Why I Cut My Breasts Off

I read a blog article by Courtney Meaker earlier today that one of my friends and colleagues had posted on Facebook and it has stayed with me all day.  It is called "Walking While Fat and Female - Or Why I Don't Care Not All Men Are Like That."  And in the light of the recent tragedy at the University of California, Santa Barbara, I feel that it's time to come clean.  And this is hard for me.  These kinds of reactions and events are the majority of the reason why I cut my breasts off.  In 2000, I had a breast reduction.  There were multiple reasons why, but it took me a long time to realize what the major one was - I was ashamed of them.  This is wrong on so many levels.

Firstly, no one, NO ONE should be ashamed of their bodies.  A person shouldn't feel that their body is too fat, too thin, too tall, too short, too light, too dark, too female, too male.  A person shouldn't feel ashamed that they feel like they aren't in the right body. A person shouldn't feel ashamed about the things a body does to keep itself healthy. Because a person isn't their body.  A person is their SOUL. 

I hit puberty way early.  I was 11 when I got my period, and I developed breasts almost literally overnight. I seriously thought I had been bitten by something. And one of the things that I immediately noticed was that people started treating me differently.  Why?  Because we as a society perpetuate women as a sex object. It wasn't just my male classmates.  The girls got in on it as well.  I spent almost all of my middle school life being bullied, groped, stared at, and having comments made to me. The older middle school girls would corner me in the girl's bathroom and beat me up.  I hid it from my parents because I was ashamed. The girls did it because I was a threat, I was competition. Some of the middle school boys would often touch my breasts, my butt, or even my crotch.  I had a counselor tell me that I invited the touching because my shirt was too tight.  It became my fault.  Some male teachers stared at me, wouldn't look me in the eye, or sat me in the front row.

I responded.  I told them to stop.  That was seriously horrible. Then I hacked off my hair to try and make myself look more boyish.  I wore baggy t-shirts and jeans. I slouched. I wasn't as diligent in my personal hygiene.  I had hoped this would make people back off, or not look at me. I skirted the hallways, would hold my bladder until I couldn't walk I had to go to the bathroom so badly, or eschewed human interaction altogether, hiding in the cool quiet of the school and public library.  It didn't work.  It made it worse.  I now had ridicule to add to the pile, comments about my sexuality, or that I was crazy.  And it was still MY fault.

So I changed again. In my period of hiding and observing, I found that males were easily led.  I was powerless, but my sexuality had lots of power. I could garner attention, favor, importance...for absolutely all the wrong reasons.  This led to a boyfriend who was significantly older than I, and that led to sex extremely early.  And it was, of course, my fault.  I made him feel sexual toward me, it was MY fault that I had turned him on, and now I had the "responsibility" of doing something about it.  I became overtly sexual.  I figured, if men were going to sexualize me anyway, I should get something out of it. I wielded my power, but I never experienced loving interaction or relationships.

Then after an extended amount of sexual abuse from an authority figure ("to protect and serve") when I was 14 and 15, all I could feel was shame, guilt, and despair.  I'd been told repeatedly that this was all my fault and I believed it.  I thought it wasn't other people, it wasn't sexualization of women and girls, it wasn't people seeing harassment and abuse and turning a blind eye to it,  it was all me. And I was powerless.  I couldn't make them stop. I equated love with being physically pleasing. That was a successful relationship for me.  And above all, I didn't trust anyone. Add on top of this that since about my sophomore year in high school, I had been struggling with my sexuality, and this all devolved into me being wrong, being broken, being an anomaly.

It continued through college.  I endured being "jostled" on the sidewalk, on the streets, in the hallways with hands on my breasts.  I walked back to my dorm as fast as I could, ignoring the whistles and cat calls of "Nice tits!" and "Hey baby, how much?!"  I was outwardly sexually aggressive and outgoing, but never again the one important thing - outspoken.  I survived silently, awash in shame and feeling dirty, unworthy, and horribly disfigured and ugly.  I had E cup breasts.  And they were my enemy.  I taped them, locked them down with bras that were so tight and ill-fitting that they left bruises on my shoulders and they still were a C cup.  I hurt all the time.  My anxiety was so high, my stomach was in constant upset.  Squashing my body down led to headaches, backaches, and my breasts were so sore and tender from being crushed.

And then one night, I went to a bar with some friends, and I don't remember much.  Except when I finally became aware of my surroundings, someone was having sex with me.   And there were other people in the room.  And they were talking about my breasts, and about my weight, and about how fun this "fat, dumb, cow" was to screw. And then someone gave me something to drink, and it went away again.  I woke up in the common room of my dorm.  I still don't know where it happened, or who it was, or if it was even someone I knew.  And I thought it was all my fault.  I had somehow provoked them, or perhaps I had rebuffed them, and they roofied me.  I was used to getting propositions all the time, and this was the first indication that it didn't even matter if I resisted, some males would just take what they wanted.  And I did the worst thing possible. I stayed silent. And I got lucky.  I emerged broken, but not pregnant or having contracted an STD.  I considered that lucky.

It got to the point that I would lay in bed and cry with the thought of getting up in the morning and having to put on clothes and go outside.  I had been toying with the idea of having a breast reduction, but now something had broken loose in me. I wanted it done and done as fast as possible.  The doctors tested me for thyroid conditions and then told me my breasts were so large because of my weight.  I dropped down to 160 lbs.  I was now thin...with enormous breasts.  They didn't go anywhere, and not having any weight behind them only made them more pronounced and I was yet more noticeable. Now I was often asked if I was a stripper, if they were real, could they touch them?   I retreated into the guise of a cold-hearted ice princess, and earned the reputation of a "man-eater."  And when it came time to have my surgery, I begged my surgeon, a wonderful woman, to make me as flat-chested as a boy.  "Chop them off!" I sobbed, "I never want to see them again!"

I went under with E cup breasts, and woke up with C cups.  My surgeon explained that once she got into the tissue, she realized that because I had been a swimmer all my life, and a butterflier specifically, that I had 6 inches of pectoral muscles that had contributed to my breast size.  "I took everything I could safely," she told me.  And it helped.  I wasn't gawked at as much, I wasn't groped...as much. It diminished, as did my back pain, shoulder pain and headaches.  It was one of the best things I had ever done.  But it didn't stop the shame.  It doesn't cut off the shame, the guilt, the fear of being taken advantage of. That all has to come from within.  That has to come from the place where you're okay with yourself. That's a place that I have to struggle to trek to every day, and some days, I never get there. 

It's taken a lot of therapy and a lot of years for me to even get to the place I am now.  A place where I can say "Don't talk to me like that." or "Your behavior is unacceptable."  I'm in a relationship where sex is not "a thing."  It's safe. But I still struggle with the concept of love, or being loved, or what loving feelings really are or mean.  I still don't trust anyone. I still avoid crowds from fear of being touched. I'm body shy, to the point where there have been many people who have commented on the amount of portraits I snap (I refuse to refer to them as "selfies"), but rarely is there a full body shot.  And if I must be in revealing situations, it takes an enormous amount of energy and I am exhausted at the end.  I still look in the mirror at my breasts, and now my belly, rounded in my late 30s, and sigh. I still wish I had no breasts at all. I still find I have to push down shame and guilt. But I know it's not my fault. I know that I'm better, because I'm not crying in my closet. Well, not often.

Please don't be me.  Please don't be silent.  Please interfere.  Please speak up.  Please shout and scream and fight and protest.  Please be part of the change. Please know that you are smart, amazing, talented, and are part of the joy in this world.  Beauty, sex, bodies, shape, size, gender - they have nothing to do with it.  Be proud of your body because it is what carries around a beautiful soul.

Dry No More

So, I must beg forgiveness for not updating this as I should.  Being without water was much more stressful than I had anticipated.  I am amused at myself, because of what I felt was the biggest hardship - it wasn't the not being able to flush the toilet that got me, it wasn't the inability to shower at my house, it was being unable to wash dishes, of all things, that got me. That kept me from cooking, which is one of the things that relaxes me, and also from washing my brushes when I am done painting, which is another activity that feeds me. 

Update on that front, almost a month to the day that we lost water, it was returned to us.  It required a hole about 4 feet by 3 feet and 6 feet deep to get there.  The main access line was frozen only a foot away from the water main, so there wasn't much that we could have done.  They initially tried to thaw the blockage using a water jetter shoved up the pipes through our basement, but it just wasn't budging. The plus of that attempt was that we were able to fill several Rubbermaid tubs full of the discarded water, so we didn't have to melt snow to flush our toilet anymore.  But, at last, we have running water. I come home and turn on the faucet just because I can.  We have a faucet in the basement running 24/7 with a stream the size of a pencil to keep the water from freezing up again, so I'm sure that our water bill will be cringeable, but the thought of going without water again will most likely make me shell out any price.

So, back to our regularly scheduled program of delicious things that I've unearthed from church cookbooks.  I'm so glad to be cooking again.  I think I've been making things that require boiling water just because I don't have to worry about conserving it so much again.  I suppose this is how people feel who have been starving for a long time, and are suddenly faced with bounty.  I made spaghetti, meatball subs, and then what is the first thing I select out of one of my vintage cookbooks?  A recipe that doesn't require me to cook anything!  LOL 

This recipe comes from a cookbook called "A Cookbook and More" from the Happy Siesta Nursing Home Auxiliary.  I bought it because of the name of the nursing home.  They're in Remsen, Iowa, and this cookbook was published in commemoration of the Remsen centennial in 1989. The home has been in operation since 1965, and has been the home of folks such as Tillie, Melitta, Dora, Ervin and Bernard. 

I was flipping through just looking at recipes, and "Seafood Pizza" caught my eye.  Now, what in the world could that be, considered that this is an incredibly land-locked state, and it couldn't possibly call for a wealth of actual seafood.  Well, as you'll see, it calls for one kind of seafood, one of the only kinds you could get in Iowa, and it came in a can - Shrimp.  One of the other popular canned seafood/shellfish items I've noticed in these cookbooks are: smoked and regular canned oysters, anchovies, and sardines.  Later in the 70s and 80s you'll see canned crab and herring.  So, I made seafood pizza, and it was delicious. I did not use canned shrimp, I used frozen instead, and that is simply my preference and the convenience of having frozen seafood available. I can imagine a lady serving this in her black silk organza cocktail apron and everyone thinking it was quite fancy as they sipped on their gimlets and vodka tonics.

Seafood Pizza

8 oz. package of cream cheese
Can of small shrimp (I used a package of frozen baby shrimp)
Chopped green onion
Chopped green peppers
Chopped black olives (or green if you prefer)
Grated Cheddar cheese
Bottle of  cocktail sauce

In a deep pie plate, spread the cream cheese, then cover with the shrimp.  Then layer the green onions, green peppers, olives and cheddar cheese over the shrimp.  The amount that you want to put on the dip is entirely up to you.  The recipe calls for adding the cocktail sauce between the layers, but the way that it was written, I didn't notice until I had already layered everything else, so I simply poured the cocktail sauce over the top.  Serve with Club crackers or if you want a lighter alternative, Reduced Fat Wheat Thins (wHeat Thins).

It was a tasty and fun dinner in front of the T.V., and would be great to take to a party if you don't have much time to fix something, or just forgot. It literally just took the prep time of chopping and throwing everything together. 

So, hopefully, we're back in the saddle again.  Now all we have to worry about is when spring is going to get here doggone it!  It's supposed to low temps and snow on and off this week.  Oh well, I'll just stay inside and cook and read.  BTW, I'm reading an Advanced Reader's Copy of Frog Music by Emma Donoghue right now.  She's the author that wrote Room, if anyone else read that.  This one I think is even better.  I'm not going to say anything about it, because I'll review it here when I'm done.  So, fix yourself some hot cocoa, and enjoy the rest of your night lovelies!  I'll see you soon I'm sure.

Reading: Frog Music by Emma Donoghue
              Mercy Falls by William Kent Krueger
Listening to: Tribute by Nora Roberts
Music to write to: Alex Pangman

Pioneer Spirit

When I named my blog "Little Librarian on the Prairie," little did I know that I was going to be experiencing a bit of the pioneer life myself.  Thursday morning, I turned on the shower, and stuck my head in it long enough to get my hair wet before the water stopped. Nothing. Nada. Upstairs, downstairs, bathroom, kitchen, all dry as a bone.

My initial thought was, "Oh crap. Did I somehow space it and forget to pay the utility bill?" But I was fairly certain I had, so I called the utility company to double check. I had actually paid the bill early, so that wasn't the problem. And that's when my stomach dropped out on me. I knew what the problem was. Our pipes were frozen.  But the problem is that there was no sign of freezing in the house.  Turns out, our main access line to the house is frozen.

The normal fix for this situation is actually quite ingenious.  There's a welding company about 45 minutes away that comes out and attaches an electrode to the line and heats up the entire pipe, thus melting the ice.  Easy peasy (but kind of expensive) fix.  So they get here and dig up our yard. And discover that when the city ran a new main down our street a couple years ago, they replaced our metal access pipe with - PVC. Which not only is not conductive, but will also melt with any kind of intense heat applied to the plastic.

So what is the solution when you have plastic pipes?  Apparently, the only solution is...spring. Yep. The welding company, the utility company, and the city are all telling us that the only thing we can do is wait for spring.  Ooooookay.

So, there's only one thing for it. We have to kind of live like pioneers. I went to Menard's and got a big 5 gallon water cooler and another 5 gallon food safe bucket.  It cost us about $30, and that's because I splurged and got a special lid for the bucket that was $7.  It has a seal so air can't get in.  I figured I'd get that lid, so when we have water I can buy flour in bulk and keep it in the bucket.  I use a lot of flour, particularly since I've started baking my own bread fairly regularly (I'll post that recipe soon hopefully).  So, make that little guy multi-purpose.

We filled up the buckets, and I borrowed a sink and did some dishes, so we've got clean pots and pans.  I bought plastic silverware and paper plates, even though I really hate to use them. I called the local YMCA, and they are being gracious enough to let us use their showers while ours is out of order.  We filled up tubs with snow and are using that for gray water stuff (mostly flushing the toliet).  Let me tell you though, a foot of snow is the equivalent of about an inch of water.  A tub full to the top with snow will melt to enough water to flush our toilet once.

But, we're trying to make the best of it, and part of making the best of it, I think, is writing about the experience. I've already learned a lot, and it's not even the end of the weekend yet.  We'll see if I can make this a positive thing.  More tomorrow! 

Why I Gave Up on New Year's Resolutions

We've all made them:
"I will lose weight."
"I will be organized."
"I will be a better, kinder, gentler person."
"I will be more thrifty."
And on and on and on it goes, ad infinitum, of things we will do, should do, and have the best intentions of doing and never do. I'm breaking up with you NYE resolution. It's not you, it's me. The minute I promise myself I'm going to do something to improve my life, the self-destruct sequence starts counting down in my head. I self-sabotage, avoid, procrastinate, and ignore the promises I made to myself.

Not this year! Because I refuse to fall prey to the resolutions ploys of "it will be different this time," and "I'm a changed person."  Lies, all of them.  This year, I have projects.  They have deadlines, but they are relatively relaxed, and if I don't complete something within the timeline, it's ok. I can't use them as excuses to beat upon myself because they have absolutely nothing to do with my health, my finances, or my attitude (well, sort of).  They're fun. They're satisfying. And I have chosen my projects because they will feed me in ways that I know I am lacking.  I am not feeding my little feathered thing that perches in my soul very well, and it has turned evil and is plotting revolutions and mutinies on my well-being. It also has a potty-mouth when it comes to my self-confidence. I am rising up and cramming art and writing and creating down it's crabby little beak.

My first project involves all of them and it is a project in itself. And it's this. My blog. I have another blog, Eatie Gourmet that I was faithful to for a while and then it fell by the wayside. Then, I created one specifically for a particular NYE resolution and it had one post on it. ONE. So, obviously, you can see how that went. This project is to just commit to one blog, and write about everything in this one blog. So, your going to see the progression of some of my other projects within this blog (how meta).  It's also designed to keep me honest, and keep me going on the rest of my endeavors.  There will be a little bit of everything here: art, food, writing, personal journey, and libraryland stuff. So, if one of those things doesn't interest you, just skip it. Note that I presume that there will be people that will want to read this blog. How vain of me. It matters not. What matters is I have a place to put down my thoughts and feelings, my frustrations, my triumphs and failures, and hope that somewhere, somehow along the way I learn something. And if you want to follow along in my journey, because face it, humans are naturally voyeuristic, then do so. I promise you will at least find a couple worthwhile recipes in the flotsam and jetsam.

So, my other two major projects are:
1. Each month, I choose an artist, and by the end of the month I have to have at least created one piece that is inspired by that artist. Be it technique, medium, subject matter, or outright emulation, it will correspond to the artist in some way.  I will probably do research about the artist, because it's what I do, and for my own guidelines I'm insisting that the final piece be larger than 8x12. I am notorious for working small, and need to expand my size and get out of my habit of tight, precise art that I end up overworking or hating. My friend Pamela is doing a similar project, in fact, it was her idea, so credit where credit is due.  It's a brilliant idea.

2. I have an unnatural addiction to amateur cookbooks. You know the ones I'm talking about - the St. James Lutheran Church, the Ladies Garden Society, the Lutheran Women's Aid Society, the First Baptist Koffee Klatch.  So, I want to start cooking my way through some of the cookbooks I own and collect the best of the best.  I also would love to try and find some of the ladies that might have contributed to these cookbooks. When I read their recipes, I can't help but think about their lives. Were they Depression babies? Were they children of Depression babies? Did they survive multiple wars? The Dust Bowl?  The Farm Crisis?  Why did they choose this recipe above all the others?  Did they think it was the best tasting? The easiest? Or were there fond memories attached to this recipe?  In the process, I want to collect recipes from my Facebook friends and make a FB Friend cookbook that everyone can receive digitally.  But I'm going to ask for the stories behind them. Food is a powerful memory trigger for many of us, and I want to dig deep in that phenomenon, and have a cookbook that I can treasure and pass down to nephews and nieces someday.

So here's to keeping me honest.  And my projects.  And burning all those love letters that Resolution sent me.

Foodie Friday: Allspice Culinarium

Photo by Holly McQueen - Des Moines Register

If you're ever in the Des Moines area, I urge you to make Allspice Culinarium one of your stops.  But don't expect to just spend a few minutes in this spice emporium.  I'd slot at least an hour.  Because you'll get lost in the massive array of spices, rubs, and kits.  And then you'll discover the olive oil and balsamic vinegar tasting bar, and lose another hour.


Allspice Culinarium offers over 350 spices that you can smell, sample and buy in multiple sizes.  They also do a very brisk business over the internet (thank goodness!) in case you can't get to their shop. But believe me, it is absolutely worth the trip.  In fact, Des Moines is worth a trip for the food alone.  It is a little known culinary gem of the Midwest.  I'm sure you'll see more blog posts about DSM restaurants, bars, and shops in the future. 

But let's return to the warm cayenne-colored interior of Allspice.  It is a cook's dream come true. Stacks and bags and boxes of spices arranged in aisles alphabetically in each aisle.  Cinnamon? Korintje, or Saigon?  Peppercorns? Pink, Black, Multi, Green, Smoked, Tellicherry?  Salt? Black Truffle, Fleur de Sel, or Lime Fresco (I highly recommend this one)? The list goes on and on, until it is a nearly overwhelming wall of tastes and smells. 

And then you round the corner, and see great silver urns, lined in ranks upon high white counters.  Filled with nothing but oils and vinegars.  You fall to your knees as if you were Columbus and had found the spice route to Asia after all.  You are overcome as you dip crusty sourdough bread into small cups filled with brilliant green Frantoio olive oil, or black and pungent 18-year balsamic vinegar.  Then you try the basil olive oil, or the red apple balsamic vinegar, or the Persian Lime olive oil and the Blackberry Ginger balsamic. On and on, until your head whirls in a Mediterranean muddle of the foodie high.  And then you proceed to fill a basket with harissa and Moroccan rub and oils and vinegars and Schezuan pepper and are prepared to take out a second mortgage to pay for your excesses whilst drunk on olive oil. But you don't have to.

Because that's the best thing about Allspice Culinarium.  It is affordable, it is accessible, it allows anyone who enjoys spices and flavors and delicious living, to do so without breaking the bank. And if you don't know what to do with all the spices you've just indulged in, there are delicious recipes on their website. And if you don't live near Des Moines, order from their online store. There is no excuse not to try some new spices or oils.   It's one of the best food discoveries I have had in Iowa...so far.

I'm having a love affair with Allspice. Don't tell.

Book Review: The Goldfinch

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

"'But - ' crossing back to the table to sit again '- if a painting really works down in your heart and changes the way you see, and think, and feel, you don't think, ' oh, I love this picture because it's universal.' 'I love this painting because it speaks to all mankind.' That's not the reason anyone loves a piece of art.  It's a secret whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you.'" - from The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

If you love art, art history, antiques, or New York, this book is for you.  This book is a piece of art that hisses at you from an alley, who tempts you to drag a finger over the artfully arranged sentences, and then, helplessly, drag a finger over it again.  It begs to have sentences re-read, to bask in a moment, to savor words as you silently roll them in your mouth, inhaling as if to draw out the experience. This is a book that makes you tighten the tourniquet, and shoot up for an all night bender.

Theo Decker is a 13-year old New Yorker, who suddenly loses his mother, the one thing that he loves, the only person that enlivens him, in a terrorist bombing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  And at the urging of an old man who will change his destiny forever, he steals a painting that is the last memory of his mother - The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius.  I think Tartt couldn't have picked a better painting as the centerpiece of this book.  It is a tiny painting, measuring only approximately 9"x13", barely bigger than the book in which it appears.  A goldfinch, drab in its winter plumage, stares stoically at the viewer, chained to his small perch. Looking closely at the painting, you can detect the quick and easy slashes of paint laid on a canvas by a master painter who died too young.  Step back, and the finch ruffles his feathers, and comes to life, pinning you with one beady black eye.  Lonely and enduring, the finch could be an apt representative of Theo - a pallid, waif-ish boy who wanders the streets of a city that doesn't seem to notice him.

Taken in at first by the antiseptic and arctic Barbour family, Theo gives us a glimpse at life as an affluent (but not too affluent) New York family. Then, when his father returns to claim him, after a long abandonment, he whisks Theo away, and we peer into life in wrecked and raucous Las Vegas. Meanwhile, the illicit painting wraps its delicate, but unbreakable chain tighter and tighter around Theo.

This is a story of desolation and redemption, of snobbery and low living, of art, love and heartbreak.  The places it occurs in seem as if they are a dream version of real places, but then a Dutch Masters painting of the Delft Disaster or a Chippendale highboy snaps it suddenly into chiaroscuro focus. Tartt takes you by the hand and leads you through a novel that doesn't always make sense, with characters that talk exactly like characters sometimes, and not real people, but you don't care because it's all so damn beautiful.  And I'm irritated a little, because this is the first book I read in 2014, and I'm not so sure that there will be another that can stand up to the silky rich prose of this novel.

Rumaki

                                          Evening Luau - Trevor Carlton

In 1934, a restaurant called Don the Beachcomber opened in Hollywood, California. The proprietor was a young man from Louisiana who had sailed through the South Pacific and was captured by the culture and exotic beauty of the region. His restaurant featured Cantonese food, but the decor was really what captured people's imaginations.  Rattan furniture, hibiscus prints, and torches and leis.  Then, in 1937, Victor Bergeron opened Trader Vic's and Tiki Culture was born. 

Tiki culture surged into popularity after World War II, and remained popular well into the 1970s, but truly the height of the tiki culture was the 1950's and became part of the defining iconic imagery of mid-century America.  Les Baxter, Arthur Lyman, and Martin Denny popularized tiki culture through jazz flavored with Polynesian, Asian, and Latin rhythms, and tiki art began to appear.  

Asian and Polynesian foods became popular at cocktail parties, but many of them were altered because of the lack of ingredients, or they were simply created. Rumaki is one of these dishes. There are some that attribute the invention of this appetizer to the Beachcomber, and some who claim that Trader Vic's is where the dish originated.  Either way, there is nothing Polynesian, Asian, Latin, Thai, or any other nationality in this dish.  It is 100% American.

Marinated chestnuts, chicken or duck liver and bacon comprise the whole of this simple, but delicious appetizer.  However, in the Midwest, strangely the chicken liver disappeared from the list of ingredients and it became solely bacon and water chestnuts. Nevertheless, when set before a group of friends on New Year's Eve, they didn't last long enough for me to snap pictures.  It is a simple, and surprisingly elegant appetizer, and it is no wonder that it had remained popular for so many years.  It is often included in the appetizer section of many of my local collected cookbooks, and I am disappointed in myself that I didn't try them sooner, because they truly would have been in my regular repertoire, as tasty and easy as they are. 

The recipe that I used is from a cookbook called Specialties of the House, of an unknown date, though it is most likely from the mid-60s. And, ironically enough, it is a cookbook not from the Midwest, but from Manhassett, Long Island.  It was a fundraising cookbook for Our Lady of Grace Montessori School.  I went to St. Bernard's Montessori, so I feel a little bit of a connection to this cookbook on a variety of levels.  

Rumaki 

1 C. soy sauce
1/2 c. brown sugar, firmly packed
1/8 ginger 
2 8 oz. cans water chestnuts, drained 
1/2 lb. bacon 

Mix soy sauce with sugar and ginger. Cut bacon slices in half. Wrap bacon around water chestnuts, secure each with a toothpick. Marinate 4 hours or longer, can be marinated overnight, in soy sauce mixture. Then broil at 425 degrees F.  If you like, serve with teriyaki sauce for dipping. Watch them disappear. 

Honestly, there is enough marinade that you could probably double the amount of water chestnuts and bacon. And believe me, you wouldn't go wrong having extras, because these probably won't last more than 10 minutes. You could also make these more high end and add the chicken or duck liver in these.  I'd be interested in trying prosciutto instead of bacon, but the high salt factor might be too overpowering for the sweet.  I also debated marinating the chicken or duck livers separate in Worcestershire and honey then assembling the rumaki.  

Enjoy!