We're having a pirate birthday party here tomorrow for Will and Jack. Their birthdays are a week apart, and we're trying to get as many joint parties in as we can. The boys and I looked online for pirate images to use in the invitations, but I remembered, after looking at various etchings and drawings of historical pirates, that pirates were not nice. They made people walk the plank. They (obviously) stole people's ships and money. Pirates really got theirs, though, when they were caught. Gosh!
I hastily steered the boys away from these grim images of piratry, but couldn't find very many happy pictures of real pirates, unless you count this one, which doesn't strike me as quite the right tone for a children's birthday party. Plus, the guy looks miserable. I thought of using web photos of real pirate maps for the invitations, but they seemed a bit esoteric.So we sent generic invitations, and then got your conventional sanitized party pirate pictures, on napkins, plates, tablecloth.
And the cake, you ask. I just made it this morning, Richard Sax's Fudgy Chocolate Layer Cake. from Classic Home Desserts. Instead of chocolate frosting I used a cream cheese frosting, changed a little from the one he lists for the Applesauce-Carrot Cake. All vanilla extract and no lemon zest. I love Richard Sax. Love him. A couple years ago I read in John Thorne's Simple Cooking Newsletter that he was dead. Richard Sax was dead even when I got the book, about nine years ago. I felt so sad, and also very disconcerted that all that time I thought he was alive. If you just read a little from the book, which has been reissued because it is so well researched and written in such a warm voice, you'll know what I mean. He lives in the book.
Then I had to go and make a pirate hat with that gross black frosting in a can. And a skull and crossbones from the slightly less disgusting can of white frosting. Then a bunch of "Easter sprinkles" around the sides for a lighter mood, more resurrection and less death.
Voila! The skull has a drunken lopsided smile and the edges of the black hat jut out oddly in a few places. As Jack just said to me, "It looks good for not being professional." Kind words, matey.
Nov 18, 2005
Nov 17, 2005
Better than Sex
I've hit the motherlode, dear readers. Nana's most special of all her half dozen recipe boxes, the rustiest one, the one with odd bits of paper and wrongly labelled sections. "Salads." No salads, here, sister! Only luscious desserts, such as "Better than Sex." Now I have heard of "Better than Sex" Cake, but this recipe, typed on the old black Smith-Corona on a small unevenly cut piece of paper, just says "Better than Sex" at the top. Is it the name of the dish or a description of it? This ambiguity leads me to wonder why my grandparents had separate bedrooms, and if it was really because Papa snored too loud, as was the party line. Not surprisingly, I don't remember this dessert at all, perhaps because Nana didn't want to tell us children what it was called.
It does sound sweet, silky, creamy, smooth. And . . . . greasy. Topped with Cool Whip, ooh la la. But guaranteed not to demand anything from you, give you an STD, or get you pregnant. And without further ado,
Better Than Sex
1 C flour
1 stick oleo (WW II rationing has been over a while; use butter)
1/2 C chopped pecans
1 C powdered sugar
8-oz. package cream cheese
tub of Cool Whip (I changed from Dream Whip, thanks Betty McB)
2 small packages lemon or chocolate instant pudding (depending on your orientation?)
2 1/2 C whole milk, COLD
Mix flour, oleo, and nuts. Press into bottom of 9 x 13 pan and and bake 15 minutes at 350. Cool.
Cream together powdered sugar and cream cheese to a frost-like consistency (I think she means "frosting") and spread over the cooled crust. Blend milk and pudding to an almost set consistency and pour over cream cheese mixture. Top with Cool Whip.
It does sound sweet, silky, creamy, smooth. And . . . . greasy. Topped with Cool Whip, ooh la la. But guaranteed not to demand anything from you, give you an STD, or get you pregnant. And without further ado,
Better Than Sex
1 C flour
1 stick oleo (WW II rationing has been over a while; use butter)
1/2 C chopped pecans
1 C powdered sugar
8-oz. package cream cheese
tub of Cool Whip (I changed from Dream Whip, thanks Betty McB)
2 small packages lemon or chocolate instant pudding (depending on your orientation?)
