- Dec 16, 2025
Updated: Dec 18, 2025
NOTE FROM JAN ~ Closing out my 2025 Creativity Challenge is this month's guest blogger, Michele (Everts) Wills. Michele and I went to elementary school together and our moms were good friends. That was long, loooooong ago. So what a delight to catch up with her again on-line. Please enjoy Michele's post about special ways to preserve family memories while also creating in the kitchen. (P.S. Look for my Creativity Challenge to continue into 2026.) Cheers ~ Jan
AND NOW, TASTE YOUR MEMORIES WITH MICHELE WILLS ~ My three siblings and I were raised in the small town of Caro in mid-Michigan's "Thumb." My parents owned a pharmacy and a Hallmark Card and Gift shop and worked long hours. From the time when I was about ten years old, I would call my mom after school and ask her what was for supper. She would tell me what she had planned, what ingredients to use and how to generally make the meal. There were some mistakes, to be sure, but overall, we usually had tasty suppers.
The majority of the recipes I made were not written down anywhere, just truly "from scratch" cooking. One of the first recipes I intentionally recreated was a dessert made by my paternal grandmother, Nellie Everts, called "Birds Nest" (sort of an upside-down apple cobbler). I had never seen her use a written recipe. After learning that Grandma’s memory was failing, I asked her to tell me how she made it. She told me the ingredients and approximate measurements, which helped me to replicate that recipe. Grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease shortly after that and passed away in 1983. Shortly after that, I made the Birds Nest for my dad. He was amazed when he tasted it, and I have been thankful ever since that I took the time to talk with Grandma. I would say that the Birds Nest was the beginning of my interest in recreating recipes from very little information or a written recipe.
Some years later, Mom gifted my siblings and me a typewritten, leather 3-ring binder with many of our family recipes. There were a few recipes from her mother, Grandma Helen, and her husband, our Grandpa Randy, which they had handwritten especially for the family cookbook. What makes this cookbook so special is that not only did it contain our most loved recipes, but it was a labor of love because each cookbook was hand typed on an electric typewriter! One of the foibles of this cookbook is that each version contains typos, most of which do not affect the recipe. However, one recipe in my version of the cookbook was found to contain a significant error.
One year our mom made a maraschino cherry-filled cookie for a Christmas cookie exchange. (She thought anyone offering “No Bake” cookies were slackers.) This cookie quickly became a beloved family favorite. A poinsettia shaped cookie cutter is used and 3 holes are punched in the middle so that the pretty red cherry filling could show through. Whenever I tried to make these cookies using the recipe in my cookbook, the cherry filling was always runny. I tried several times and failed each time, which was upsetting to me. This continued failure led to my brother becoming the designated baker of these cookies. We finally discovered that my mom made a typo in my cookbook. The amount of cornstarch was off by a tablespoon, and I was vindicated!
With the holidays now in full swing, I share a family recipe we call “Grape Salad” or “Christmas Salad.” I have no knowledge where it originated, but Grape Salad has been eaten at our family’s Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays for as long as I can remember. This salad is actually more of a dessert and is very simple, using only 4 main ingredients: seedless red grapes, pineapple tidbits, mini marshmallows and whipped cream (the real stuff only). A fond memory is that during the 2+ hour road trips to go to family holiday dinners, mom would sit in the car, working to halve and de-seed the grapes as there were no seedless grapes available at that time. What a mess, but it had to be done so the grapes and pineapple could sufficiently drain. The heavy cream would be sweetened and whipped at the last minute, just before serving to ensure that it was as fresh as possible. Any remaining Grape Salad was highly coveted to accompany the obligatory turkey sandwich and other leftovers later in the day.
Working full time in the health profession, being active with our daughters as they were growing up, teaching at the university level and obtaining my MBA at age 52, put my thoughts about researching recipes on the back burner. Retiring in late 2024, my husband and I sold our home and a majority of our collective life's belongings. We now divide our time in a lovely, much smaller condo in a golf community in Florida and a small cottage in Michigan on Lake Huron. Thoughts of a blog had been floating in my head for a couple of years, and finally, in late 2025 my cooking/food blog, "Taste Your Memories," was established. Through my blog, I hope to help other folks enrich their memories of family by recreating some of their favorite missing-in-action recipes and passing them down once again.
My own family continues to enjoy time together, building new memories, in and out of the kitchen.
Recipes, including those for Grape Salad, Poinsettia Cookies, and Mimi's Apple Pie, can be found on my blog site. In addition, if you have any memories of favorite family foods for which you have only a few ingredients, or perhaps no recipe at all, you can also contact me about this through my blog site (see bottom button).
You can also find me at:
Of, if you prefer email, please reach out to me at michelewills857@hotmail<dot>com.
