Flotsam, and Some Jetsam for Good Measure

Argh. The longer I go without blogging the harder it is to start up again. As it is with so many things. For inspiration, I'll look out the window. It's snowing. It's also 17 degrees. Maybe school will let out early today? I'm supposed to teach my middle schoolers today at 12:50, so that means I'm squarely in the middle of an Ambiguous Snow Situation. Alright, not so much inspiration there. I'll look at my desk. Oh, here's a tidbit. It's a note the babysitter had written the the other night:

Dear Mr. Jack,

We regret to inform you that today at 7:00 PM you will be arrested. Sorry again.

Sincerely,

The Police

P.S. You will get a cookie when you are in jail.

Now I'll take a look in my blog drafts. Oh, here's a new list of search terms that get folks over here to Dream Kitchen (the usual terms are: steel cut oats, Fine Old Dixie Recipes, dream kitchens, and quadrameter)

every pool boys's dream
children's haircuts of the 1940s
dancing "wet dress"
barefoot amish children
A typical mid-1940s kitchen
pictures of girls wearing saddle shoes and white socks
"still wears a diaper"
princess diana lady diana pictures photos
essay my grandmother's kitchen
parsnip cake
armenian boureg

My husband has an intestinal bug. Will has a cold. At least Jack FINALLY has a loose tooth, which he wiggles constantly and is very proud of. I have one of those annoying dry patches on the corner of my mouth.

Note to Jack Frost: Feel free to visit the Southern Hemisphere a little early this year, dude.

Ms. Hitachi B. Machine, 1995-2007

I got her in 1995, the summer I moved to Virginia to start a teaching job. A bread machine was perhaps a strange thing for a single woman to buy, and I'm not sure what I was thinking, but . . . whatever. She made good bread every so often. When I got married to John in 1997 I took her with me, but she did not get used for a whole year. Just as I was contemplating giving her away, I used her again and didn't really ever stop. We took her with us when we moved to our second house and used her every day, almost, after Jack was born and then Will. Having babies makes you hungry for carbs. And every time my Indiana In-laws came to help, of course they needed to eat bread.

Life was good for Ms. Hitachi B. Machine for many years. She had a position of honor in our household and didn't mind making the same oat bread forever, and the same pizza dough, and never any quickbreads. (You might as well make quickbreads the normal way.) Her glory years were the Swarthmore years, making sandwich bread for Will and Jack's lunches, and pizza dough for the Friday night pizza ritual.

But one day I was browsing at the upscale kitchen store, W-S, and a shiny new stainless steel bread machine caught my eye. She had a convection oven, many more settings, including "artisan," and this one called my name, almost audibly. "Lauren. I'm Q. Z. Nart. Take me home!" Looking back, my big mistake was talking about this machine in front of Ms. H. B and saying things like "Our bread machine doesn't have near that number of settings." Or, in a moment of desparation, "Don't you think our bread machine has gotten noisier?" John was the one to actually say out loud what I was thinking: "We've had this bread machine a very long time. If you find one that you'd really like, why not get a new one?" And I'd murmur, "Oh, no, I'd wait until this one dies."

One night shortly after that, at 2:10 AM, I heard the crash. I knew it was Ms. H. B. Machine right away, even in my grogginess. I took my time walking downstairs, getting slippers and turning the hall light on. Because I knew. That it would be too late.

There she was, lying on her side, door akimbo, a blob of dough flung two feet away from her, just under the range. I picked her up gently. Her door wouldn't close and a plastic corner had sheared off. I sighed. I brushed off the blob of dough and put it in a plastic container, to deal with the morning. I had heard dark rumors of such things, of bread machines moving around the counter during the kneading stage, and actually flinging themselves off the edge. However, this had never happened in 12 years. How strange that it should happen now. Or perhaps I had "accidentally" left her too close to the edge? My sadness is tinged with guilt. A little.

To prove how totally heartless I am, we already have a new Ms. Q.Z. Nart. She is shiny and beautiful, and makes delicious bread. All's fair in love, war, and kitchen gadgets.

The Manuscript and the Goat

It's a been a big week.

I finally submitted my manuscript and application materials for the MFA in Creative Nonfiction. I FedExed it on Wednesday, two days before the deadline, just as I had planned not to do, of course. I had to tinker with things for a while, but mostly I procrastinated about editing the personal statement, which my writing group had suggested I revise because I was "selling myself short." In the end I didn't even change it that much, mainly because I just didn't think it was worth the agonizing. I wash my hands of the matter now. I'll hear in early April as to whether I got in. The day I turned it in I "celebrated" by going to bed at 9:30. Please, no one let me apply to any more graduate programs in my life.

Then the next day I had to prepare a dinner for nine: my immediate family and my Dad, his lady friend visiting from Seattle, my brother, his girlfriend, and her two-year-old. It was a school night, but it couldn't really be helped. This had been planned for a couple of months, and of course I thought I'd have the application turned in a week before, ha ha. Part of me just wanted to punt and buy prepared food, but another part of me wanted to experiment aggressively with a quirky menu.

So that's what I did. I made a goat stew from meat I had gotten months earlier from the CSA, on a whim. You can use goat in almost any recipe that calls for lamb, so I made a stew from my mother's Spanish cookbook Delicioso! by Penelope Casas. When I started to smell it cooking it seemed a little strong, and I had misgivings, but in the end it turned out delicioso indeed. The cubed meat was cooked in red wine and a little vinegar, and I crushed six cloves of garlic, onion, and red bell pepper to make a paste. That was added in the last 30 mins. of cooking. The stew looked really scant at the end so I served it on couscous. Thank God for couscous, the Divine Extender.

I also made a salad of my own devising from baby spinach, arugula, blood orange sections, and red onions, with a dressing of olive oil, lime juice, and cumin. I bought some Manchego cheese and a fresh ciabatta; that's a rectangular flat rustic bread. We had a red Spanish wine that had been recommended to us by the all-knowing wine guys at Moore Bros. in Wilmington, our new wine mecca. For dessert? Also from the Spanish cookbook, an almond potato cake. It had two cups of almonds and a potato in it, and no other fat other than the oil already in the almonds. Six eggs, though.

Although I didn't pander to anyone's tastes for this meal other than my own, almost to an obnoxious degree, the food received raves. I believe it awakened everyone from their gastronomic torpor. Even the kids seemed happy, with the carbs anyway, if nothing else. (Now I'm all about Spanish cooking, and even got a serious mortar and pestle for the pastes with garlic and herbs.)

Next post: After making hundred of loaves of bread, our 12-year-old bread machine committed suicide, and I have only myself to blame.

Take Rachael Ray. Please.

I've been itching to write something about the unwatchable Rachael Ray for a while, except I don't want to watch her enough to write it. But she's on the tube whenever I'm at the gym, so I've been able to catch just a few snippets in the locker room. However, very little seems to be about food, it's boyfriends and banter and heartwarming stories but where's the food? It must be later in the show after I leave. When I read in a Karen Heller article in the Inquirer the other week that Ms. Ray has a recipe for Barbecued Succotash, something deep inside of me snapped. And that's even before I learned about Hot Dog Salad or Sangria on a Stick. Anyway, that was it. I'm on the warpath against R.R. and her slummy recipes. I want her off my Triscuit boxes and off the TV. And have I seen huge ads for her show on SEPTA buses? Or only in my nightmares?

Now you simply must read what Anthony Bourdain says about her as a guest writer on Michael Ruhlman's blog. (You need to scroll down, or you could read all his merciless comments on the Food Network's "bobbleheads," if you have the stomach for it.) Sometimes you have to love this kind of writing. Bourdain really bites.

Water: The Accidental Baptism

There I was, Wednesday afternoon at around 2:10, trying to solve a problem. Once a week, I teach a writing class to middle schoolers at Will's Montessori. We are reviewing websites, and I had gotten us all on our own Wikispace. Here's the problem: I had seriously underestimated their ability to turn it into a party. They had been sending messages to each other during the whole class without my knowledge, even though I had told them I could read everything they sent. Anyhow, there I was, thinking, What Have I Done, and staring at the kids' comments on the screen. I began to hear a slow, rhythmic tapping sound . . . on my open file next to the computer. Dripping, actually. I looked up and saw a brown water line on the ceiling. Upstairs, I saw that it was wet around the toilet.

I wiped it up, and not sure what to do next, flushed. In retrospect? Not such a good idea. The toilet overflowed, and overflowed, and overflowed, with astonishing rapidity and force. Over the bathroom floor, down through the floor and into the kitchen, raining onto my keyboard and monitor as I grabbed the files and anything moveable out of the way. For about fifteen minutes I became another person, Panicked Princess. She unplugged everything she saw. She grabbed a bucket but she really needed about six. She grabbed a towel but she really needed ten. Panicked Princess called 911. She really shouldn't have, but she hadn't seen this much water coming down, indoors, ever. She called hubby, who calmly told her where the valve for the house's water was located. She succeeded in turning it off.

A nice Swarthmore Borough policeman came. (The police here don't have a whole lot to do.) He helped Panicked Princess mop up. He told her reassuring things like "This floor might buckle. You might have to redo it." "Your kitchen cabinets are wet. I hope you won't have to have new ones put in." "Can I see your basement? Oh, look, it's pouring down here, too." Our shop vac/wet vac was in the attic, so I carried it down our narrow attic ladder. Panicked Princess was beginning, slowly, to morph back into Lauren. Deep breathing helped.

Finally, Nice Swarthmore Policeman said, "I don't think it's as bad as it looks. That's just residual water coming down." Lauren was back. Lauren called Will's school to cancel an interview for an article she was writing for them. Lauren called a friend to have her get Will. Lauren called the plumber, and something in her voice, a trace of Panicked Princess, prompted them to put our house at the top of their emergency list.

So, after hours of looking for a clog, they found what was probably a bird's nest at one time, perched on top of the exhaust pipe, maybe? It's all conjecture at this point. Plus, pipes have been freezing around here, so that may have contributed to what amounted to an impressively impenetrable clog.

And the upshot? A nice new high-pressure toilet and a plumbing bill not to sneeze at. Grains and flours had to be thrown out. And as I said, some cookbooks now have slightly wavy pages. But then License to Grill was already doused with water at some point, and Trattoria Cooking was already wavy and scorched. Some people don't believe in keeping cookbooks in the kitchen, or so I hear, and now I know why. My mother's collection is in the living room, because I consider them archival, but otherwise I think cookbooks are to be splattered upon and marked and otherwise affectionately abused.

As for my computer? It. Is. Fine. I normally try to avoid that bloggy habit of using periods for emphasis, so please understand that when I do it, it means EMPHASIS. EMPHASIS!!!! My manuscripts for my MFA application have not been lost. I was supposed to back them up, like John was always telling me, but of course I didn't. But everything is fine. Did I say that? That my computer is fine? Like when Batman's helicopter crashes into the foam rubber expo (we just saw the movie last night), it was just good fortune. For which I'm very thankful.

And my Wikispace problems? I've locked the space and we're now using the school's email to share responses. Because I have no time or interest in policing the students, and the Wikispace was just too, too tempting for the little darlings. That problem, in my mind, was all wrapped up with the other one, how to stop a flood when you're not at the source. Here is what I've learned:

1. Middle schoolers do technology a million times faster and better than 48-year-olds.
2. Each toilet has a little shutoff valve right on the dang thing.
3. If you admit a mistake, students are grateful and everyone can move on.
4. Always know where your water shutoff valve is.
5. The dryest time of winter is the best time to have a lot of water between the floors in your house.
6. Back up your files.
7. Cops can be very nice. So can middle schoolers.

Water: First in a Series

I don't have time to even start to tell you about the havoc that an ancient bird's nest can wreak when it clogs a pipe that was already mostly frozen. Let's just say my computer has suffered serious brain damage. And my cookbooks have wavy pages. And we have to get a new toilet. Et cetera.

However, I will share an anonymous message I found on a piece of paper in the upstairs hall. It says:

Bath B. horible

Baby's
against
the
horible
Bath

Diana is Still Missing

The Philadelphia Inquirer is still gushing about the city's visit from Prince Charles and Camilla over the weekend. I must say it did seem a bit incongruous for them to be wandering around among the life-size statues of signers of the Declaration of Independence, not the least bit on their guard. We certainly have managed to get over our little spat with the British, as Philadelphians waited in line to spot the royals, take pictures, and shake hands.

I wasn't one of them. Now if Princess Di were still alive, I would have. If Princess Di were still married to Charles, that is. Or, better yet, Princess Di without Charles would have been fine. I confess, I still have my copy of Royal Wedding, by Kathryn Spink. It's one of those coffee table books full of glossy but poor-quality papparazzi shots, along with professional portraits by Lord Snowdon, archive photos, whatever. It's filled with fulsome praise that no one reads. A thrown-together opportunistic souvenir book that made lots of money. The lovely couple prancing in the woods at Balmoral. The dashing bachelor prince looking at the breasts of an African dancer. (Yes, really.) The virginal "Shy Di" before she had an inkling of her destiny as princess, live or dead; mother of two princes; wife, or bitter divorcee. And Diana, Prince Charles at her side as an accessory, wearing The Gown.

At the age of 22, I followed Diana and Charles' courtship with great interest. I watched their wedding live, along with my roommate, on our 13-inch black and white TV. Such a beautiful fairy tale, indeed. And how fleeting. The bulimia, the affairs, the divorce, the recriminations. When she was killed, I was stricken. I had been watching her become her own person, and was looking forward with a great deal of curiosity to see what she would make of herself, what her legacy would turn out to be. And--I'll say it--what fabulous clothes she would wear.

But that was it. There was to be no more. I watched her funeral, live, for hours, with lots of tissues on hand. I can't entirely explain what Diana represents to me, but after watching her wedding with such dedication, it seemed only right to watch her funeral.

At the funeral, a choir sang the hymn that borrows the melody from Holst's "Jupiter" (from The Planets). It had also been sung at the royal wedding. I had always found the melody achingly beautiful, so much so that John and I had a harpist and violinist play it at our wedding, two months before Diana's death. ("The harpist asked us, "Why don't you want Pachelbel's Canon like everyone else?") Strangely, John and the rest of the choir sang that same hymn on Sunday at our church, the day that Charles and his new wife left Philadelphia.

Notes from the Dream Kitchen

For a second I'll peep out from under an avalanche of self-imposed work to say an unlikely thing, "Thank you, junky entertainment center for kids with the big ugly mouse!" Because tomorrow I'll take Will to a birthday party there and work on my MFA application. One of my references wants to see my application essay before she writes the letter, which is understandable, but that means I need to write the thing. I have scraped together just over 25 pages of manuscript to send in, flotsam and jetsam from the past seven years. I fixed a lot of inconsistencies in "Hawaiian Delight," and need to work on "Blind" and a few more pieces.

I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about whether I should be doing this. It's a chunk of change, but truly the best way for me to get direction for my writing. And, really, I want to have a good portion of a book started by my 50th birthday. As I mentioned before, it's a low-residency MFA, which will be the easiest, and it's only creative nonfiction. I've already been to a conference at this college, back when I was pregnant with Jack, and I knew, This is What I Want to Do. So two kids, one relocation, and a few gray hairs later, I hope to be back. I've ordered the transcripts, so it's really just asking for recommendations, editing my ms. and writing the essay. In other words, almost everything. The deadline is Feb. 23. Oh, and the other thing? Is that if I have an MFA I could teach creative nonfiction, which I may want to do, just possibly.

Here are some completely undeveloped notions about what I want to write about, not in any particular order

--a food memoir, using my grandmother's, my mother's, and my favorite recipes as focal points (like "Hawaiian Delight" only I hope not as sappy).

--a nonpreachy book about home cooking as a practice that liberates you from the "corporate takeover of your larder," as Jean Zimmerman calls it in Made from Scratch: Rediscovering the Pleasures of the American Hearth. Why do American watch so many cooking shows and yet have "no time" to cook? Because they're watching cooking shows? Why do we "need" huge fancy kitchens but eat out more than any time in history? No, really. Why? I'm going to find out. And what happened to dinner parties, anyway?

--a book of essays about the Reading Terminal Market. Not a history of the market, as David O'Neil, the former manager, already did, but a portrait of it. Stories about the life of the market. Maybe a year at the market, season by season, New Year's to New Year's. This would hit a lot of the topics above, of course, and give me a structure to hang them on.

By the way, Nora Ephron is going to write and direct a movie based on Julie Powell's book Julie & Julia, which I wrote about in this blog several months ago. She is probably the perfect person to do it.

The Train Schedule Fairy

Our boys are now very interested in the Regional Rail timetables and stops. They have now memorized the stops on the R3, the Media-Elwyn line, and are learning the R2 stops. Every day or so the Train Schedule Fairy leaves a new schedule lying about the house somewhere. Yesterday it was the R5.

Oh, and I'm pulling together an application for a low-residency creative nonfiction MFA program . . . . That is partly why I haven't been hanging around the blog that much lately. Also I have two deadlines on Monday, a review of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad About My Neck, for my friend Robin's online magazine, and an article for Will's Montessori's parents newsletter. I actually get paid for the latter. If my review of Ephron book is decent, then I'll post it here. dear friends.

Oh. Here's a scene from Macy's this morning: I was in the shoe department, looking for some flat black shoes. And for some flat black boots. Will was with me, and he picked up every glittery pair of high-heeled strap shoes for me to try on. And he would shout over to me, "Wear these! You won't look like my mom!"

Inchworm in the Winter Sun

On Saturday we had unusually warm weather. I let Will wear a T-shirt and shorts for our walk to the bank and grocery store. We had a lovely time, as the sun radiated good cheer. Will found a gumball from the sweetgum tree in our neighbor's yard, and put it in his pocket.

One of the tellers at the bank asked the lady in front of me if the little boy wanted a lollipop. She looked puzzled and said, "Oh, he isn't MINE!" We all laughed at the confusion and the teller asked me the same question, and I said, "No thanks." Will missed the exchange because he was too busy snapping those rope things that keep the the patrons in an orderly line. The last time I did my banking with Will there was a box of doughnut holes just sitting out for anyone to take. Will immediately availed himself of several before I even had a chance to notice. (His Grammy was supposed to be watching, but I think she snaffled down a couple, too.) You have to watch these branch banks and their attempts to foist sugar on you.

On the way to the grocery store, we stopped in a shop called "The Head Nut," which, because of the name, I had never even been tempted to enter. I had always thought of the store as "The Head Nut," when it's actually "The Head Nut." Because the store sells a lotta nuts, is why, not because it's a head shop, which I really didn't think it was, but in the back of my mind I guess I had felt obscurely confused. We didn't buy any nuts, but I did buy one ounce of ground coriander for 29 cents and a tube of tomato paste. A tube is what tomato paste should always be sold in, not a can. You never use the whole can, so you freeze the rest of it in a little bag, and in two years you throw it out because you don't know what is. O, but the life of most canned tomato paste is a long cold waste indeed.

We then proceeded to the grocery store, where we bought two cartons of milk We rested at a table outside the grocery store before walking back, this time lugging milk in a brown paper bag. This was actually enjoyable, walking a distance and carrying things. We need to do this more often. Shifting the weight now and then, I thought of my carless pre-internet days in the city, when what I bought was limited to what I could carry, a time when weather and the fit of my shoes were paramount to everyday life.

Will exclaimed, "A worm! Look!", but it was a twig. In the next block we did get to see our worm, its shiny gray body contracting and expanding in waves as it progressed purposefully across the sunny sidewalk. For a worm, it was rushing. I set the groceries down and we watched it. Finally it stopped and rested when it reached the end, no doubt relieved to be near grass and farther from the specter of frying in the sun.

Will found another gumball by the same tree on the way back, and he put it in his other pocket. And so, satisfied with the fruits of our walk and warmed by the sun, we arrived home. But this doesn't mean Will accepts this weather. No. He has had me read The Snowglobe Family to him a half dozen times. He wore his snowboots down to breakfast on Sunday. He! Wants! Snow!

A Thingue about Meringue

You have to admire egg whites. I mean there they are, looking like snot run amok, until you beat them mercilessly and they attain their full glossy glory. If you add sugar, cocoa powder, and yes, a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, you've got Nigella Lawson's recipe for "Gooey Chocolate Stack" well under way, my friend. The egg whites will transform into three lovely meringues (or orangutans, as Will called them).

As for the six yolks that have been divorced from their whites, you beat those (with less dramatic results) with cream, sugar, and milk, and add melted bittersweet chocolate and vanilla and you've begun creating the chocolate creme de patissiere to dollop over the big flat meringues. Like Nigella says, chocolate heaven. I brought this to a New Year's brunch and it was devoured. Even though Jack and Will say they like Hershey's chocolate better than the Scharffenberger's I used, they had no objections to eating this rather adult confection. I found a copy of the recipe here, with no attribution. It's from How To Be A Domestic Goddess, p. 185. I couldn't find pistachios so I sprinkled slivers of honey roasted almonds over the top. If I ever find candied violets, I'd like to use those. I am in love with just the idea of candied violets.

Oh, if you make this? Please be advised that Nigella may be a relaxed cook but when she says to make the meringues eight inches across, she means eight inches. So don't make them nine. Because then the meringues will be too thin and the chocolate creme will absorb them. And also? Please do assemble this layered creation just a few minutes before eating, because, again, the absorption situation. The meringues must be crisply separate and distinct from the creme for maximal mouth feel. (Why am I talking like this?)

We don't eat meringues so much in the U.S. and I don't know why. They are often called pavlovas in Britain and Australia and have a fruit sauce. Nigella's word for the meringues in this recipe is "gungy," British slang for, well, pretty much exactly what the inside of a meringue is like. On this side of the pond we have no slingue to describe meringue. Our loss.

Between the Years

Between Christmas and New Year's is a magically suspended week. We celebrate with our children and remember our own childhoods. Yet while we revel in the present in light of the past, we also think about the future in a way only possible during this week. There is a spentness to this season; the Christmas tree is getting dryer, wrapping paper and ribbons can be found behind the sofa, and where is that gift certificate, anyway? Our waists are a tad wider. And we think, "Is this all?"

I met with two old friends near the MLA convention this past week. One of them, G., I have always envied. She has children and tenure at a decent school, a published book and another on the way. But. Her marriage is unraveling, destructively. viciously, and it is causing her to despair. And I am afraid for her. Please send your thoughts and prayers out to her . . . . My other friend who I met, H., is still single at 50, and has recently won a coveted short story prize, but is still waiting for her "break." She just learned that she has arthritis in her hips, and that her ex-fiance is married, with a child. Pray and think about her, too.

There is a point, somewhere in midlife, when you can run aground. Your mistakes catch up with you, the narrative of your life is stalled, you dread exposing your fears to anyone. At a certain point the seams in your soul start to show you that things aren't getting better and better, an endless spiral of success and happiness. Then, what do you? You've lost track of your oldest and best friends, or don't forgive them for something you no longer remember. You can't be as vulnerable to new friends as you would have been, because you don't want to appear needy.

Our culture doesn't give us a clear way to transcend our bodies or our fears, or any legitimate way to smash the success myth. We have to claw our way out of this one, full of grit and cussedness. We need to start praying, make art, teach someone to read, write a book, learn to give back, forgive those who have wronged us. We need to seek community, whether it's a church or synogogue or not. We cannot do this on our own.

In less than two years I will be 50. I know that raising children is extremely valuable, but I need something else that adds up to more than carpools, loaves of bread, and a blog. I know that I need to dedicate myself to writing, and I am working on some specific solutions that are too tentative to mention now. (Don't worry, this does not involve running away from home.) Dear readers, help me have the boldness to do this.

And may you face the challenges of the New Year with grit and cussedness.

Bicycles, Blintzes and Beeswax

Have you ever entered a place where you thought, "This is it. The center of the universe"? One of the first times I ever had this feeling was when I walked into Via Bicycle Shop, in Philly, back when it was on Pine St. To say that they sold used bicycles is to do the place a disservice. They sold magic vintage bicycles, from every decade of the 20th century. The proprietor, Mike, sported a handlebar mustache, and in every conceivable Center City parade rode a turn-of-20th-century bike with huge metals wheels. Naturally, he wore knickers.

Whenever I was in that shop, buying my red Schwinn from the late 1960s, or getting it fixed, I felt like I was part of something great. I was living in the center of my life, and the people who worked there were where they were meant to be. I soaked in the atmosphere, that smell of old metal and bike grease, and admired the elegant forms of the bicycles hanging from the ceiling and parked in rows. Thick fenders, fancy lights, unwieldy baskets, bikes with sidecars or three or four wheels, tandems, styles of all eras in one place-- a monument to innovation, creativity, and sometimes folly.

You have to discover these places by accident. That's one of the criteria. And they are rarely located in suburbs. One day years ago I was waiting for the clothes to dry at the laundromat six blocks from my apartment. (I only did my laundry every three weeks.) Bored and hungry, I wandered next door into what looked like a sandwich shop. It was no sandwich shop. It was the Jewish deli to end all your searching. A Jewish deli bursting with personality and the aroma of pastrami baking. Penn students, faculty and locals would wait in line for up to one hour for a heaping, juicy sandwich from this place. The two brothers who ran it, who have both since died, told creaky old jokes that started with "Did you hear the one about . . ." and passed out free slices of meat and cheese to their willingly captive audience.

This serendipity happens less to me now, maybe because I don't live in the city, which means I'm not wandering around on foot, not vulnerable to miracles. So once in a while I take the train to the city to "do some shopping." My current center of the universe is Reading Terminal Market. I went there last week on the train, and really did do Christmas shopping. I got a funky piece of kitchenware that I can't describe here because of Christmas secrecy, beeswax candles from the Amish beeswax shop, five lbs. of turkey thighs for a batch of chili ($2.59 a lb.!), ancho chili powder, and coffee from Old City Coffee (Balzac Blend, my favorite). And I met my hubby for lunch at 12th St. Cantina.

Above and beyond all that good stuff, I experienced the buzz of the place, where white, black, young, old, wealthy and not, all come together to shop, meet, and to absorb the sights and sounds. It's a place to come in from the cold, or to have your shoes shined. You can buy a fresh goose or a bag of pig's knuckles. You can find African jewelry and almost any cookbook in print. Not to mention the truest of Italian cannoli or the freshest, most buttery hot pretzels ever. Or, of course, the cheap, abundant, fresh flowers/fish/produce of every description.

Most of all, when you're at the Reading Terminal Market, you know that you are present in your own life, all your senses alive. And here you celebrate the richness of the world with perfect strangers. It's a distilled version of the city itself, the essence of its life, hope, and energy.

May you find your center of the universe this season.

The Dream Kitchen Google Search Award Ceremony

All in yesterday's and today's Google searches:

The Split Personality/Comma Splice Award goes to: "My Greek husband was nice, now he is horrible."

The Same Wavelength as Lauren Award: "scholastic 'book fair' junk."

The Kinky Award: "I put nail polish on him."

And finally, the Who Would Have Thought to Ask Award: "President Millard Fillmore favorite dishes."

The Newest New Math. Does Not Compute.

When I was a kid we had "New Math." Every September we learned about sets, from elementary up through high school, it seems. Jack's school has started a new curriculum, Everyday Mathematics. The whole school is doing it. The main idea seems to be that they keep spiraling back around to repeat concepts or teach them in a new way, the idea being that if the children don't get it the first time around they may the next time, etc. Jack's teacher, like all of the teachers, is learning the system just a few steps ahead of the kids.

Now Jack loves math. He begs to learn more. John has taught him to carry, but we learned at the teacher conference that in the Everyday Math curriculum the kids don't learn to carry. "They have a new algorithm for that," says the teacher. "I don't know what it is yet, but don't teach Jack to carry. He may get confused." Oops, too late.

Now we are trying to hammer out a Gifted IEP for Jack, and his teacher is too busy learning the new curriculum and making sure most kids get it to meet Jack's needs. At least she was honest, and I really can't blame her. So it looks like we'll be leaning on the Gifted Coordinator to pull him out and give him extra instruction? His teacher doesn't like the idea of Jack missing "the games" and not knowing how to play them in future years. (So what will they do with the new kids?) The Gifted Coordinator told me at our GIEP meeting yesterday that most gifted enrichment is "in the classroom." So--now what?

In my web trolling I found the Education Program for Gifted Youth out of Stanford that kids can do at their schools. His school has a computer lab and he's good at computers, so what's not to like? My plan is to suggest he do that two class periods a week during his regular math class, so he is challenged. I'll volunteer to help monitor. And there must be other gifted kids in 1st or 2nd grades (before the pullout begins) who could use something like this. But how to get in touch with the other parents? The Gifted Coordinator isn't allowed to give me those names, of course. As Pooh says, "Think, think, think."

In my casual conversations with parents, I'm surprised at how little people know about Gifted IEPs. They think have to wait until the end of 2nd grade for testing. Not so! It's your right to have your child tested in any grade, even kindergarten, at least in Pennsylvania. And the school is required to meet the educational needs of your child. The thing is that the school will try to fit the child into the existing curriculum and it's really up to the parent to come up with other ideas/force them to go out of their way for your child. Or take it to mediation. That's just the way it is. I'm memorizing the email and phone number of the Gifted Coordinator, practicing my pushiness, and hardening my soul.

Armenian Cholesterol Bombs Found in Delaware County

BROOMALL, PA: By the busy intersection of Rte.3 and Rte. 320, in the small suburb of Broomall, a store ironically called "Armenian Delight" (cash only, not enough parking) is quietly producing cheese boureg, tray by tray. Although cheese boureg may be found at various Armenian festivals throughout the country, Armenian Delight's cheese boureg is especially insidious because, says our tipster, "You can get them all year. They're always in the frozen food case, by the kafta and spanikopita. . ." she trailed off, rolling on her kitchen floor and groaning, holding her tummy with her greasy hands, flecks of phyllo around her mouth.

What makes this boureg so dangerous is that each layer of phyllo pastry is brushed with butter, and in the middle lies a generous layer of mozzarella and cheddar, with a little parsley for color. This glistening, melty bomb provided all too tempting for our tipster, who "really wants to lose 14 lbs," but "couldn't stop eating these things." Her five year-old ate several, which won't hurt him as he will burn it off just jumping up and down while brushing his teeth. The seven-year-old prefers Trader Joe's veggie corn dogs. (Go figure!)

It is believed this cholesterol invasion will only hurt residents of Delaware County, PA, mostly the quiet little community of Armenians in Broomall, who comprise most of the store's customer base. Our tipster drives out there for the salads (artichoke, bean, roasted vegetable) if she is having her book group over. She claims. Also, the hummus. The bhaba ghanoush. The "Armenian pizza" which is oddly without cheese. Not to mention the fresh halvah with pistachios, and, of course, all the nut-honey-phyllo bombs.

One solution to this problem would be to have more ethnic restaurants and take-out joints in Delaware County, to make it less likely for people to find the cheese boureg. Our reporters are tracking the rumor that there is a county-wide ban on Indian restaurants, but generous subsidies for hoagie shops.

Only if You're Southern Baptist

Will is all about winter now. If it's cold and someone says, "Winter has finally started," in that conventional conversation-making way, he will retort with "No it hasn't! It starts December 22!" When his teacher complimented him on his haircut, he clarified "This is my winter haircut." Yesterday I was driving him to school and he asked, "Do we go to church in the winter?" I said yes, and he followed up with "Does church go on forever?"

In Which I Accidentally Buy Steel Cut Oats

I don't know about you, but I'm unwilling to wait 30 minutes for a bowl of oatmeal. Many years ago I decided that five minutes was just right, and "quick" oatmeal is cheating. We all walk that fine line between perfection and pragmatism, right? So now I'm stuck with this cannister of teensy tough oatmeal pellets. I put some in the bread, which is now cooling. So we'll see whether we chip our teeth on these tough little Irish nuggets. The recipe for cooked oatmeal on the box is for four servings, because it really isn't worth the cooking time for any fewer. However, in our house we do not have four people willing to eat oatmeal for breakfast, alas. And the box admonishes us, "Steel cut oats are best prepared on the stovetop." And they know what we're thinking, and so they add, "Microwaving steel cut oats is not recommended." You just have to cook a mess o' these suckers, for a long time, no way around it.

Let me slice a piece of this bread. Wait right there. -Brief musical interlude- OK, I've had a few bites of steaming, crusty bread. It's chewy, and a little nutty and crunchy--it's a thumbs-up. It's going to be a good day.

Notes from the Overly Analytical Parenting Department

We sometimes read too much into what our children say. We analyze their words, turn them over, scrutinize their intentions. At least I think I hope that's what I'm doing when I contemplate what Will said to me at the playground a couple of weeks ago. Will had been balking at one of those poles you slide down from the top of the play apparatus, and I said "That Mommy over there said her daughter also has trouble sliding down the pole." Whereupon Will said, "Don't listen to what brown people say." I closed in on him in panic, "What do you mean? Why did you say that?" "They're from another country," he explained, and added "Let's go on the swings!" I persisted with "That lady is American, and even if she wasn't, we listen to everyone. No matter where they are from or what color they are. Because we're all in this together. Okay?" "Okay. Let's go on that thing that makes us dizzy."

I doubt he has ever heard anyone say anything like that, and I finally came to the conclusion that his comment was more related to his own insecurity about sliding down the pole. But isn't insecurity is where much racism comes from?

Yesterday the boys and I were taking our coats off in a little coatroom at church. The choir started to file by in their red robes (including John), and Will asked, in a loud voice,to everyone within earshot, "Where's the black guy?" Argh. I pulled him over. "Please don't refer to people that way." "Why not?" he asked. I really couldn't think of a reason, as it's a simple descriptive phrase. He clarified, "You know, the guy who wears black." He meant the choir director.

I'm tired.

The Scrap

Since my last post, our boys have turned five and seven. We've feasted and partied. The boys have spread their Hotwheels and Zoobs and Legos and new puzzles about the living room. Which, as you can tell, we actually live in. No wasted space around here.

For months I have had a scrap of paper stuck to the magnet board above my desk. It's a corner off an old typed letter, a thin gray clue to the past. I had found it last year among my grandmother's photographs, and thought it compelling enough to keep near me. I will copy each line here, exactly as it reads.

n had a
still bandaged.
because it was haeling
she has grown terribly
's a teaful bon voyage.
ve to all,
Grandmother.

I left the two typos in. It was hard to make corrections on manual typewriters, and it seems that the writer was upset herself. I believe this letter was from my mother's grandmother, who died in 1956. I don't know who she can be writing about--a child? After her husband died, she lived with my grandmother's brother Fred and his wife in Seattle until her own death,so it's likely she would have written letters to my mother, in Pennsylvania. Now why did my Nana have this scrap, though? My mother lived with Nana and Papa for a few years in the 1950s before meeting my father, so maybe the letter just stayed with the house. Was it torn by accident? My instinct is that it wasn't, because it's a nicely rectangular shape for a tear. It looks like it was torn in half, the halves torn in half, the quarters torn in half, with this being one quarter of a quarter, or 1/16 of the original letter. But why? Were the words hurtful, accusing, or damaging in any way? Was the recipient(my mother?) ashamed by what she read?

I will never know, and now no one will know, because I'm the only person left with these dusty things and and half-memories and conjectures. I return the scrap to the bulletin board, which it shares with pictures of our friends' three adopted Asian daughters, a leaf print made by one of the boys, a sign that says "If I were the Mom I would wear blue-green nail polish.--Will," and a picture of Jack and Will at Dutch Wonderland riding a little yellow car.

Thanksgiving: What We're Having

Contributed by my brother:

Turkey (organic, brined by him)

Chestnut Stuffing--yes, he will score and peel the chestnuts, boil them and all that, because he is a little crazed, but in the nicest possible way

Gravy, in the insulated gravy boat I gave him last year (I'm so prescient!)

Contributed by my Dad, but he's not allowed to have any:

One bottle of white Burgundy and one bottle of red Burgundy (a pleasantly parallel coupling suggested by the wine guru at Epicurious)

And provided by yours truly:

Cranberry Sauce

This is my latest recipe, and the best, because it's simple and delicious. You just can't argue with that. I have discovered that leftover homemade cranberry sauce is wonderful heated up and served over vanilla ice cream. Try it.

Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes

I don't really use a recipe, but here is one I roughly follow.

Green Salad with Apples and Cider Dressing
Hubby loves blue cheese so that gets sprinkled on top. Dang, I forgot to buy it, though.

Daikon Radish Salad

Remember how our CSA went tragically bankrupt? They have rallied enough to make a delivery! The arugula got lost in the fruit drawer and is now unsalvageable, but I now have responsibility for two hairy mammoth Daikons. Based on a comment someone made on Epicurious (can you tell I use Epicurious?), I'm going to grate these suckers, after peeling the heck out of them, and mix them with Kosher salt, fresh ground pepper, olive oil, and a little lime juice.

Pumpkin Spice Pie

I have made this every year. It's super.

Sweet Potato Pecan Pie, Only with Walnuts Because I Have Tons of Them and No Pecans

This recipe (with pecans) is from my wonderful late friend Richard Sax. I never met him but I love him. It's from the FIRST edition of Classic Home Desserts. They came up with a posthumous second edition, but I have the FIRST, thank you very much. I'm making this because we also got a load of sweet potatoes from the tragically bankrupt CSA. I picture Scarlet holding up the dirt of Tara in her hand and saying "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."

Speaking of which,I'm asking our guests to donate food which we will take to the local food bank after the holiday. Oh, and my brother is also bringing his girlfriend and her three children. But we won't eat them until they've fattened up a bit.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, dear readers.

Suburban Family Hosts Sucessful Capt. Underpants Birthday Party

Swarthmore, PA: Jack and Will, two brothers about to turn seven and five, reported that their parents gave a Capt. Underpants birthday party on Saturday. "It was great!" they shouted, chocolate cake crumbs on their faces, a trail of popcorn indicating their recent whereabouts. "Everyone we invited came!" reported the dazed mother. There were unconfirmed reports that one attendee out of eleven (including Jack and Will) was a girl. Whatever she was, her basketball and football skills were noteworthy, as was her ability to join in a pickup soccer game with seven-year-olds. Mr. S, the father of Jack and Will, said that his wife forgot whether Talking Toilets were evil or not, leading to confusion regarding the Talking Toilets game. "How could you forget they're evil?" he asked rhetorically. "But 70 percent of U.S. residents think there were weapons of mass destruction, so I guess it's no wonder."

"Thank goodness the weather was fine and they could send them outside to play in the leaves," murmured one mother who stayed to help. "It was getting very loud in their house." One child, reportedly named Fluffy Diaperbrain, hadn't been feeling well and came just in time to eat the cake. He didn't want any, moped around and would not wear his extremely fun nametag or prance about wearing personalized underpants on his head. He said nobody would play with him. The other four-year-old, Slimy Picklebuns, was also out of sorts once the crowd had been banished to the backyard wilderness, but after his mother gave him a pep talk by the shed, where he was hiding, he was decidedly more cheerful. He and Fluffy were completely recovered by the time they received their party favors.

All departed at the prescribed 4:00 ending time, after which point there was rumored to be a late fee of a dollar per minute. No damage worse than cake and popcorn on the floor has been reported as of this time. The Sea Monkeys(TM), a birthday gift from the young Slimy Picklebuns, have yet to hatch.

Unusual Etiquette Dilemma. Please Do Help.

Thanks to Amishlaw for the no-knead bread link. They are taking Brother Peter's slow rise method about as far as it can go. Sounds great if you want a big round loaf.

Anyway, the other things that have been happening around here, in addition to a spate of weekend guests (which was lovely), is that Will is finishing up, today, his last "loop" of Tomatis therapy, which is intense sensory integration work. From what I hear from the therapists it has made a huge difference in his motor planning and coordination. I don't want to explain it all here, but if you Google "A Total Approach" you will learn about it. Will's teacher thought he had a few "sensory issues," so they directed us to A Total Approach. Some of the kids who do it have pretty significant autism, and one girl I think has a brain injury. That makes me wonder if Will really needed it. But it's good to catch this stuff early I guess.

Instead of waiting in the cramped windowless waiting room with the other parents, which makes me feel claustrophobic, I dash off to Borders and come back just in time to chat with the therapist about how it went. This enforced reading/coffee drinking time is really nice but I can't really afford it, as laundry piles up and dinner is cobbled together from food that's a day away from becoming garbage. But give me credit for not getting take-out from Foodsource, a very pricy store in the shopping center next to A Total Approach.

Now for the birthday party situation, ta-da. Because I know you all have been waiting to hear! Jack and Will want to share a party. Again! Still! And the theme is, I think you know, Captain Underpants. So I'll make some kind of semblance of C.U. on the cake. And the plan is to buy about ten cheap pairs of boys' underpants at Target, write the kids' names in them, and their C.U. names as per this website. With said garments we will have underpants-slinging contests, and kids will wear said underpants on their head during the whole cake-eating stage. And I really hope the other parents won't hate us forever.

Now here's the awkward part: I, of course, thought it would be an all-boy party, but a couple of days ago Will said he really wants Lydia to come. Lydia's parents are very religious, and out of the pop culture loop so much so that the mother never heard of Captain Underpants and got him mixed up with Sponge Bob. Please! Actually, she has no boys, so I guess she gets off the hook. Question for y'all: It seems weird to give Lydia boy's underpants for the games, but then giving her girl's underpants calls attention to anatomical differences, which seems awkward. My thought is to just pretend she's an honorary boy, and the less said the better. Her mom wants to know what Captain Underpants is. I'm supposed to call her. So I have to figure out a way to describe it honestly without using the word "irreverent," although C. U. is not irreverent toward God, it's irreverent towards authority. I should just stop thinking of this as a big dilemma. I'll just use as much Wedgie Woman Power as I can summon, and go forth boldly with no apologies. Unless I hear otherwise from my dear readers.

And please do share your Captain Underpants name if you bothered to look up the link, which I totally know you did.

Birthday Time Yet Again!

Oh, poor dear blog. It's your birthday. Today. And I've neglected you most sadly for two weeks. That's what comes of having two weekends in a row with house guests. I worked my b*** off cleaning out the guest room, let me tell you. Now I'm going to start some bread, and watch Desparate Housewives (eight minutes after it starts so I can TiVo through the commercials), but here's one for the readers. If there is anyone still out there.

Question from Jack: "Why do they call it an iPod if it's on your ears?"

The Invasion of the Bank Mystery, by Will

Will dictated this to me a couple weeks ago. I love the irrepressible optimism of these two guys. Possibly at the beginning/end of Ch. 2 they are are a bit discouraged, but they'll rally. You can tell how Will feels about the possibilities presented by commuter trains

Once upon a time, there were two mysterious kids named Afeymus and Sam. And they were looking for this weird guy who was pretending to be Ron Roy. The boys went to him and said,"I think there's someone who's pretending to be you. Let's tell the police that."
"OK," said Sam and Afeymus.
They went to the Swarthmore Police Station. The police said, "That's easy. Check Room 305 at the Media Inn."
The Media lobby owner said, "Check Room 6010. He's eating lunch right now."
"That's easy," said Sam and Afeymus. They went to the lunchroom, but when they went there, there were no people there.
"Let's go back to the lobby to see if this is the right inn," said Sam.
"Great idea," said Afeymus.
When they went there, they looked at the sign that said what inn it was. It said "Elwyn Inn."
"Oh, no! We're at the wrong inn! Let's dash on the train to go to Media."
"What train?" said Afeymus.
"The R3 train," said Sam.
"You mean the one that goes all the way to New Jersey?" said Afeymus.
"Yes," said Sam.
"That's easy to get on the R3 train. We can just go all the way to New Jersey," said Afeymus.
"Actually, we have to go to Media," said Sam.
Afeymus said, "Actually, we could go to Wallingford."
"Good plan," said Sam.
"Let's grab the R3 train, quick," said Afeymus.
"Zoom to the Elwyn stop in your fire car," said Sam.
"OK," said Afeymus.
They zoomed in the fire car all the way to New Jersey. They went to the New Jersey stop. When they got off they said,"Hey! This looks familiar. Oh, no, we're in Swarthmore."

Chapter Two


"We've got to go back on the R3 train to go to Wallingford."
"That takes a long time," said Afeymus.

Rules to Live By

We have been having "Family Meetings" the last two Sundays, and we hope to make this a routine. The kids get to request some meals and activities, and everyone suggests new habits to get into, or old habits to break.

This past week have been working on a habit from last week which has not seen much improvement:

Don't put it down, put it away.

This week the emphasis is on:

When Mommy or Daddy tells you to do something, do it the FIRST time they say it. So now instead of repeating it, we say "I'm not going to repeat that" over and over.

And from Will, derived from recent experience:

Ask permission before doing experiments.

Don't lick syrup off the plate.

The Story of the First Thanksgiving, and a Few Others

I just wrote this for the Delaware County Mothers & More newsletter.

Thanksgiving is a big holiday in our family. This year, Jack’s birthday falls on it, and Will’s a week later. After Jack’s birth, Thanksgiving dinner was the first solid meal I had after my C-section. And, in case you had any doubt, a holiday dinner in the hospital is about as solid as it gets. That gluey stuffing made almost made me yearn again for broth and Jell-O.

For our family, Thanksgiving and birthdays are the same extended holiday, a festival of thanks. So far the boys have always agreed to share a birthday celebration, to consolidate the party spirit and save Mommy and Daddy’s wits. One year my brother Dan cooked and brought the turkey, and will do it again this year. Dan and I are both control freaks in the kitchen so I have learned to delegate a dish completely to him and have him cook it at his own house.

We pull out all the stops and polish my grandmother’s silver and rinse off my mother’s china. I get out a delicate ivory linen tablecloth that my grandmother used. Instead of ironing the tablecloth like Nana did, I spritz it all over with water and put it in the dryer for ten minutes. This was my own idea and I’m sure it’s heresy, but only Martha Stewart’s staff would ever iron a large linen tablecloth these days.

One year, I made up a binder and labeled it “Holidays.” I felt sort of silly doing it, but I was tired of reinventing the wheel every year. I save my to-do lists from the previous year and the notes I have added, as well as recipes that have been successful and new ones I want to try. Breaking open that binder in November every year is strangely rewarding. It makes it so much easier to get started. Last year my in-laws were here and they love to be put to work, so together we washed china and linens, polished silver, vacuumed, and shopped. The hum of activity was somehow rejuvenating, as was the scent of cranberry sauce cooking and pumpkin pie baking. I leave you with the recipe for my family’s favorite cranberry sauce, simple and delicious. Let us give thanks.

Cranberry Sauce

1 cup water
1 cup sugar
12-oz bag fresh or frozen cranberries (3 cups)
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
Bring water and sugar to a boil, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Add cranberries and simmer, stirring occasionally, until berries just pop, 10 to 12 minutes. Stir in zest, then cool.
Cooks’ note:
• Cranberry sauce may be made 3 days ahead and chilled, covered.

Makes about 2 1/2 cups.

Where Does a Blog Go When It is Deleted?

Such was the metaphysical question I was asking myself yesterday when I realized that, instead of deleting a test blog that I decided not to use, I had deleted Dream Kitchen, my baby. Since I had always heard that deleting computer files doesn't really delete them,I figured there was some way the Blogger Powers That Be could help me. And they did, or in this case someone named Danish (DA-nish? Da-NISH?) from "The Blogger Team." Thank you Danish! And within an hour, too.

Apparently while my blog was . . . wherever blogs go when they are deleted. . . the URL was redirecting readers to some p*rn site. Some of my friends were amused. Guess these dastardly denizens of the internet squat in newly abandoned URLs, rubbing their hands with glee and beckoning to the innocent. Another strange thing is that Sitemeter was reporting, during this same span of time, that several people found my blog, or I guess the p*rn site, through a Google search for "Lauren Dream Kitchen," or "Dream Kitchen Lauren," etc. I ask you, what does it mean?

Anyway, whatever it means, three cheers for Danish, my new friend, and the resurrection of Dream Kitchen from . . . limbo? Death? A black hole?

Special Halloween Update! Ha.

(First: Thanks for the birthday wishes. There was no wait at ALL at PennDOT, and the lady was extremely nice. I seem to be the one with the poor attitude!)

I've been really busy lately sewing up some original, durable, wholesome costumes for the boys. . . . Come on. Do you really think I would do that? Do you really think I could do that? Back in what we used to call "Junior High" I took sewing and made a white, yellow, and pink striped wraparound miniskirt that I was ashamed to be seen in. Think about the precariousness of a wraparound miniskirt for just a second. Oh well, it looked good on an adolescent Susan Dey on the pattern envelope. After that and a "Stretch-N-Sew" class that my Nana took me to when I was 14, my sewing ventures were over.

And without sewing, it's hard to make a decent costume that holds up well through not just trick-or-treating but also a grade school parade. This parade is a longstanding tradition at Jack's school. Most first grade boys, and Jack is no exception, don't want to be wearing some loser homemade costume. He wants to fit in. He wants his friends to recognize his "character." Today he will go in to school and proudly announce that he will be a Scorpion Ninja. He has never seen whatever show or movie actually has Scorpion Ninjas, but no matter. It's some sort of cultural icon that has currency amongst boys. And Will? He would probably be fine wearing the women's dress-up clothes that Grammy got him last year for his birthday, but he is even more fine, and much more "awesome," not to say mobile, in his Green Power Ranger costume.

Since Halloween is Halloween, and not a secularization of any Christian holiday that means much to us at this point in history, why not let the kids run around in the costumes they like, and gather some candy to be meted out over the months as rewards until they forget about it? Of course Mom gets her cut: as many Reese's Cups as she can get away with, and a few Snickers too. Then we let the boys wear the costumes the rest of the year when they're in dress-up mode.

And a bonus for local readers: Does anyone want a size 6 Batman or a size 4 Darth Vader?

Whew. What a Week.

Last week was just one of those weeks in which many obligations converged. But I did everything. Here the things I did:

-Went with Will to the Franklin Institute
-Baked butterscotch brownies for my church fair
-Worked at the church fair
-Wrote an article for a Montessori newsletter on "21st Century Skills"
-Researched Verizon grants for the local literacy center
-Skimmed a chapter of Karen Armstrong's The Great Transformation for my Friday book group
-Went to book group
-Turned in a Gifted IEP request for Jack
-Volunteered in Jack's class for "Word Rings"
-Met with Will's teachers
-Cooked dinner, did laundry, made lunches, bla bla bla

Everything went very well. I will be glad to discourse at length about almost all of the above on request.

Meanwhile, on to more important topics . . . . Today. Is. My. BIRTHDAY!!!! And I need to go, right now, and I mean right now, to get the new picture on my license, because if I don't then I'll be an illegal driver tomorrow. And I read in PennDOT's literature that "PennDOT recently enhanced its policies . . . to reduce identity fraud." In the next paragraph, and this is the part that causes me to tremble, "Because these requirements have changed, you may at times experience additional wait times at our Driver License Centers." Translation: You will wait longer than you already had to, believe it or not, only this time the employees will be even more crabby. Happy birthday to me.

A Song about Church, by Will and Jack

The boys jointly made up this song and sang it over and over, holding hands, walking to church today.

Church, church,we're on our way.
We're not too sleepy and we're not too evil
To help Mr. God and save the day.

Yay, God.

Divide and Conquer: A Strategy for Taking Boys to Museums

The public schools had off for Yom Kippur, so I took Jack on Monday to the Please Touch Museum, at his request. He has been begging to go, although I thought he was a little old for it. And yes, he was a little old for it. Little planes moving slowly on a track in the air? Bo-ring. Playing with plastic boats in water while wearing a too-small smock? Please. At least we got to ride the trolley and subway, which we enjoyed. We took that instead of regional rail, because we could park near Will's school and easily pick him up later in the afternoon, and take him to an appointment. Jack and I waited for him in the local Borders. I had forgotten to bring my book, Devil in the White City, so I got Home Cooking, by Laurie Colwin, which I have been meaning to read ever since she died in 1992. I bought two more Captain Underpants tomes for Jack. I drank coffee and he had water and we sat there quietly reading. For an hour.

This Monday, Will has Columbus Day off (These dueling holidays do get annoying!) and he wants to go to the Franklin Institute, a more appropriate place. Plus, we're members, thank you. They have a new exhibit called "Animal Grossology," which he should find appealing. Despite grousing about different holidays, I find it quite wonderful to have this time with each boy separately. We get to have such great conversations. And one boy is about ten times easier to manage than two. Nobody yells. No competition. A minimum of whining. Separate holidays? Bring 'em on.

A Virtuoso Performance

We are SO all about Captain Underpants now. I just have to share this video with you all. I love it!!! Will just said, "Another exclamation mark, for me too." So here it is: "!"

Enjoy. (By the way, we're trying to counteract the influence of Captain Underpants with a copy of Munro Leaf's Manners Can Be Fun.)

Time For Another Baby?

If I were ten years younger, and hadn't had A Certain Procedure done after the last C-section, I'd be tempted to go for Number Three. I saw two little boys riding in one of those truck supermarket carts at the local warehouse store yesterday. A tear actually formed in my eye as I realized that my boys will never ride together in that again. OK, one reason is because I vowed NEVER to take both of them grocery shopping again. Anyway,I just never know when the passing of time will hit me in my gut. I guess the next one in our family to need a diaper will be me.

On a lighter note, I love those new Rubbermaid containers that crunch up flat like an accordian. Then you can snap on the color-coordinated lid and hang it on a hook if you want. Mine are in a mess like the rest of my plastic containers, but in my ideal future (before I need diapers) I picture them hanging pleasantly together in order of size. Domesticity does stave off thoughts of death quite nicely, doesn't it?

Wednesdays

Wednesdays are John's long days. He drives to Villanova, takes the R5 to the city, returns to Villanova on the R5 after work, sits through a marketing class,and drives back home. He doesn't see the boys until the next day. He is a bit shagged out after all that. We sat last night and had a wee bit of Scotch together. Most of his salary increase is being eaten up by city wage tax (a little over 3.6 percent), increased health insurance costs, and trainfare. And he has much less vacation time now. So we sighed and sipped. But he does get to go for some nice walks at lunchtime. And the train beats driving any day.

He feels very old in his marketing class. They seem to talk about jeans a lot, from what I can gather, I suppose because most of the students are in the target market. These are the expensive jeans that people in their 20s buy. He never knows what they are talking about. John endures this class.

News on the book club front. I finished Case Histories. Addictive, clever writing and intriguing characters. Sex and murder and a vicar and cups of tea here and there, plus the usual class anxiety. Every British novel is about class. Will that ever change? Unfortunately, I couldn't make it to the actual book group last night because I couldn't find a sitter. (Dang that Wednesday marketing class.) I called three, and calling any more sitters is trying too hard for just a book group. But I did scout around at Borders yesterday for a list of possibilities for them to consider next, and this is what I suggested, two novels and two nonfiction works:
-Small Island, by Andrea Levy
-Liars and Saints, by Maile Meloy (I read a story of hers in the New Yorker last year that made me want to read more)
--Nancy Drew, Girl Sleuth, and the Women Who Created Her, by Melanie Rehak
--Don't Get Too Comfortable, by David Rakoff

Scholastic Books: What's the Deal?

Jack has already brought home a book order from Scholastic. Memories of last year's book fair at his old Montessori came rushing back to me as I tossed the order into the recycling. Displays of trinkets. "Books" based on movies. Sponge Bob and other TV-show "books." I hadn't anticipated my having to say "no" every 30 seconds to my children at a book fair. At their school. I asked my sister in law, who is a school librarian in Pittsburgh, about her opinions of Scholastic. She said they have a near monopoly. She didn't like their extensive selling of licensed products and junk, either. But she really liked the particular sales rep who works with her school. Not a battle to pick in an inner city school, anyway.

The other day I browsed for information about Scholastic and stumbled upon the story, a few weeks old, about how Scholastic books had teamed up with ABC to present 9/11 propaganda. This was a study guide to the 9/11 docudrama (!), aimed at high schoolers. Scholastic did pull the study guide and replace it with material on critical reading and critical thinking. That's all very well, but . . .

Now I'm concerned all over again about Scholastic and their influence. Do they deserve near-universal patronage? I found this article in the Denver Post (from almost two years ago) in which lots of parents think exactly the way I do about the company's book fairs. But because Scholastic can cover losses due to error and theft, and smaller companies can't, there are few other options.I did find Jabberwocky, a local company in the Philadelphia area that holds book fairs. They claim to carry lots of award-winning titles and "virtually no fluff." What would it take for the Montessori (which Will still attends) to change? Half the yearly library budget comes from the book fair. I'm not ready to tackle the public school yet.

I'd be curious to get reader input on this . . . Does anyone else out there feel the way I do?

Important Update on the Breadcrust Situation

Remember last week? When I tried cutting off the boys' crusts? Jack still left the edges of the bread. I asked him why, and he gazed at them a couple of seconds and said "Uh . . . I dunno. I'm gonna play basketball now." Will ate slightly more but still left an edge or two.

So I consulted Brother Juniper's Bread Book again.Whenever you open a really good cookbook for "reference" then it ushers you into a world of possibilities. All the while you protest saying, "I don't have TIME. Thanks for the invitation, gotta run." But the book calls you. In this case it compelled me to make "White Bread Loaf." (I am out of whole wheat flour, because Trader Joe doesn't sell it any more, because apparently I was the only one buying it.) Anyway, I made some white bread from scratch. Three nice slow rises, and it is delicious. When I clean out their lunchboxes, there's nary a crust to be found.

How Many Book Groups is Too Many?

I'm capping it at three. Each group serves a distinct purpose:

1. The weekly spiritual-reading group. We are reading Karen Armstrong's The Great Transformation. Ch.1 for this Friday.

2. The wine-drinking book group that rarely discusses the book. We are reading Case Histories by Kate Atkinson, for Sept. 27.

3. My new-ish friend Emilie's hand-picked group from all over the Philly metro area. No, make that just Montco, Delco, and northwest Phila. One member has stipulated no religious or political themes (How amusing!). So it's a good thing I'm in Book Group No. 1. Anyway, we are reading Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, and will discuss it Oct. 21.


My method is to read a little of Armstrong every morning before the boys are up, because that one takes the most concentration. Case Histories is an afternoon book. I'll read Devil in the White City in October. The Armstrong book is really absorbing. She writes about the "Axial Age," which was approximately 1500 BC to 200 BC, when most of our religious traditions began. She then goes on to claim that the religious thought of the Axial Age, whether it was rabbinical, Buddhist, Confucian, Greek, or Islamic, was a deeply humane model for us to learn from. Over the centuries their precepts were degraded and narrowed, especially by fear-based theology and aggressive societies seeking divine permission. It's clear that she is writing to the post-9/11 West, translating, if you will, wisdom from an earlier age and showing us its power and relevance. Amstrong warns us that "Unless there is some kind of spiritual revolution that can keep abreast of our technological genius, it is unlikely that we will save our planet." (Intro., xi)

___________________
Domestic Anecdote (because I hate to end with downer prophetic warnings):

Jack crept into bed with us this morning and murmured, "Mommy, I love you and Daddy and Will and Kato more than anything else in the world." Kato? That would be our cat, the one who this very morning vomited into the frying pan.

A Meditation on Bread Crusts

Lately I have been trying to solve The Breadcrust Problem, and if you are a parent of young 'uns you know the one I mean. We want our children to eat the crusts. But they rarely do. What kind of pragmatic intervention does this require on our part? And what should our moral stance be on this wholesale rejection of perfectly good food?

First off, since I make Jack and Will's sandwiches with bread I have made (albeit by bread machine), I feel extra perturbed by the waste. So I was intrigued when I read in Parent Hacks of a mother named Krista who has revisited the controversial crust-cutting solution. In a virtuous way, though, because she actually uses the crusts. So today I cut the crusts off the sandwich bread. I'll freeze them for bread pudding or croutons. The theory is that the boys will eat more of the non-crust this way,too. No crust, therefore no danger zone near the crust.

With all this cogitation upon bread crusts, I thought, "Let me consult a man of the crust." You see, in the spring I bought Brother Juniper's Bread Book: Slow Rise as Method and Metaphor at the used book sale at our local library. The title alone is delectable. He writes, "One of my earliest goals in baking was to make a crust so good that kids would not eat around it and leave it on the plate. I now know how to do this." Before you rush to find a copy, please know that his method does involve five rises, spritzing with water, and several other ablutions. And yes, he is talking about a crust that crackles and crunches, a French bread, not a crust from a prosaic bread machine. But even the commonest crust is elevated when we read the following:

The sound of crust is like an icon, not painted but baked, in which a window is briefly opened onto greater understanding. As beauty evokes beauty, the sound of crust evokes the intuition of perfection. When that intuition is sparked by something in this world, even crust, it can rightly be called religious, which might rightly be called "connectedness."

You don't have to be an aesthete or an ascetic to value bread crusts, though. We even learn from science that they may have extra life-giving powers, as well.

So how to prevent all this crusty goodness from being thrown into the cafeteria trash? The pressure on children to eat bread crusts in the absence of their parents' supervision has created a wealth of folklore. Beth, from I Used to Believe, tell us:

When I was in first grade, I brought peanut butter sandwiches to school everyday, but I never ate the crusts. One day when we were throwing away our trash, another little girl saw the leftover crusts in my baggy and she (who had apparently just taken her first communion), yelled "don't throw that away! That's Jesus's skin!" I was a little hesitant to throw away my savior's skin, but I decided it didn't make much sense and went ahead to the trash.

Other reasons parents have given their children are that crusts have the most vitamins (possibly true?), they'll make your hair curly (back when every girl wanted that),improve your whistling skills, and encourage breast development (only in girls, I guess?).

In the end, science, religion, grown-ups and children concur on the subject of bread crusts: Disguise as needed and eat with gratitude.

Mess-Free Art Project

While working on another post, I discovered this amazingly cool way to spend a couple minutes.
And a great way to let Will "paint" when we only have a little time.

See what happens when you click your mouse.

Any Blogging Experts Out There?

Tee hee. Now that I've really jazzed up this blog with an actual, if dinky, blogroll, I'm having a problem. My links don't go to the most recent entry. Take Stories from the Red Tent, a new blog from my friend Amy. It links to her Sept. 8 entry, but my feed on Bloglines tells me she has two more entries. I don't get it. When I check the URL that my blogroll links to, it's just the main page, so that should work, right? Am I missing something?

I also added Sitemeter, and I'm addicted to checking my stats now. It's awful. I'm going to have to put the (wireless) mouse under my pillow or something.

What Do You Think I Am, a Martyr?

Man, I hate The Giving Tree. My friend Alice gave me a copy of the book twenty-two years ago. We were both grown up, barely. I thought it was a cute story, great illustrations. I still love the illustrations. But I read it last night to Will and fought back tears the whole time. About the boys someday leaving us and only coming back to ask us for money. And things. And us being so desparate for connection that we give them whatever they want. Now it's cheese sticks and trips to the New Jersey Aquarium, and later it will be down payments and tuition for the grandkids, our limbs, our trunks, and then "We have to be going now. See you at Christmas."

Later John and I were talking and I cried, "We're going to be stumps. Stumps.But we'll be happy, right?" It's like Ham in End Game, the legless guy who lives in the trash can. So here I present:

The Sometimes Giving Tree

Boy: Hey, do you have any money?

Tree: Do you think money grows on trees? I'll let you sell half my apples in the city, if you make apple butter and apple pies with the rest and split it with me.

Years later

Boy: I need to build a house. I need lots more money now.

Tree: You didn't get the memo about me having no money? What, didn't you invest ANY of that apple money? Can't you get a job making apple butter and pies?

Years later

Boy: I need to get far away from everything. Can I have money for a plane ticket?

Tree: Sigh. I feel like a broken record! As if you know what a record is. Just go back to your wife and tell her you're sorry.

Years later

Boy: I'm tired. What can you do for me?

Tree: Why don't you take that blanket and lie under my shade.

Boy: Thanks, that's perfect.

Tree: It is.

Me on My Trike

Let me tell you about the new profile picture. My Nana took it. It's one of about two hundred pictures of my brothers and me that she took when we were small, and developed herself in her darkened kitchen. The vast majority of the pictures are of me, because I was born first, and was the only girl. And it was more culturally acceptable to dress girls up in silly frills.

That's our yard, at Ft. Sill, in Lawton, Oklahoma. My father was stationed there in the early 1960s because that was the U.S. Army's training base for field artillery. I'm pretty sure the car behind me is Nana and Papa's Oldsmobile, a Delta 88. I think it was a 1958 vintage, like me. Always, Nana picked green cars. You know the shade, right? Nana Green. The tricycle? Red. Of course.

John says I look just the same as I did then. My sartorial choices are a bit different, these days, however.

Failure, Unspun

Yesterday I went to pick up our box of veggies from our CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), and our neighbor's garage was locked. Weird. After leaving a bunch of phone and email messages, I figured I'd get a call about some mixup. But no. Turns out that the CSA, Covered Bridge Farm, is in the throes of spectacular failure. Do read the owner's explanation, because it's rare to find this kind of confessional rhetoric these days. I hope things are not as bad as they sound, but they probably are.

What if the White House decided to unspin this way?

"As your President, I'm no longer able to deliver what I promised. We have exhausted our funds and our military. The final blow came this year when we realized we are really losing the Iraq war. Yes, I know I said 'Mission accomplished' three years ago while wearing a flak jacket, but that was just a lot of hooey, we all know now."

"Anyway, we have had to borrow a lot of funds because we ran out of money. I'm not a fiscal conservative, after all, and I apologize for leading anyone on. We are refinancing the country, but won't have any cash available for months, so we'll have to stop Social Security checks for a while."

"Not only that, but our workers are becoming dispirited, not just soldiers, but even some head honchos and some generals. My repeating "Stay the course" just does not seem to mean anything to these people. They want reasons and justifications and exit strategies. I guess I've learned that you can't run the country on slogans."

WHAT WENT WRONG?

"I am still astonished by our failure. I have always been surrounded by people who agree with me on everything, so no one told me we would fail. Except for a few who aren't around any more. I suspect the nature of the interaction between me and our crew this year is what did us in. My management style results in a White House that is long on conservative ideology and short on dialogue or challenges. In past administrations, the crew would be frustrated, but sooner or later various individuals would fill the vacuum and challenge presidential assumptions. In my administration, no one stepped forward and little errors began to compound. Like more and more limitations on individual rights in the interest of security. Oops. No one called me on that. Except some judge in Michigan."

"I still have faith in the neoconservative model. Having lost the confidence in myself and the confidence of the nation that is needed to run the country, though, I am calling it a day.
I have created a mess on so many different levels that I'm beginning to think that another person may do a far better job of making us a solid and successful nation."

APOLOGY

"Can you imagine breaking a promise to almost 300 million people? That is what I am doing as I type these words. I promised to deliver freedom and security for eight years and I can’t do it. I am very sorry to have taken your votes and not returned fair value for them. After I have done what I can to resume a sane and peaceful nation and refunded some of your tax money used for the war, I will still have done you a disservice. Please know that I am truly sorry to have failed to deliver a good eight years' worth of leadership."

John's Excellent Adventure

An era in our family shall come to an end soon. On Friday, September 22, John shall venture forth to The Big City on the commuter train. He shall then proceed, in "casual business" raiments and somber briefcase in hand, to the 22nd floor of a moderately-sized skyscraper. Whereupon he shall make his home, for 40 hours a week, in a cubicle.

After ten years, he won't be a telecommuter any more. He won't be working upstairs, asking the boys to stop yelling and stop showing him things and stop giving Mommy a hard time. He won't be here to say, "I guess the dishwasher could be run now" and "Where are you off to?" and "What did Jane want?" He won't be here to bail me out when I lock myself out of the car, won't be here to watch Will when I go with Jack to the bus stop, won't be here to chat at odd times during the day, won't be here to explain things to electricians, contractors, and plumbers.

I'm very happy for him, though, because this is a good job with a growing company, and because this company recognizes his worth. Also I want him to have new challenges and work with different people. I love Philadelphia dearly and spent 13 years living in Center City. I'm glad he will get to know it a little, too. And--frankly, I will also be glad to have the house to myself for most of the day. There is just something innately irritating about one's spouse being around all day, every day. We need to have goodbyes and reunions like most married couples, for once.

The boys are dying to ride the elevator in his new building and look out the windows. We've ordered the "business casual" clothes and await their arrival. We embrace the new era.

Day One: So Far So Good

Jack's first day of school lasted an eternity. I worried obsurely all day about whether they were going to catch on to his nickname and was Jack going to be assertive enough to correct them when they called him John and would he feel lonely and were the other kids going to talk to him and would the cafeteria be scary and how was the school going to get him on the correct bus and how would he know when to get off. I waited for the bus in the drizzle with some other moms. It was 10 long minutes late. It stopped. He got off first. He was wearing a cheery bus sticker on his T-shirt saying "John, Bus 5" with "Jack" written on the side and a smiley face drawn on. His rain jacket still packed in the backpack, he grabbed my damp hand and looked up at me, smiling. "Hi, Mommy! It was FUN!"

He had a snack and talked about his day. He brought home some "homework," which involved drawing a picture that showed his favorite part of the day, and writing a sentence about it. He picked the bus ride, it being the most recent and the most adrenalin-producing, I guess. He wrote a simple declarative sentence that won't reveal his astonishing brilliance to his teacher, but it was grammatically correct, with no misspellings, anyway.

John and I got much more homework than Jack did, what with the forms they sent us to fill out, duplicating or even triplicating information we already have given them . . . . lots of recycling fodder, too, like the whole piece of paper dedicated to how the school uses Integrated Pest Management and another whole page dedicated to a statement saying that the school has contained asbestos successfully (the building was renovated last year). We also received a thick wad of Helpful Information and All Kinds of Volunteer Opportunities from the Home and School Association. The association is run by the usual suspects, the stay-at-home moms, the same ones I see at the pool, driving their kids to soccer camp, and at the book clubs. (There are other people in my town, including fathers and working moms. They must be the strangers I see on the weekends.)

Thank you, dear readers, for stopping by during the lull. Blogging season has resumed, so I'll be visiting you soon at your blog! Save a place for me.

The Long, Last Days of Summer

Jack got his class assignment yesterday for first grade at our local public school. It came in a packet with the September cafeteria menus, and the schedule for Home and School meetings. This is real. Jack will be in grade school. He will ride a bus and go through a cafeteria line. Are we ready for this? He asked me to drive him the first day of school, but then he wants to ride the bus. They have a "bus buddy" system if the first graders want it, but Jack told me he didn't. We're hoping to convince him to use one.

We suspect Jack is a little afraid of older kids at the moment. You see, a few days ago Jack awoke from a nightmare screaming "I don't want to go back to camp!" (He has been at a half day camp at my health club ever since we returned from Indiana, mainly so he has something to do while I take Will to his "sound therapy.") John asked why, and after a while Jack admitted that an older boy had said something to him while he was changing to go swimming. He couldn't or wouldn't tell us what. He had just asked me the day before if he could just wear his swim trunks all morning and not change. He was adamant, and wouldn't give me a reason, so I agreed that he could. Neither Jack nor Will are circumcised, and maybe the boy had commented on that. We'll probably never know. I talked to the counselor, and he's not allowed to be with the boys while they're changing, so he can't really supervise. I hadn't realized that Jack would be in such close quarters with older boys. At least it's only one more week, and Jack is fine as long as he keeps the swim trunks on. The counselor told me Jack could change in a stall, but he doesn't want to. I think because he doesn't want to attract attention to himself. We have told him, "You can tell us anything that is bothering you." But the only way we learned anything is through the nightmare. Thank you, subconsconscious.

On a lighter note, Jack has been asking John and me to make up tests for him, that we then are asked to grade, usually at highly inconvenient moments. We put addition problems and simple multiplication problems on the tests. He loves these things! He wants to talk about and play school a lot now. He no doubt has a little anxiety about going to grade school, because his behavior has not been stellar since we got back, yelling and not cooperating to a more annoying level than usual. He will go to a birthday party of a friend from Montessori soon, which will remind him that he's not going back . . .

These August days are long, full of gazing back and looking ahead. Like that week between Christmas and New Year's, we are neither here nor there, floating between the past and the future. The sun creeps slowly across the wide sky each day as time slows down. The town is almost deserted, with most folks at the shore, collecting their energy for the year ahead. We swim, play, and dream of the next chapter.

I'm Back

We're a little crabby and dehydrated, but we're glad to be back. Kato the kitty is happy to be released from the basement, and possibly relieved to see us? He has an understated style.
We have eaten far too many pieces of pie and various and sundry other all-American foods in the past week and a half, and my daily four-mile walks did not undo the effects. Mountains of things to unpack and laundry to wash and plants to water and groceries to buy--and we need to get ready for a new routine tomorrow.

Sigh. It is good to be home. Highlights of the trip soon, I promise, dear readers. Thanks for posting, Susan, Anjali, and Amishlaw.

All in a Summer's Morning

The blog is very sparse this summer, but stay tuned, dear readers. I have not forgotten you. My boys are only in morning camp, and I'm very committed to exercise, volunteering, pool time, and napping when needed. Two weeks ago I FINALLY finished reading Barack Obama's autobiography. High five. What an important story, reflective, sensitive, funny in places, lyrical at times. A really nuanced discussion of race in a personal context. I started The Bookseller of Kabul the other day.

Anyways, here is what I did yesterday. Some of my numeral keys don't work because I spilled red wine on them, so I'm not putting in times.

Early morning: get up to go running at the local track. Run a little until heels bleed (gotta wear real socks, not footies) and walk until the self-imposed limit of thirty minutes is over.

Before I drink my ritual coffee, Jack wants me to read his "book" that he wrote. More specifically he waves it two inches in front of my face yelling, "I finished it, I finished it!" "STOP THAT!" I yell back. He cries. We cuddle.

Will doesn't want to wear his denim shorts, he wants something "cool." So cargo shorts it is. Olive green shorts with an electric blue T-shirt is painful to see, but he's dressed, hallelujah.

I drive Will to the local preschool day camp while John walks Jack to the grade-school camp.

I pack lunches to take to the pool, which we eat after the boys' 12:00 swim class. We do this every weekday, this week and next. One turkey sandwich, one PBJ sandwich, two cheese sticks, two yogurts in tubes, one fruit salad from the local market for us all to share, bottle of filtered water from our tap.

From 10 to 11 AM on Tues. and Thurs. I help welfare-to-work folks to study for their GEDs. At least, the "Language Arts and Writing" section, which, along with the math, are the most difficult for most students to pass. This all takes place at the Delaware County Literacy Council, in Chester. I make a "lesson plan," which means putting bookmarks in my copy of the study guide and hoping that the ESL teacher isn't hogging the photocopier like last time.

Only Demary shows up, and she's very attentive. I walk her through a sample essay topic, which asks about the effects of advertising in "modern times." I prompt her to think of where she sees advertising, and it's not easy for her to think of it at first. Meanwhile, as I look at her I read the text that's all over her: Her name tattooed on her arm, a T-shirt that says "I don't make mistakes--I date them," a keychain with big plastic photos of her toddler. We struggle to develop a thesis for her essay. She'll write a draft at home and time it.

Back on the road--time to go pick up the boys for swim lessons at the pool.

___________________________

Now we're getting ready to go to Indiana for our biannual pilgrimage. No cooking for eleven days, hooray!

Red, White, and Bleary-Eyed

(No, we didn't get drunk yesterday or stay up all night, but I couldn't think of any appropriate word beginning with bl--. ) The fourth of July in my town is a huge exuberant bash, a lovefest, an outdoor sweat-athon. We had races, parades, fire, and water, and don't forget the free doughnuts. Once a year the townsfolk forget their alarm about our nation's arrogance to the rest of the world, and throw themselves into an unapologetic if self-c0ncious celebration of Americana, simplicity, and good old innocent fun.

To get ready, Will and I decorated his bike for the parade, and Jack and Will "practiced" for their respective bike races. You can't really "practice" for an actual race in a driveway, but no matter. Will's bike looked quite patriotic, streamers woven in the spokes, ribbon tied to the handlebars, and various miscellaneous lengths of streamers taped in random places, looking chaotic. Jack came in third for the six-year-old boys' race. Will came in sixth, as he will tell anyone within earshot, but what he doesn't know is--there were only six children racing in his four-year-old category.

The parade, well, that was another story. Let me just say that a little boy yelled a lot and withdrew at the last second, and then changed his mind when it was almost over, then his mom flung the bike back in the dang street for him to ride, and the boy had a tantrum in front of the whole town when he learned they were giving prizes. "You can't have prizes for a PARADE!" Meltdown in the summer heat. Time to go home. We just learned today, officially, that Will is very sensitive to sound and visual stimulus, and also has difficulty with some gross motor skills. So, a bike race and a parade in a crowded town center with an oompah band playing was not the ideal occasion for him to exhibit his considerable charm and ability to cooperate.

Oh yeah, and later John took the boys to this huge water fight with fire hoses, which the boys, especially Will, totally loved. Then we had my brother and his girlfriend and her two older children and my Dad for a cookout and then I was really beat after that. At the end of the evening John tripped over a laundry basket in the dark and yelled, and then, in a completely independent accident, broke an antique mirror. But those two events were past my10:00 PM deadline for reacting, and anyhow he knows where the Band-Aids are.

Then I got up at 5:15 and went running. Because I'm doing that now. OK, maybe I AM bleary-eyed.