2 1/2 C whole milk, COLD
Mix flour, oleo, and nuts. Press into bottom of 9 x 13 pan and and bake 15 minutes at 350. Cool.
Cream together powdered sugar and cream cheese to a frost-like consistency (I think she means "frosting") and spread over the cooled crust. Blend milk and pudding to an almost set consistency and pour over cream cheese mixture. Top with Cool Whip.
Nov 15, 2005
The Well-Intentioned Cook
I try to use fresh local ingredients whenever possible and don't eat or serve processed food, for the most part. I make my own bread, with a bread machine. Jack and Will's teachers comment on how good the bread looks! No single-serving packaged food in our house, no juice boxes. We aim for optimal health,living lightly on this earth, and good taste. Which reminds me that I need to make dinner. I haven't thought too much about it all day. But we have tomatoes, cheese, pasta, green peppers, garlic, olive oil, and so I think I'll manage come up with something.
Please check out Simply in Season, Cathy Hockman-Wert's food blog named after the cookbook she co-edited with Mary Beth Lind, published by Herald Press. The proceeds from the cookbook go to Mennonite Central Committee, an organization that helps the world. I tested one recipe in the book (Grilled Vegetable Salad) and my sister in law tested ten. Cathy has known my husband John for years. Besides being nonprofit, the book is lovely on its own. It's not a trendy foodie cookbook, no famous chefs involved. It is truly friendly to the home cook who is willing to be patient with her or his methods and foods, and who cares about healthful eating.
That said, I confess I have a bunch of greens, an eggplant, and a crowd of squashes in the downstairs fridge that are past the point of no return and sorely need to be evicted and composted. I keep vainly hoping for a resurrection.
Please check out Simply in Season, Cathy Hockman-Wert's food blog named after the cookbook she co-edited with Mary Beth Lind, published by Herald Press. The proceeds from the cookbook go to Mennonite Central Committee, an organization that helps the world. I tested one recipe in the book (Grilled Vegetable Salad) and my sister in law tested ten. Cathy has known my husband John for years. Besides being nonprofit, the book is lovely on its own. It's not a trendy foodie cookbook, no famous chefs involved. It is truly friendly to the home cook who is willing to be patient with her or his methods and foods, and who cares about healthful eating.
That said, I confess I have a bunch of greens, an eggplant, and a crowd of squashes in the downstairs fridge that are past the point of no return and sorely need to be evicted and composted. I keep vainly hoping for a resurrection.
Nov 14, 2005
Happy Birthday, Dream Kitchen
On Saturday my blog turned one year old. I'm thinking of a few ways to celebrate it:
-Write one of those 100 things about me memes
-Publish a couple of essays that haven't been published anywhere
-Take roll
I'll start with the last--Who reads my blog? Are you a new visitor or a regular? Figuratively raise your hand by leaving a comment. Insincere, empty, ironic, any comment will do, as long as it's from a real person. You could just say "present." Thank you kindly, dear readers.
-Write one of those 100 things about me memes
-Publish a couple of essays that haven't been published anywhere
-Take roll
I'll start with the last--Who reads my blog? Are you a new visitor or a regular? Figuratively raise your hand by leaving a comment. Insincere, empty, ironic, any comment will do, as long as it's from a real person. You could just say "present." Thank you kindly, dear readers.
The Existential Kindergartener
We have deep conversations on the way to school in the morning. This Pinteresque one from last Thursday:
Jack: What if there was nothing?
Lauren (stalling): I'm not sure what you're asking. No helmet AND the wrong side of the street. Idiot.
Jack: I mean no people, no air, no earth, no nothing.
Lauren (vaguely) Wow. That might be boring.(There's no way I'm letting you in, silver Mercedes.)