I would love to hear from you and help you “taste your memories.” ~ Michele
CLOSING NOTE FROM JAN ~ Thank you for supporting my creative adventures this year. Your reading, reviewing, and sharing word-of-mouth book love has meant more than I can tell you in this crazy, heart-wrenching, wonderful world of publishing. I appreciate you and love to hear from you, especially if you care to tell me about your own creative journey or ghostly encounter(s). Or both! Please reach out any time.
by Natalie Putnam
Introduction: A Life in Two Acts
Many days, I press my hands into cool, damp clay and feel its silken smoothness coating my skin—a sensation worlds apart from the crisp paper and polished desks of my former business life. If you had told me decades ago that I'd trade tailored suits and spreadsheets for aprons dusted with stoneware, I would have laughed.
The Early Years: Climbing the Corporate Ladder
My career began in downtown Detroit as a truck dispatcher. Fresh out of college, armed with little but boundless ambition, I dove into the world of business. I spent years building my reputation and resume, moving from entry-level positions to management and eventually executive roles. The satisfaction of closing deals and leading teams was real, and the financial rewards were, too. Success, as defined by society, was mine.
My time in the corporate world was marked by drive and countless hours dedicated to climbing each rung of the ladder. I thrived on goal-setting and competition, always chasing the next promotion or accolade. The environment was fast-paced, rewarding, and often exhilarating, fueling my desire to make a tangible impact through leadership and strategic decision-making.
A Chance Encounter: Discovering Clay
My introduction to pottery was purely accidental and started even before college. Our high school had an art class that included pottery. The pottery wheel, with its spinning rhythm and tactile allure, mesmerized me. I lost myself in the process, shaping clay into forms that felt both ancient and new. In that class, I experienced a rare sense of flow and fulfillment. The sensation was more than just novel—it was memorable. But it was only one semester, and I soon moved on to other things, never returning to it, though I never forgot it either.
The Turning Point: Listening to My Inner Voice
As my career grew, I had frequently turned down invitations to join my friends on their "craft nights". With my demanding job and two kids, it became a luxury I didn't have, and frankly, I was not all that interested. But the feeling of "flow" returned one Christmas when I took a two-week vacation to stay home and decided to repaint my young daughter's old wooden bed. The turned wood was perfect for painting Caribbean colors, and I soon lost myself in painting the head and foot boards, gradually changing from dark brown to vibrant orange, teal, pink, and white. I was again in a state of relaxation, flow, and ease, a memory I keep even 30 years later.
Over the course of my lifetime, I moved locations, took on new titles, was promoted, and enjoyed greater recognition. It was recognition that came from hard work and building something greater than myself. I enjoyed my career, my industry contacts, and my feeling of accomplishment, but eventually the time was right to retire.
Transitioning: From Business Metrics to Artistic Milestones
In the beginning, my business background proved of little value. I finally retired, and at 65 years of age, I could pursue anything I wanted without the need to produce an income. As I assessed my options, I stumbled on a profound truth:
I started to realize that my trucking industry career was all about improving the lives and businesses of my customers, developing my employees, putting things in order, and creating something greater than myself. And art was similar! I realized that art demanded vulnerability, patience, and a willingness to embrace imperfection. I had always professed that successful companies are learning organizations. I was learning again, but this time in my art, and I was back at the beginning. I had almost no experience in art or craft.
After a year or so of working with polymer, I was able to join our community pottery club. I started with beginning hand building, making a few pieces that really got me hooked. The kindness, generosity, and skill of my teachers amazed me. They taught me without hesitation or wanting anything in return. That concept was brought home repeatedly in this community of artists, and frankly, I was arguably one of the worst in the class! All the students had at least a background in some type of art or craft. My first efforts produced some rather sloppy results! Instead of seeing these as failures, I began to appreciate them as steps in my journey. Each mistake taught me something new about the material—and myself.
Lessons Learned: The Intersection of Business and Art
My background in business has continued to shape my journey as a potter in unexpected ways. Organization, discipline, and goal-setting are just as important in the studio as they are in the office. I've learned to blend structure with spontaneity, and strategy with soul.
Pottery has taught me the importance of patience and resilience. Unlike the fast pace of the corporate world, working with clay is a slow and deliberate process. It requires trust—in the material, in the process, and in oneself. I've learned to celebrate small victories and to view setbacks as invitations to grow.
Perhaps most importantly, I've discovered the joy of creating something lasting and beautiful with my own hands. In business, achievements are often intangible or fleeting; in pottery, each piece is both a product and a story, tangible evidence of creativity and care.
Finding Purpose: More Than a Career Change
Today, my days are filled with the joy of making, the challenge of learning, and the satisfaction of sharing with others. I continue to explore new techniques and styles. The studio has become my haven—a place where I am both student and teacher, leader and learner.
Looking back, I am grateful for every step that led me here. The skills and experiences I gained in business have enriched my journey as a potter, giving me the tools to build my creative enterprise with confidence and care.
Conclusion: Embracing Change and Celebrating Creativity
If my story resonates with you, let it serve as encouragement to listen to your inner voice. Change can be daunting, especially when it means redefining your identity and stepping outside your comfort zone.
My path from businesswoman to potter was not linear, nor was it easy. It required persistence and the willingness to embrace uncertainty. But in the clay, I found myself and my purpose. And in sharing my story, I hope to inspire others to seek out their own creative adventures—wherever they may lead.
