle, Eclectica Magazine, The Griffin, The Jewish Georgian, Tiny Lights, Jewish Action , and in the anthologies I Didn't Get Old Being Stupid: Wisdom from Elders and Flashlight Memories . Her entry about her heirloom Sabbath lamp won second place in the National Jewish Outreach Program's "Judaica Across America" contest.

Two Essays (May-ish, 2011. Issue 28.)

Q.O.C.

Most nights we dined formally in the dining room on food prepared by the cook: rare roast beef and potatoes or southern fried chicken and rice, for example. Mother reigned at the head of the table, tinkling a bell to summon seconds and dessert.

But Sunday suppers were different. With no cook present, we helped ourselves to whatever Mother had spread out on the white enamel kitchen table, then trooped into the den to eat on TV tables in front of the 7" Magnavox screen.

The five of us—Mother, Dad, my sisters, and I—crowded onto a love seat and matching chair with broad oak arms. Sets of books filled shelves on two pine-paneled walls. In the corner stood a globe with a dangling metal chain, which I liked to pull to see the world light up.

But not on Sunday nights. Neither the overhead light nor the three-way floor lamp competed with the screen's glow. Jackie Gleason, Nat King Cole, Uncle Miltie, Margot Fonteyn and other stars paraded before our eyes as Mother's weekly effort to creatively use leftovers fell as flat as an off-key singer.

While many of the guests on Ed Sullivan's "Toast of the Town" went on to become famous, our Sunday evening fare lacked star quality. Onion and garlic were off-limits because they offended Dad's stomach. Herbs and spices, beyond a dash of salt and pepper, were beyond Mother's realm. Week after week, she concocted a bland casserole: hunks of leftover meat and overcooked vegetables pasted together with a lumpy white sauce.

My older sister carped. My skinny younger sister picked at bits of food. With more tolerant taste buds, I plowed through the soggy mess.

Dad, known for his prodigious appetite, came back for seconds. Each week, this southern gentleman gallantly complimented his wife as the "Q.O.C.," which we knew meant "Queen of the Casserole." I can't remember whether he actually said, "Imogene Coca has her Caesar, and I have my Queen." If not, he should have; it was typical of his humor.

I'm certain, though, that he did his best to make sure that even on the cook's night off, when Mother gamely, if ineptly, prepared food fit for serfs, she felt like royalty. Week after week, during television's earliest commercial breaks, Dad touted her as Q.O.C.

Years later, when the den's 7" screen had given way to a 21" living room TV, when "60 Minutes" had replaced Ed Sullivan, and when we girls had grown up and become excellent cooks, Mother suffered a stroke. Dad became Sunday supper chef and evening nurse. True to form, he followed the nightly PT range-of-motion regimen with what he dubbed "KT," kiss therapy. Though Mother could barely walk or talk, much less cook, he still treated her as his adored Queen.

Going Home Again

I enter the center hallway and walk slowly through the house, seeking the familiar in renovated and redecorated rooms. I admire the three-story addition. For years, I wondered how I would modernize the kitchen, last updated to Mother's specifications in the 1950s. The new owners have more than doubled its size, rendering my fantasy remodeling irrelevant.

My last time here, not long after Dad's death two years ago, was to empty my childhood home's fifty-nine years of accumulated memories and clutter. Now I long for signposts, reminders of the way it was. I search for the cozy, book-lined den and discover it has been subsumed by a spacious, game- and electronics-filled family room. Autographed baseball mitts and golf clubs have replaced books and plants in the newly enclosed sunporch.

I finger the circular newel post, where I used to dump my school books, then climb the wide staircase. Upstairs, I gawk at the huge master suite. I'm surprised by bathrooms adjoining every bedroom. No more waiting one's turn or sharing. I think of the late-night gossip that flowed down the drain as we sisters brushed our teeth together.

Eventually, I make my way to the basement. A brightly colored carpet masks the playroom's dark, ugly linoleum squares. Attractive coverings hide the painted bricks as well as the paneled wall my parents papered with theatre programs from their early-married years in New York City. The 1940s sofa and chairs with red plastic "whoopee" cushions have given way to trendy, kid-sized furniture.

I glance at the ceiling. The specks from bread-and-butter pickles that my friends flicked upward with plastic forks during a raucous seventh-grade party lie hidden beneath a fresh coat of paint.

Naturally, the phonograph and stacks of 45 rpm records that, during my teen years, provided background for dancing and romantic interludes are gone. Instead, a large-screen TV mesmerizes two little boys.

Disoriented, I open the door to the utilitarian part of the basement. Bright red poles still support the ceiling. I sigh in recognition at the same old cement floor and unadorned brick walls. Wash tubs and drain are where I remember them.

The new owner, who has not lived a full year in the house, comments about the water that courses across the basement floor on rainy days. "Mmmm," I respond noncommittally. It's her house now, her puzzle.

Memories flood in like the rain that forced my folks to build a platform to raise storage cartons off the sometimes wet floor. I picture myself hopping across streams of water, losing points if my feet got wet in this rainy-day game I played with myself.

Happy with this childhood memory, I thank the owner for indulging my need to revisit my past. I hope her family develops as many happy memories here as mine did. But I wonder: Will lavish décor, a gourmet kitchen, six bedrooms and six-and-a-half bathrooms for a four-member family buy contentment?

Funny, I think as I walk down the newly designed driveway that curves unfamiliarly to the street, that the only part of the house where I felt completely comfortable was in the unfinished, unchanged basement. Its unpretentiousness still appeals.