In Remembrance

     It would not be right to let this week go by without mentioning the passing of my Uncle Tony. He died Friday night, at home and at peace at the age of ninety-nine. He was my mother's last surviving sibling out of seven and he was the last of all my aunts and uncles on both sides of my parents. I feel my mother's sadness. Her loneliness on this earth for someone from her past is palpable. She is all that is left of her generation in our family, the very last one, and she misses them terribly. All I can do to ease her grief is to listen to her tell me the stories. Each morning, over the phone I listen, and I never tire of them.
     We have so many Tony's in our Italian family, we make jokes of it. But there was only one "Uncle" Tony Maffeo. We said his last name with the "Uncle Tony" part when mentioning him in conversation in order to differentiate between him and our other Uncle Tony- Carusone. There were actually three Uncle Tony's, but the third was Uncle Anthony, so that solved that dilemma. The stories my mother tells of their life as children in the 1920's and 30's in downtown Albany, New York makes me long to be there, to play alongside them. The stories have become rich and even foreign in our age of technology. I picture the scenes in sepia because that is how all the photographs have captured them.  
     One particular story tells how my Uncle Tony and his friends built a car when he was nineteen. They built this car from scrounged parts. When it was finished, the boys drove it to the World's Fair in Chicago. The year was 1933. Can you imagine something like that happening today? Uncle Tony was very good at building mechanical things and he also built an airplane two years before. I don't believe it flew, but it had wings and he did drive it on the road. He was seven years older than my mother and when he was fourteen and she was six, they got into a bit of trouble together. One particular day in 1928, he was told by my grandmother that he was not allowed to go to Mid City Park. There was a big city pool there and amusement rides. He disobeyed and went anyway, toting his little sister (my mother) along with him and his friends. I guess they had a grand time until she lost her shoe on one of the rides. He had to carry her piggy back all the way home, a distance of two and a half miles. The lost shoe gave away their deception and my mother recalls being grounded for a very long time. This is the memory my mom talks about most often these past few days, how she so clearly remembers her brother carrying her on his back all the way home.
     Ironically, Uncle Tony was a sickly child and suffered several health issues throughout his long life. Yet he is the longest lived of all the siblings so far. I love the irony of that. He would have liked to have been able to say he lived to be one hundred, but I have a feeling he is much happier that he didn't wait another year to make his final journey home. I picture him with all the generations gone before him, everyone reunited, one by one, into the presence and the glory of the Lord.
     I miss you all, my aunts and uncles, father and sister. Please save a cannoli for me!

Aunt Millie, Uncle Tony, Aunt Katherine, Aunt Angie, I believe the little child on the left is my mom's cousin Maccala and then my mom. (Maccala was named after the Immaculate Conception, but everyone used her nickname which was pronounced, mock a la')

Five of the seven siblings, Aunt Angie, Uncle Lenny (after whom I am named), my mom Marian, Uncle Tony, Aunt Katherine

My grandfather's store, my first cousins Dan and Sonny (with the bike), my Uncle Anthony in front of the window. The Maffeo children were all born and raised in the flat above the store.

Uncle Tony with his beautiful bride, my Aunt Marie

 

Oh My Gosh, These Kids Crack Me Up

     My current job title is Lunch Lady, in slang terms that is. My proper title is Cafeteria Aid. I actually crack myself up with the jobs I choose. I don't even know why I do what I do, but that's another story for another day.
     I do not prepare or serve food, I monitor. In the span of an hour and a half, I assist approximately 300 K through 5th graders with lunch. I open water bottles, cut open fruit snacks and yogurts, slice apples, hand out napkins, give the evil eye, lend encouragement, and keep order (or at least try to keep order.) On occasion, I yell. As in the case of the recent Raisin Throwing Incident. I yelled, "Whoa! That is not cool!" Otherwise, most of the children are absolutely adorable and many of them treat me like I am a good friend and confidant. They tell me jokes, ask earth shattering questions, cry for their Mommys, show me loose teeth, hug me, make me laugh, or if they're a 5th grader, ignore me.
     For the first part of my morning, I assist in other areas of the school. I float around and lend a hand wherever it may be needed. But the real excitement culminates in the cafeteria. There is one incident I'm still chuckling about from two weeks ago. A little boy summoned me to his table with two other first-grade boys. First graders, mind you and cute as a button. One little boy motioned me to come close. I leaned in closer. With eyebrows raised, he asked, "Is 'pushy' a bad word?" With a puzzled look I stood up straight and said, "No. 'Pushy' is not a bad word." He then asked, "Well what does it mean?" "Pushy? Well... pushy means someone is being aggressive. Like when someone pushes or shoves you when you're standing in line. It's not nice behavior, but it's not a bad word.", I reply. The little boy triumphantly turned to the other boys with a look of self-satisfaction and cried, "See! It's not a bad word."
     As I walk away, I shake my head. Whoever told him that 'pushy' is a bad word must have had a lisp.

Confessions of An Addict and How I Use

     Hello. My name is Leonora and I am a compulsive collector of recipes. I don't merely collect them, I use them. Welcome to a peek into my not-so-secret world of the hows and whys of my addiction.
     I like food. Heck, I love food. As a child, when my mother put supper on the table, I clapped my hands with joy. In college, when I was flat broke, I baked extravagant  breads to give my girlfriends at Christmas. I still remember the confused look on one girl's face who just didn't get it. She's not my friend any more.
     My first cookbook was given to me in 1977. It's the red, Betty Crocker's Cookbook. I still use it if I can't remember how long to boil shrimp or how many minutes per pound to roast the pork. I also have my mother's first cookbook that she earned for selling magazine subscriptions during WWII. I have four shelves of cookbooks, including Tempting Kosher Dishes by The Manischewitz Co. copyrighted 1930 and written in Hebrew. I can't read Hebrew, but it's a fascinating cookbook. I collect cookbooks and recipes like some people collect shoes or stray animals. It's very difficult for me to turn them away. Once or twice I've needed to thin my collection. When I feel compelled to do this, I choose the books from which I only use a handful of recipes, copy them out and then give the book away. In recent years, collecting cookbooks has given way to collecting recipes in general. This marked the turning point of my addiction.
     Nowadays, it's so easy to share thousands of recipes over the internet. Magazines are also chock full of beautiful photos of foods and dishes to try. Southern Living, Martha Stewart, even House Beautiful all have good recipes. My friend B. started us on Bon Appetit several years ago and back issues still line one shelf in my cabinet. What's an addict to do?
     Because I was collecting recipes in a whole new way, I needed some way to keep track of them and to save the ones we liked. In the beginning, I had manilla folders stuffed with pages ripped from magazines and index cards scribbled with recipes. In the 1980's I tried the recipe card index route. Painstakingly copying each recipe onto a card. The cards were filed in a kitcheny little box, but it was awkward to use and it just didn't do it for me. I needed something stronger for my addiction. I also wanted it to feel more organized. This was around the time that the computer came into our home and I learned about Microsoft Word. I had the brainstorm to type up all my folders of loose recipes and index cards and store them on our computer. Brilliant! Because I still wanted a hard copy to have on the kitchen counter when I cooked, I printed out each recipe. This way, I could glue accompanying photos onto them. I then slipped each one into a clear, plastic page saver and filed it into a binder categorized by food groups. In the beginning, I started out with one binder that held all of them. After the second year, it became too full, so I had to divide desserts out into their own binder. And recently, I introduced a third binder, sub-dividing appetizers, soups and breads out of the Main Dish binder.
     The system works great for me. Every recipe is filed on my computer which Steve periodically backs up so that all cannot be lost. If a friend ever wants one of my recipes, I simply print it from my documents.
     I had a few months worth of recipes to type recently. I tend to save this job for the winter months when I know I'll have more free time (and no one is home to see). The top photo shows my work spread over the table today, gluing photos to the typed recipes, slipping them into the plastic sleeves and filing them into one of three binders. I culled out some old recipes that we didn't like which made room for some new ones. I've also noticed that tastes in food and ways of cooking have changed over the years. Cookbooks can become outdated whereas cooking from current publications, including the internet, keeps things fresh. We're more tempted to try new things, eat healthier, or simply freshen up our menus a bit.
     My two oldest daughters, who also love to cook, tell me that any recipe they want or need is on the internet. My eldest simply browses the food or recipe she is interested in, then props her iPad on the kitchen counter to cook. While that's a good idea too, I like to be able to browse my recipes when I'm writing a shopping list and more importantly, I want to save recipes that are our favorites. I don't want to look something up every time I need it and take the chance that I won't find it. Plus, I don't have an iPad or tablet or whatever. Maybe I'm just too old to change at this point. Whatever. My addiction is stashed in a safe place where I can easily get my hands on it.
    I almost forgot! Last year, when our third daughter turned nineteen, I printed out all her favorite recipes plus ones that I thought she might like to have. I bought a new binder, made a decorative cover to slip into the front pocket and presented it to her as a gift. She liked it. I don't think she'll become a recipe addict like me, but she likes to be organized. Organizing can be an addiction too. I try not to let that one show. Oh, and bloggers like The English Kitchen and The Smitten Kitchen? Yeah, they're my enablers.

The plastic page-savers wipe clean!

I tried a couple of different cheeses for this recipe and liked this one best, so I tucked its wrapper  into the page saver as a reminder.

I like to add notes.

Thoughts On Forgiveness

     Someone important and dear to my family has betrayed us. The weight of their betrayal is deep and reaches far into a community of people. But this is not the focus of my story. It no longer matters what propagated the pain. It is done and it cannot be changed. What I focus on now is my role in this; the act that requires me to step onto the stage. The act of forgiveness.
     Offensive acts are categorized into two parts; those that break a law and those that break hearts. Sometimes an offense will do both and other times it will fit just one or the other category. We have written codes of law that address those offenders who break it. Their crimes, and the immorality that accompanies them, are punished and their debt to society is said to have been paid. But what about the other face of the offense? The face that has lied or betrayed us? The face that may or may not have broken a law, but has certainly broken our hearts? For this, we must look within ourselves and our own moral code to determine how we are to respond.
     As a Christian, I refer to the teachings of my faith to provide guidance through this moral quagmire. But even with this guidance, and even with a generally forgiving heart, it can still be a very hard thing to do. Forgive.
    Exactly what is forgiveness? I believe the foundation of the Christian faith is based on forgiveness. God sacrificed His Son as atonement for our sins. That even while we were still in our sin, Christ died for what was surely our own transgression. To a perfect and just God, our debt was paid and our sins were forgiven. The final result is the restoration of our broken relationship with God and our acceptance into Heaven as pure and guiltless. It is finished, it is complete, there is not one thing more we can or need to do. This is a representation of perfect forgiveness.
     Are we instructed to forgive others the same way that God forgave us? When we pray the Lord's prayer, the fifth petition says, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." or "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." We are petitioning God to help us forgive others in the same way that He has forgiven us. In the Book of Ephesians 4:32, the ultimate example is given, "And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another even as God in Christ forgave you." I respond with more questions: But God was perfect, I say! And we are not. How can imperfect humans behave in a perfect, God-like way? Is it okay to use our imperfection as an excuse to agonize and struggle, never reconciling with someone because it makes us uncomfortable? Or, shunning those who have hurt us even though with our mouths we say we have forgiven them? Again, if the final picture of forgiveness is restoration of the relationship, then how should we forgive?
     Dr. Timothy Keller, American Christian apologist, pastor and author, says the following;
  "What is forgiveness, specifically? When someone has wronged you, it means they owe you, they have a debt with you. Forgiveness is to absorb the cost of the debt yourself. You pay the price yourself, and you refuse to exact the price out of the person in any way. Forgiveness is to a) free the person from penalty for a sin by b) paying the price yourself. How did God forgive? We are told that he does not ‘remember’ them. That cannot mean that God literally forgets what has happened–it means he ‘sends away’ the penalty for them. He does not bring the incidents to mind, and does not let them affect the way he deals with us."
     The last sentence seems to reassure in my heart what I know I must do in my actions, "He does not bring the incidents to mind, and does not let them affect the way he deals with us." My problem is, what I should do and what I am able to do are very different. A friend likened this struggle to the swelling of a wound that cannot heal until the swelling goes down. Sometimes we need to let the hurt subside before we are able to forgive. I suspect 'grace' plays an important role here. God extends grace to us because he knows we are incapable of perfection. He also uses our inner struggle to teach us other important lessons about ourselves and perhaps see His divine nature more clearly.
      One thing I know for sure; this struggle makes me see how imperfect I am. It also makes me realize, again, what God has done for us. He forgave a people mired in sin, who did not not deserve nor earn His forgiveness. He forgave us instantly and forevermore and he continues to do so. He embraces us, smothers our faces with kisses and welcomes us home. I want to learn how to forgive like that.
     I imagine myself sitting on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to make this leap off the edge. My reasoning is telling me to do it, jump, forgive! But my human frailty and imperfections hold me back and make me fearful. I am afraid to forgive like that. I would rather forgive with strings attached (OK, hooks and harnesses!). The funny thing is, I know there will be a huge rush of adrenalin if I jump. It will be so worth it! In the meantime, I sit on the edge and agonize. I'm working on it and God is with me as I wait, whispering encouragement in my ear.