Will: No cars! No roads!
Jack: No, wait. It wouldn't be boring. Not if there wasn't anyone around to think it's boring.
Will: No food! No cats!
Lauren: Jack, good thinking. An excellent point. Move already, geezer in the blue Cadillac. If there were nothing, no one could call it nothing because we wouldn't be around to name anything. In a way it's already something even if it's called "nothing." How long has that gas indicator light been on?
Jack: God wouldn't even be there.
Lauren: Not if there was nothing. I'm glad there's not nothing.
Will: Can we go to the playground after school?
Lauren: If it's warm enough, we can. And stop kicking my seat.
Jack: What if there was nothing?
Lauren (stalling): I'm not sure what you're asking. No helmet AND the wrong side of the street. Idiot.
Jack: I mean no people, no air, no earth, no nothing.
Lauren (vaguely) Wow. That might be boring.(There's no way I'm letting you in, silver Mercedes.)
Will: No cars! No roads!
Jack: No, wait. It wouldn't be boring. Not if there wasn't anyone around to think it's boring.
Will: No food! No cats!
Lauren: Jack, good thinking. An excellent point. Move already, geezer in the blue Cadillac. If there were nothing, no one could call it nothing because we wouldn't be around to name anything. In a way it's already something even if it's called "nothing." How long has that gas indicator light been on?
Jack: God wouldn't even be there.
Lauren: Not if there was nothing. I'm glad there's not nothing.
Will: Can we go to the playground after school?
Lauren: If it's warm enough, we can. And stop kicking my seat.
Nov 10, 2005
Nana's "Where is that Biscuit Dough Recipe, Anyway?" Apple Pan Dowdy
Now I'm the keeper of my Nana's five recipe boxes and two recipe collections in notebooks. Nana was born in 1899 and died in 2002 so something sure gave her a lot of staying power. Whether it was the food she cooked, her zeal for propriety in all things, or her desire to see me happily married and a mother, I don't know. I sure made her wait a long time for the latter. She didn't seem to quite keep me straight with my mother by the time the boys were born, but my mother was dead by then, so whatever. It's all good.
What was I talking about? Apple pan dowdy. This recipe is typical of the many recipes I copied out the other day. It was written with a blue fountain pen in big, barely decipherable loopy script. When I find her biscuit recipe I'll publish it, but don't hold your breath. I'll probably make this with Deborah Madison's biscuit recipe. This apple pan dowdy recipe is actually from a composition book that probably dates from the early forties. Some of the entries are written in my mother's writing, a tightly controlled script that is much easier to read, written with the same kind of pen.
Answers to anticipated questions:
1. A quart is four cups.
2. A pudding dish is just a ceramic baking dish. A 1 1/2 to 2-qt. size would work.
3. I would guess this would take about 40 mins. Check at 30 mins. and if the top is too brown, cover with foil.
Nana's Apple Pan Dowdy
qt. apples, sliced
1 C light brown sugar
½ t cinnamon
1/8 t cloves
1/8 t nutmeg
4 T butter
½ C cider
Butter pudding dish and put in sliced apples. Spread sugar over apples and sprinkle spices over sugar. Dot top with butter. Add cider and cover with biscuit dough ¼ in thick. Score holes for steam to escape. Bake in moderate oven 350 degrees until apples are tender and crust is well browned.
What was I talking about? Apple pan dowdy. This recipe is typical of the many recipes I copied out the other day. It was written with a blue fountain pen in big, barely decipherable loopy script. When I find her biscuit recipe I'll publish it, but don't hold your breath. I'll probably make this with Deborah Madison's biscuit recipe. This apple pan dowdy recipe is actually from a composition book that probably dates from the early forties. Some of the entries are written in my mother's writing, a tightly controlled script that is much easier to read, written with the same kind of pen.
Answers to anticipated questions:
1. A quart is four cups.
2. A pudding dish is just a ceramic baking dish. A 1 1/2 to 2-qt. size would work.
3. I would guess this would take about 40 mins. Check at 30 mins. and if the top is too brown, cover with foil.
Nana's Apple Pan Dowdy
qt. apples, sliced
1 C light brown sugar
½ t cinnamon
1/8 t cloves
1/8 t nutmeg
4 T butter
½ C cider
Butter pudding dish and put in sliced apples. Spread sugar over apples and sprinkle spices over sugar. Dot top with butter. Add cider and cover with biscuit dough ¼ in thick. Score holes for steam to escape. Bake in moderate oven 350 degrees until apples are tender and crust is well browned.
Nov 8, 2005
Eyes That See
Months ago, I was assigned children's time for November 6 at church. I didn't know what I should do it on, and because the pastor was out of town for several days he couldn't answer my email. And there wasn't a worship leader for the service until Wednesday. Finally, the administrative assistant remembered the pastor had sent him the topic earlier: "Prayer can be a real part of caring for the community around us."
Right away, I knew that Will would teach the congregation a prayer he had learned at camp this summer. I have been very taken with the profundity and simplicity of this prayer, and Will prays it often before dinner:
May we have eyes that see, (hands uncover eyes)
Hearts that love, (hands crisscross over heart)
And hands that are ready to help.(hands spread outwards)
Right before the service it's our practice for the people involved in worship to pray briefly together just by the landing, and I happened to be holding Will's hand to take him in to church. (John and Jack were already there.) So I just brought Will in with me, we all held hands, and before the pastor could pray, Will just piped up with his entire prayer, confident and clear as a bell. "I think that says everything," laughed the pastor in wonder, and he dismissed us. The lump in my throat made it hard for me to speak.
When children's time came, Will was just as eager to teach everyone the prayer, and he spoke very close to the microphone. The children learned it, and then we all turned outward to the congregation to teach them.
We really needed to pray that prayer. It turns out it had been a hard week for several of our members, as a child abuse allegation had been made against the mother of a child in Jack's Sunday school class. The grandmother, who seems to be the backbone of the family, expressed her hurt that no one had called her first. She has struggled for decades to bring her children and grandchildren up to be good people. She has attended our church for 20 years, and regularly brings her famous macaroni and cheese to the potlucks. She stands up every week during sharing, in a great big wonderful flowered hat, to ask for prayer. And yet she believed now that some members in the church had shown racist attitudes toward her family. We listened to her anger and disappointment for as long as she had words, which seemed very long indeed. When she was done, hugs and tears.It was so hard.
Now I have learned that Will's camp prayer is based on a Unitarian-Universalist prayer that goes like this:
Mystery of Life, Source of All Being, we are thankful for the gifts of life and being, of love and connection. We are thankful for all the wonders of the world around us. We are thankful for each other and for all the members of our global family. May we have eyes that see, hearts that love and hands that are ready to serve in love and in kindness, with caring and with courage. Blessed Be.
AMEN
Right away, I knew that Will would teach the congregation a prayer he had learned at camp this summer. I have been very taken with the profundity and simplicity of this prayer, and Will prays it often before dinner:
May we have eyes that see, (hands uncover eyes)
Hearts that love, (hands crisscross over heart)
And hands that are ready to help.(hands spread outwards)
Right before the service it's our practice for the people involved in worship to pray briefly together just by the landing, and I happened to be holding Will's hand to take him in to church. (John and Jack were already there.) So I just brought Will in with me, we all held hands, and before the pastor could pray, Will just piped up with his entire prayer, confident and clear as a bell. "I think that says everything," laughed the pastor in wonder, and he dismissed us. The lump in my throat made it hard for me to speak.
When children's time came, Will was just as eager to teach everyone the prayer, and he spoke very close to the microphone. The children learned it, and then we all turned outward to the congregation to teach them.
We really needed to pray that prayer. It turns out it had been a hard week for several of our members, as a child abuse allegation had been made against the mother of a child in Jack's Sunday school class. The grandmother, who seems to be the backbone of the family, expressed her hurt that no one had called her first. She has struggled for decades to bring her children and grandchildren up to be good people. She has attended our church for 20 years, and regularly brings her famous macaroni and cheese to the potlucks. She stands up every week during sharing, in a great big wonderful flowered hat, to ask for prayer. And yet she believed now that some members in the church had shown racist attitudes toward her family. We listened to her anger and disappointment for as long as she had words, which seemed very long indeed. When she was done, hugs and tears.It was so hard.
Now I have learned that Will's camp prayer is based on a Unitarian-Universalist prayer that goes like this:
Mystery of Life, Source of All Being, we are thankful for the gifts of life and being, of love and connection. We are thankful for all the wonders of the world around us. We are thankful for each other and for all the members of our global family. May we have eyes that see, hearts that love and hands that are ready to serve in love and in kindness, with caring and with courage. Blessed Be.
AMEN
Nov 4, 2005
Quakers Can Be Kinky, Too.
From the New York Times today:
"WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Quaker Maid Meats Inc. on Tuesday said it would voluntarily recall 94,400 pounds of frozen ground beef panties that may be contaminated with E. coli."
Contaminated or not, just try sitting through Meeting wearing these things.
"WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Quaker Maid Meats Inc. on Tuesday said it would voluntarily recall 94,400 pounds of frozen ground beef panties that may be contaminated with E. coli."
Contaminated or not, just try sitting through Meeting wearing these things.
Nov 2, 2005
Coincidence? I Think Not.
1. Three weeks ago, I finally went to the local bank to deposit some checks. But I couldn't. The bank manager was outside the door saying they had no electricity!
2. Two weeks ago, I finally took the encrusted crumb-filled minivan to the car wash, but it was closed. Because they were washing the car wash!
3. Today, I finally went to Barnes and Noble, which I don't even live particularly near, to start to use up the gift certificate my Dad gave me for my birthday. I was only going to get a cup of coffee. But they were having their hot water heater replaced at that moment, and had no coffee!
2. Two weeks ago, I finally took the encrusted crumb-filled minivan to the car wash, but it was closed. Because they were washing the car wash!
3. Today, I finally went to Barnes and Noble, which I don't even live particularly near, to start to use up the gift certificate my Dad gave me for my birthday. I was only going to get a cup of coffee. But they were having their hot water heater replaced at that moment, and had no coffee!
Nov 1, 2005
Prunes, Actually
Several weeks ago I made a Prune and Armagnac Gingerbread that was greatly enjoyed by all. I made it for a reunion with some friends I hadn't seen in years. Friends from my sordid conservative evangelical past, to tell you the truth, and I wasn't sure what had changed over the years with them, or what hadn't changed. As for myself, I have veered decidedly leftwards.
It such situations, it always helps to make a fabulous dessert. Especially in this case, since a fissure had developed late in the main course. We were eating by candlelight at my friend Annie's house, and were just finishing up some grilled salmon. Maryanne and Keith are the ones, out of everyone at the table, to have held onto a lot of their convictions, it turns out, not that anyone had been grilling them. Whenever John and I have to explain that we're Mennonite we have to go into a long set piece about how Mennonites don't all drive buggies, and so forth. Now that we go to a Mennonite church that was rejected from the local Mennonite conference for sanctioning gay/lesbian partnerships, we have even more explaining to do. In this case it was met with a truly surprised and baffled "Oh."
And then about 2.5 seconds of silence until Annie, ever the diplomat, suddenly expressed her delight that the candles weren't dripping. Onward and upward with the meal, and the spicy, sensuous dark gingerbread seemed to restore our good cheer. And perhaps the prunes will do some good yet.
It such situations, it always helps to make a fabulous dessert. Especially in this case, since a fissure had developed late in the main course. We were eating by candlelight at my friend Annie's house, and were just finishing up some grilled salmon. Maryanne and Keith are the ones, out of everyone at the table, to have held onto a lot of their convictions, it turns out, not that anyone had been grilling them. Whenever John and I have to explain that we're Mennonite we have to go into a long set piece about how Mennonites don't all drive buggies, and so forth. Now that we go to a Mennonite church that was rejected from the local Mennonite conference for sanctioning gay/lesbian partnerships, we have even more explaining to do. In this case it was met with a truly surprised and baffled "Oh."
And then about 2.5 seconds of silence until Annie, ever the diplomat, suddenly expressed her delight that the candles weren't dripping. Onward and upward with the meal, and the spicy, sensuous dark gingerbread seemed to restore our good cheer. And perhaps the prunes will do some good yet.
Oct 29, 2005
In Which I Cave in to Halloween
Public school, which Jack will begin next year in first grade, is beginning to look really good, if only for the reason that all the kids will live in our school district, and therefore birthday parties won't be way out in the exurbs. What a confusing landscape we passed through yesterday afternoon. as we drove along country roads not engineered for the rush hour traffic they were getting. We passed huge new houses on cul de sacs, horses and cows, more developments,more farms, more traffic. It took 40 minutes to get there from our inner suburb/small town.
Kids were supposed to wear costumes to the party, thus combining my dislike of Today's Birthday Parties with my dislike of Halloween. We carpooled with Alex again, the Consumer Child. He was wearing a plush Hulk costume, and he made withering remarks about the sorry-assed skeleton "costume" I made for Jack. I had cut out bone shapes from posterboard and taped them on Jack's clothes. I found the costume idea on the FamilyFun website under "last-minute" costumes. I couldn't find the right kind of string for the mask, and had to use two-sided Scotch tape instead of masking tape, etc., etc., etc., and so of course every piece of his costume fell off when he was at the birthday party, and none were retrieved, either. So, we were back to the drawing board today. My plan to have the boys wear matching skeleton costumes of my own making was beginning to take on a quixotic tinge.
Plus, I suddenly remembered how my mother always had me wear things that were embarrassingly uncool (kilts, galoshes,sweater sets) but that met her standards, and even though the boys were not begging me for "normal" costumes, I caved. Caved in to the need to impress Alex? Let's not think too hard about it. The three of us went to Party Land, "Your Halloween Headquarters!," and got costumes. Now a little Darth Vader (Will) and a little Batman (Jack) live in our house. The boys are extremely pleased. I thought we had left part of Jack's costume at the store, and I sent John to look for it, and I began to feel that I was a worthless human being for not checking the contents of the boxes. This after fighting all the traffic, getting two squirmy boys to try on their costumes at the store, and fighting more traffic on the way home. And a call to the other Party Land franchise nearby revealed that they had no more superhero costumes for boys that age, only total loser costumes like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz and, ugh, clown costumes. Is there anything as unfunny as a clown? I was really desparate.
So a few minutes after John left, I apologized abjectly to Jack, and he said cheerfully, "That's okay. We have all the parts." Apparently he had taken part of the costume out of the box without me knowing it,and didn't want to say anything to us. I don't know why. Didn't he hear John's and my conversation? I don't care. We will have a normal Halloween tomorrow. We will. To be partly redeemed by collecting for Unicef. But just partly. I'm a living dictionary definition of "ambivalence."But before I go, Happy Halloween. Yeah.
Kids were supposed to wear costumes to the party, thus combining my dislike of Today's Birthday Parties with my dislike of Halloween. We carpooled with Alex again, the Consumer Child. He was wearing a plush Hulk costume, and he made withering remarks about the sorry-assed skeleton "costume" I made for Jack. I had cut out bone shapes from posterboard and taped them on Jack's clothes. I found the costume idea on the FamilyFun website under "last-minute" costumes. I couldn't find the right kind of string for the mask, and had to use two-sided Scotch tape instead of masking tape, etc., etc., etc., and so of course every piece of his costume fell off when he was at the birthday party, and none were retrieved, either. So, we were back to the drawing board today. My plan to have the boys wear matching skeleton costumes of my own making was beginning to take on a quixotic tinge.
Plus, I suddenly remembered how my mother always had me wear things that were embarrassingly uncool (kilts, galoshes,sweater sets) but that met her standards, and even though the boys were not begging me for "normal" costumes, I caved. Caved in to the need to impress Alex? Let's not think too hard about it. The three of us went to Party Land, "Your Halloween Headquarters!," and got costumes. Now a little Darth Vader (Will) and a little Batman (Jack) live in our house. The boys are extremely pleased. I thought we had left part of Jack's costume at the store, and I sent John to look for it, and I began to feel that I was a worthless human being for not checking the contents of the boxes. This after fighting all the traffic, getting two squirmy boys to try on their costumes at the store, and fighting more traffic on the way home. And a call to the other Party Land franchise nearby revealed that they had no more superhero costumes for boys that age, only total loser costumes like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz and, ugh, clown costumes. Is there anything as unfunny as a clown? I was really desparate.
So a few minutes after John left, I apologized abjectly to Jack, and he said cheerfully, "That's okay. We have all the parts." Apparently he had taken part of the costume out of the box without me knowing it,and didn't want to say anything to us. I don't know why. Didn't he hear John's and my conversation? I don't care. We will have a normal Halloween tomorrow. We will. To be partly redeemed by collecting for Unicef. But just partly. I'm a living dictionary definition of "ambivalence."But before I go, Happy Halloween. Yeah.
Oct 27, 2005
Babes in Faux Pumpkinland
Not pumpkins being pulled off the vine by acquisitive preschoolers and kindergarteners. But pumpkins that have been --under cover of darkness?-- dumped on a field of weeds by the truckload, then to be named a "pumpkin patch." At this point is when the acquisitive preschoolers and kindergarteners pick them off the ground. At Jack and Will's field trip this morning, I never heard one of the children question why no pumpkins were attached to any plants. That's what the suburbs will do to you, I guess.
As small farms located near cities struggle harder to make ends meet, they go into "direct marketing" to make a living from all the suburbanite families surrounding them in greater and greater numbers. It seems now that there are a half dozen such farms, offering hayrides, "Pumpkin Land," little train rides, selling cider and doughnuts and offering, of course, a pick-your-own option. The weather has been poor for pumpkin growth this season around these parts, and very few of these places hesitate to go the faux pumpkin patch route. More power to them.
So I seem to be one of those moms who is free to go on field trips. I drove four boys including Will and Jack, Josh, who cried most of the way there, missing his Daddy, and the other, Jack's best buddy Alex,a rambunctious kid who owns every Spider-Man tie-in they sell in the U.S. Four boys, even with the quietly sniffling Josh, make a hell of a lot of noise. Alex's father came along too, an unemployed architect who claims the role of stay-at-home-dad "sucks." Since he's dying to get back to work, I let him struggle with the car seats in the back row of the van. Ha.
I had to write a post today because here my blog is mentioned (a few paragraphs down) as if it is actually current, by Miriam Peskowitz, author of The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars: Who Decides What Makes a Good Mother? So now I gotta revive the blog. I find the more I write, the more I want to write, so this probably means a whole new slew of entries will spew forth. And I know there's a better way to say that.
As small farms located near cities struggle harder to make ends meet, they go into "direct marketing" to make a living from all the suburbanite families surrounding them in greater and greater numbers. It seems now that there are a half dozen such farms, offering hayrides, "Pumpkin Land," little train rides, selling cider and doughnuts and offering, of course, a pick-your-own option. The weather has been poor for pumpkin growth this season around these parts, and very few of these places hesitate to go the faux pumpkin patch route. More power to them.