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A FEW ENDNOTES FROM JAN: (*) Natalie Putnam, thank you, thank you for sharing this delightful peek into your creative journey. (*) Friends who've signed up to be part of my community, thank you, too! (*) Friends who haven't yet joined my community, you can do it now by visiting my website or my profile/linktree tab on Facebook or Instagram. What's in it for you? A blog post celebrating creativity straight to your e-mailbox each month, as well as an e-newsletter chock full of bookish news and reviews and other surprises (e.g., recipes, game and movie recs, a chance to win bookish giveaways, and more)! That's pretty much it.
Until next time, stay literate, my friends!
I crochet. I embroider. I write. Not necessarily in that order. Tapping my creative juices is a bit like breathing to me. If I don’t do it, I don't feel well.
Watching my grandmother crochet or embroider fascinated me. When she offered to teach me, I jumped at the chance. Grandma handed me money and strict instructions not to talk to strangers, then sent me off to Murphy’s 5 & 10 in her small town to pick out an embroidery sampler and floss. I was 8 years old. I loved picking the colors of floss that would make the flat, plain cloth come alive.
Years later, that experience became the essay “French Knots” in my memoir SEVEN THIN DIMES.
My parents were voracious readers. The apple doesn’t fall far from that tree. My nose was always in a book. My mother often pushed me to go outside and play with other kids. In our family, the tally is: readers - a lot; painters & carpenters - a few; writers - none. Just me. By the fourth grade, I was reading on an eleventh grade level, dreaming sentences and rhyming words at night or daydreaming them during the day. My parents were supportive, but Erie, PA, in the 1960’s was void of outlets to explore creative writing. I had no idea why I had such a desire to put words together or that a girl like me could grow up to be a writer one day.
Fourth grade and Mrs. Whitmore changed my life. She was like a light in the dark. She was the first, only, and last teacher who complemented me and made me feel good about my writing. So, I wrote her a poem. Mind you, I’m not even sure I understood back then that what I did was called a poem. Mrs. Whitmore told my parents I had talent. Suddenly, I saw myself in an entirely new light. She allowed me to step out of the class, while the other students were reading books at a level I’d already surpassed, and explore SRA reading assignments, write plays, and put them on, later, for the class. But where to go and what to do in a city with no options?
Ninth grade brought the excitement of a newly offered creative writing class. By mid-term all joy at finally having a chance to learn to write had deflated into misery. The teacher was not a writer, nor did he appear to know much about the craft of writing. Following my submission of an assignment, he accused me of plagiarism. Ordered to sit alone in a room while he observed, I was given a subject and told to write at the same level and in the same style as my homework submission. To add to his draconian behavior, he gave me a time limit to complete it. Imagine doing that to a terrified 15-year-old. I should have told my parents, but I thought I was “in trouble” and kept quiet. He gave me an A+ for the class but never once offered kind words or additional help.
From teachers to high school counselors, no one seemed to be able to tell me how to be a writer and also earn a living. After a couple false starts in college, I chose journalism and stuck with it. Throughout my years working low paying jobs in various fields, I wrote poetry and essays, submitted them and was rejected. I often thought I’d create wallpaper from the rejection letters - now they’d be a screensaver for my laptop! Floundering, lost with no mentor or path to take, often working two jobs, I alternately wrote and gave up on writing. But I never stopped crocheting and embroidering.
I embroidered quilts for each of my nephews when they were born, creating a family tradition I continue for my great-nephews and great-nieces. I crochet “lapghans” and afghans for people who do kind things for me, or as a donation to a craft table at the church fundraiser. Efforts to financially afford to enroll full time in an MFA program, or to pursue the degree part-time around my job, failed. Approval for flexible work hours wasn’t available, nor were online degrees plentiful, like they are today. I wanted, desperately, to learn and grow and, most of all, to validate that I was born to write…that I did have talent.
Well, now that you’ve followed me through this sad tale, you must be wondering why didn’t I quit my job and go to graduate school for a writing degree? Or maybe you’re so slogged down in this story you think if I don’t get to the point where I turned a corner, you’ll give up.
Turning that corner starts like another sad tale, but with a happy ending. Post heart-attack, my father had loads of health issues. I didn’t feel I could leave Erie. Then I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 1998 and faced a tough road through strenuous chemo treatments. Yet, after every big storm there's a rainbow somewhere if you look hard enough. The advice from a cancer survivor was “write 3 things you’ll do when, not if, you beat the disease”. Top of my list was to write and publish a novel. A refrigerator magnet held that list in front of my face each morning.
Twenty-six years later, I’m an author and cancer survivor who always has a crochet or embroidery project in progress! My early novels won small local awards, giving me courage to keep going. My recent novel, WHAT LIES WE KEEP, has won five awards. Publishing under my own label, Porch Swing Publishing, LLC, I’m carving a niche brand using cybersecurity in contemporary fiction to create additional suspense - a technothriller that’s not science fiction! And I put out a monthly newsletter - One Writer’s World - to reach out to readers.
Mrs. Whitmore was right all those years ago. I do have talent. I am a writer.
NOTE: Visit Janet’s website to learn more:
