How a spoonful of sweetened condensed milk changed my life
A sweet sixteen story I’ll never forget (letter 273)
Hallo fellow learn-it-all 👋
Greetings from Leidschendam, the Netherlands 🇳🇱
I’ve moved away from dog-sitting in North Holland to my cousin’s gezellig home in the same town where my grandfather was a preacher’s son. Domus Vermet was my great-grandfather, who lived a modest life, devoted to serving the people as a minister. It’s fascinating to feel this way; to be living so close to where both of my paternal grandparents were raised, especially since they’ve both passed.
Now, let’s dive into letter 273 from a learn-it-all. Enjoy!
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❓Question to think about
What story from your family has given you perspective?
🖊️Writing
It was February 15, 2012. My Sweet Sixteen.
In America, that milestone comes with hype. Car keys. Freedom. Maybe a party.
Me? I was sulking.
The day before, I failed my road test. Parallel parking was my downfall. I killed cones like a Call of Duty gamer, and the DMV woman was far from forgiving. My palms had never been clammy.
The next day, I wore what Omi, my grandmother, called my orangutan face — pouty and bitter.
Then Omi told me about her Sweet Sixteen.
It was December 1944, the Hunger Winter in the Netherlands. The fifth and final winter of German occupation.
There were no cars. No cake. No sparkling decorations. Most families were starving, burning furniture for warmth, even boiling tulip bulbs into soup.
Omi’s family managed a little better, but still barely scraped by on one meal a day.
But on December 23, 1944, her parents and two older siblings gathered round in a circle. They lit a smidgeon of the last candlestick. In the flicker, they passed around a can of sweetened condensed milk.
That was her birthday gift.
A dusty can of sweetened condensed milk, hidden from the Germans.
One small spoonful each. One taste of sugar. Her first in months, maybe years.
No birthday song. No noise. Just sugar in the near dark.
Eighty years later, I still get chicken skin picturing her savoring a spoonful of sugar for the first time in ages. It humbled me. It shrank my complaints about car keys much smaller. I swallowed my tongue and became more humble with her perspective.
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Fast forward to July 30, 2025.
It’s 4:22 PM on a Wednesday. After a 15 km run, I wander down a beautiful old street in Voorburg. At the corner, I stop.
The sign reads: Prins Albertlaan.
Omi’s street. The one she lived on for 24 years before setting sail on the American Dream to Philadelphia.
I decided to stroll down Prins Albterlaan again.
This time even slower and wondering: Did she walk these very cobblestones in the same brown leather riding boots she later gave me? Did she sing in that black‑spired church’s choir with her mother Tona? Buy fresh eggs with her father, Brutus? Play tennis on these courts? Sell trinkets on the sidewalk with her sister, Diny? Feed the birds with her brother, Ed? Buy wine at that shop with Willy Mol?
The questions buzz around me like Mother Willow’s wind in Pocahontas. What if I’m retracing her very footsteps?
And then it loops back to memories of that Sweet Sixteen story.
When I was 16, I sulked because I couldn’t legally drive.
When Omi was 16, she lit a smidgeon of candlelight and savored a spoonful of sugar.
💌My Reflection Invitation
What small sweetness can you notice today with a fresh sense of gratitude?
📖 Reading
I've continued to read a spiritual philosophical book by J. Krishnamurti called The Mirror of Relationship. A quote from him in Saanen on August 5, 1962 talk I've resonated with lately:
"You know, to live with the beauty of those mountains and not get accustomed to it is very difficult. Most of you have been here now for nearly three weeks. You have beheld those mountains, heard the stream, and seen the shadows creep across the valley, day after day. And have you not noticed how easily you get used to it all? You say, "Yes, it is quite beautiful," and you pass by. You live with beauty, or to live with an ugly thing, and not become habituated to it requires enormous energy, an awareness that does not allow your mind to grow dull."
🎧Listening
Fresh Roses by Juke Ross
Fresh roses in my garden need the rain
I've been hoping for clouds, but the sun remains
Fresh roses in my garden need the rain
Heaven sent me your love, but it keeps me chained
Thank you Spotify Daylist for discovering this gem.
🔍 Word to define
Hunger Winter: the Dutch famine of 1944–1945.
Also known as Hongerwinter in Dutch, was a famine that took place in the German-occupied Netherlands, especially in the densely populated western provinces north of the great rivers, during the relatively harsh winter of 1944–1945, near the end of World War II. (Source: Wikipedia)
🌟Quote to inspire
“The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman is seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It's the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows & the beauty of a woman only grows with passing years.”
― Audrey Hepburn, Flemish film and fashion icon 1929- 1993
📸Photos of the Week
My views lately have been green, flowery and full of furry creatures.
🙏Shoutouts
To Dutch Immigration for extending my stay in this beautiful country. Bless all that is good.
To Omi for sharing her stories with me when she was still breathing the same air as us <3
I appreciate you reading this!
If ideas resonated, I’d love you to press the heart button, leave a comment, reply to this email, or reach me at vermetjl@gmail.com.
Keep on learning 😁
Totzo 🌷
Jen
PS - in case you missed last week’s letter on how comfort isn't the villain.
PPS- if you’d like to read my favorite letters, the best way to encourage my work is to buy my book on Amazon here.
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