The Little Porch

     
    My mom, who is ninety, still lives in the house she and my dad built in 1952. Constructed as a tiny two-bedroom, post-war ranch, it hasn't been altered much in all these years. My parents both grew up in the city and a home in the country was my dad's dream. They bought a small lot in a corn field just across the Hudson River from Albany, NY. and their dream became a reality via a G.I. loan. Within a few years, two of my mother's sisters and their families also left the city and built three more houses in that field. Thus began our little neighborhood.
     One of the first additions my dad made to their tiny home was a porch off the back door of the kitchen. He built it himself and it came to be my favorite room of the house. To this day, I can see, smell and feel it as clearly as though I am there.
     My dad modeled the porch after the boxed in little porches seen on the backs of most city houses. It had chest high windows all around with one hinged window that could swing open to access a clothesline. Hanging next to this window was a heavy canvas bag filled with clothespins. The bag was tube- shaped with a handle and meant to be a feed bag for horses. Who knows where my father obtained such a thing, but he was thrifty and this made a sturdy clothespin bag. The door exiting the porch had a wooden milk box built into the corner next to it. The box was insulated with a lining of lead or zinc. It had a removable lid where we could lift out the milk bottles that the milkman delivered through a trap door on the outside wall. My sister and I liked to play with the milk box, stowing secret things in there to be retrieved later via the trap door.
     Dad also built a big wooden step from the kitchen door down onto the porch. The step could be tipped away from the doorsill and the empty space beneath it made a good storage place for tools. He kept a hammer or two there, screwdrivers, an awl and other odds and ends. Any time we neighborhood kids got to building something like forts or houses for stray dogs, we knew where to find a hammer. Dad would have sworn a fit if his tools went missing, so we were always careful to bring them back. This step was also the place where we tied on our sneakers in the summer or pulled on our boots in the winter. Dad studded the walls with nails so we could hang all our shoes within easy reach from the step. We made tying laces fly when we were in a hurry to get out to play, propelling ourselves off the step and out the door. Sometimes, the step was my destination and I went no farther. It was a good place to sit and mope when no one could come out to play or if life inside the house was too close for comfort. By stopping at the step, I wasn't committed to being either in or out. Either direction was a possibility and I didn't feel hemmed in to make a decision. It also served as an excellent spot for planning my next adventure. Since it was secluded from view, I could think in solitude. Mom might be right there, busying herself in the kitchen, but if I was down on the step, she wouldn't even know I was there.
     The kitchen was my mother. The screen door on the porch separated the outside world from our world, via the holy of holies, our kitchen. It was difficult to pass through the door without being noticed by my mother. Like all screen doors, creaking hinges gave us away. I often stood at this door to beg snacks from my mother for me and everyone else I happened to be playing with. Standing on the step, hanging onto the screen door, I would call inside, "Mom! Can I have a cookie?!" She would yell back, "How many?" and I might answer, "Eight!" She complained about us eating her out of house and home, but she always handed them out to us. The screen had a permanent bulge at the bottom where I would press my nose against it while I yelled in to my mom. I can still smell the metallic screening. We were forbidden to enter the house with shoes on, and Lord knew I wasn't going to take them off just to ask for a cookie, so I would push my nose onto that screen, feeling it give a little bump as the screen snapped into its bumped position. In the winter, the screen frame was exchanged with a glass, paned frame which created an entirely different door altogether.
     One summer we got our hands on a tape recorder. Our eight-year-old imaginations didn't seem to stray far when it came to recording ourselves. Burps, goofy noises and singing the pop AM radio songs along with our transistor radios made up our repertoire. One time, we sneaked up to the screen door, huddled together on the wooden step, and tried to record my mother singing. She had a beautiful voice and she would sing while she did her housework. We also begged her to laugh like the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz. I bragged to the other kids that my mother could imitate the witch's laugh and all the kids wanted to hear it. To our delight, she screamed the witch's cackling laugh, imitating it perfectly and maybe even going a little overboard. After being a good sport and hamming it up, she turned serious again and told us to shoo. We got it on tape.
     We always used the back porch for coming and going to play. The front door was reserved for company, salesmen, and heading off to church and school . For everything else, we used the back door. The porch was a decompression chamber of sorts, dividing outside from in. When we came home from play, we stopped on the porch, kicked off our shoes, brushed off dirt or snow, perhaps leaned our skates against the wall and briefly hovered between two worlds.
     The most dramatic porch event occurred one one February day when I was eleven. School was out for Winter Recess and all us kids were out sledding about half a mile from my house. The boys started throwing rocks for fun as the girls slid downhill. We were moving targets and they were...well, boys. Suddenly, I was struck in the eye with one of their rocks. I fell to my knees and sensed immediately that it was bad. Temporarily blinded, numb with pain, and panicked by the warm blood running down onto my new scarf, the kids all hustled me home. On that long walk, while I marveled at the colorful stars I was seeing, we fabricated a story so that no one would get the blame for blinding me. It's crazy how kids stick together no matter the consequences. It was my own cousin who injured me, but I would never be a tattletale. The unspoken rules of kidhood demanded as much. We entered the porch en masse where I stood on the step at the back door with all the other kids behind me. They were eager to witness this drama unfold. I knocked on my own door and yelled in to my mother, "Mom!" She and my aunt from up the street were visiting at the kitchen table that afternoon and I heard her get up and open the door for me. I stood there before her in pitiful condition, cheek split open, heaps of blood, blinded in one eye. I dared not cry for fear of what further injury my tears might cause. Who knew, maybe my eyeball might fall out. My aunt ran up behind my mother, tip of her nose red from her glass of wine. "Oh my gawd! Lee Lee, what did you do?!", she yelled. (Why was it always my fault?)  I kept thinking, don't cry, don't cry, your eyeball might fall out. I can still see their frantic movements, hear their exclamations, see the other kids sent away and my aunt quickly exiting for her home up the street. I came very close to losing the sight in my eye that year. I was brought to our dear Dr. Worth who referred us to an eye specialist the very next morning. I suffered days of severe headaches, light sensitivity, and I had quite the shiner. I missed the rest of winter break although I tried to ice skate with an eye patch, but I really didn't feel well and it was no fun. I was also scared into telling the truth about what happened that day. I later apologized to my cousin and told him they made me tell. And, I forever have a scar sewed into this tapestry of life called my face.
      The porch ushered us in and out through all the seasons, treating us to wonderful aromas depending on the time of year. In the summer, it smelled of chlorine and damp beach towels from the swimming pool. In late summer it held bushels of tomatoes and zucchini passing from garden to kitchen. I would grab a tomato as I ran out to play on a late summer's evening, eating it as I rushed back out to the kickball game or freeze tag. In the fall, leaf rakes lined the wall and the porch smelled of sweet apples and pears. The sun warmed the little room as the afternoons wore on, stealing away the autumn chill by the time we ran out after school. Come winter, the porch was littered with boots and sleds. Ice skates replaced the flip flops' place on the nails. The little porch became an ice box in the frigid winter of upstate New York. Winter's clean, sharp smell stung the inside of my nose and cleared my head when I went out to play. Through all the seasons, it smelled of my mother's good cooking coming from just the other side of the door. It greeted us as we ran up those steps, appetites huge from a day of vigorous outdoor play.
     Around 1967, my dad built a larger porch onto the back of the house. The two porches were connected with a door and the old, original porch became known as "the little porch." The new, bigger porch served as our summer living room, complete with dining area, sofa, chairs and TV while the little porch reminded utilitarian. So much time has passed and my dad is now gone. The door to the big porch is always closed as it sits in a state of encapsulated time, gathering dust. My little porch still appears the same, but no one runs in and out of it any more. It's easier for my mom to keep her garbage can there so she won't have to walk down the back steps. The rope on the clothesline has rotted, the milk box is nailed shut and I must drive six hundred miles to sit on the back step. But you can bet that every time I'm there, I spend a few minutes sitting on that step and remembering what a fantastic childhood we had together. And when the day comes that the house must be sold, I'm taking the screen door.
    
    
 

Singing in the Rain. A Mockingbird's Song

     It rained and poured all day. As I went about my chores, listening to the heavy downpour, I heard something  unusual. It was the sound of this happy fellow, singing his heart out. I went out to the porch and listened with amazement. When I realized he wasn't going anywhere, I came back inside to put on a sweater and get the camera. He stayed on one branch in the center of the tree and took turns facing each direction. Once in a while he ruffled his feathers as though he was annoyed with the rain on his head. Another time, he took an angry stab at a nearby crab apple. For the most part, I got the impression that he was on a mission and a major rain event was merely a glitch or an annoyance to him.
     Several thoughts ran through my mind while I listened. Who was he singing to? No other bird was answering in reply. Not that he took a breath to wait and listen for a reply. He rarely paused. And can a bird sing for this long without straining its tiny throat?  A few times he turned up the volume and sang very loudly. I also wondered if he was the adult who attacked me in the spring or is he one of their offspring? Perhaps he's  not related at all, but I do know he's been around our yard for several weeks.
     He continued to sing after I came back inside and he was still singing every time I checked the clock. I'm not sure how long he had started before I took notice, but my best estimate is that he sang for over two hours. To put it into context, this video is a little over 1 minute. He sang for 120 of them. The length of his song was enough to impress me. But the real contest is that he sang in the heaviest downpour of the day. (You can hear it on the video.) He was defying the rain and singing despite it. My intuition tells me he was simply singing a song of joy. 
     He stands out from the rest of the world today and I admire his tenacity. I vow to myself that even if he dive bombs me next spring, I will continue to adore him.

*It is 6:39 am. as I type this. I hear some tentative notes outside my window. Funny how he is now on this side of the house, where I am.

Legos and Peekaboo Land'O Lakes Lady

     Mignon over at Sweet Whisper Dreams posted about Legos today. It reminded me that they were one of our girls' favorite toys. They played with Legos for days at a time, leaving them out overnight to continue building day after day. I recall stepping on them barefoot if I wasn't careful as I went about the house, especially in the dark. They enjoyed photographing their scenes and acting out little stories with them. We don't have the "girl" sets. My girls preferred pirates, cowboys and Star Wars.
     One lazy Sunday afternoon this past winter, the girls were sorting through all the sets, putting them together and taking stock of what we have. Audrey ended up building one of her sets that day, proving that Legos are a toy kids will play with right into adulthood. We still have tubs of them, sorted by color and taking up a lot of room in the basement. One of these days we'll find a new home for the plain colored blocks, but the girls seem to want to keep their themed sets. I enjoy the large Duplo blocks that are geared for the chubby little hands of toddlers. These are the perfect toy for younger children who come to visit because they're suited for both boys and girls. We have a train and circus animals with assorted blocks. I'm not patient with the tiny Legos, but I'm happy to build towers and buildings with these larger Duplo blocks for the little kids to use... or knock down.
     Several years ago, Chelsea used Legos to make this little stop animation film for one of her art classes at VCU. It's titled "Moral Disasterology" and it plays out the consequences of the mystic monkeys, "See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil". The first Lego man sees evil when he peeks at the Land'O Lakes peekaboo Indian* and gets his head speared by the wild man. His Lego wife begins swearing (it's beeped out) and she floats down the river meeting her disaster. A little monkey calls her "potty mouth". And finally, the last Lego couple hears evil when they can't understand what the hillbilly is saying and they are done for. As you can see, we still love our Legos.



* Steve taught us about the Land 'O Lakes peekaboo Indian a long time ago. I don't know how he learned it, but I imagine it was back in his neighborhood in the 60's. (The image that pops into my head is that Steve and his friends were like the boys in the Sandlot.) I never knew about the peekaboo Indian before Steve shared it. If the boys in my neighborhood knew about it, they kept it a secret. Be warned- it's a little bit naughty.
You take an empty Land'O Lakes butter box and using an exacto knife, cut the little box of butter the Indian lady is holding so that it opens as a flap, hinged on the top. Find the image of the Indian lady on the other side of the box and cut her knees off, a little larger than the butter flap you previously cut. You tape the knees behind the butter flap and voila- peekaboo. The knees look just like you-know-whats.
It cracked me up that Chelsea would use this in her video. The story is that her college roommate's grandmother was the model for the Land 'O Lakes Indian. Perhaps Chelsea was showing her how much we revered the lady?