So I seem to be one of those moms who is free to go on field trips. I drove four boys including Will and Jack, Josh, who cried most of the way there, missing his Daddy, and the other, Jack's best buddy Alex,a rambunctious kid who owns every Spider-Man tie-in they sell in the U.S. Four boys, even with the quietly sniffling Josh, make a hell of a lot of noise. Alex's father came along too, an unemployed architect who claims the role of stay-at-home-dad "sucks." Since he's dying to get back to work, I let him struggle with the car seats in the back row of the van. Ha.
I had to write a post today because here my blog is mentioned (a few paragraphs down) as if it is actually current, by Miriam Peskowitz, author of The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars: Who Decides What Makes a Good Mother? So now I gotta revive the blog. I find the more I write, the more I want to write, so this probably means a whole new slew of entries will spew forth. And I know there's a better way to say that.
Oct 11, 2005
The Coffeemaker Has Left Nevada.
Did I really need to know that? UPS package tracking on the web provides too much information. Actually I think it was in Illinois on Friday. We had been worried that it would be waylaid in Utah somewhere. Our old coffeemaker now has enough things wrong with it that we finally decided to get a new one. We were faced with about 20 choices too many. We just ordered the first one that seemed like the old one but better. Because every new thing you buy has to be better than the last, right? And have more stainless steel surface area.
The blog's been very sporodic of late, I know. That's because I'm actually writing. Not just Blind, which I've revised a couple times now, but also I've done some marketing copy for my sons' Montessori. And getting paid. Whee! It paid for the coffeemaker, anyway.
The writing group I tried last week was amateurish. Had to slog through Ch. 20 of an elderly lady's interminable courtroom drama, filled with ethnic stereotypes. I mean "expressionless little Oriental?" I think not. So now I'm looking for a group that has higher standards, but not so high that they won't accept me, of course. So I'm going to check out"Reality Writes" at Penn's Kelly Writers' House soon. I need the pressure of a writers group in order to crank anything out.
I'm also in search of is a good cafe in which to hang out and write. In a retro notebook, the kind you use a pen with. The Starbucks near me has a staff who banters at high volume, and because it's small I can't get very far away from them. Borders seems impersonal.I visited an independent coffee shop in Media, but the coffee was only okay, and there was only one other person besides me there, which felt weird. I'm looking for a certain vibe that I fear only exists in the city.
The blog's been very sporodic of late, I know. That's because I'm actually writing. Not just Blind, which I've revised a couple times now, but also I've done some marketing copy for my sons' Montessori. And getting paid. Whee! It paid for the coffeemaker, anyway.
The writing group I tried last week was amateurish. Had to slog through Ch. 20 of an elderly lady's interminable courtroom drama, filled with ethnic stereotypes. I mean "expressionless little Oriental?" I think not. So now I'm looking for a group that has higher standards, but not so high that they won't accept me, of course. So I'm going to check out"Reality Writes" at Penn's Kelly Writers' House soon. I need the pressure of a writers group in order to crank anything out.
I'm also in search of is a good cafe in which to hang out and write. In a retro notebook, the kind you use a pen with. The Starbucks near me has a staff who banters at high volume, and because it's small I can't get very far away from them. Borders seems impersonal.I visited an independent coffee shop in Media, but the coffee was only okay, and there was only one other person besides me there, which felt weird. I'm looking for a certain vibe that I fear only exists in the city.
Oct 4, 2005
Blind
(Here's a rough draft of a nonfiction piece I just wrote for a writers' group tomorrow. )
It was the summer of 1994. I was supposed to be writing my dissertation. My roommate was in Hawaii for the summer. My interest in the O. J. Simpson case waned immediately after peaking, and, like any self-respecting doctoral student, I sought distraction. A boyfriend would do just fine.
At the age of 35, my single status was getting, shall we say, old. My mother and grandmother had given up on me, but I hadn’t yet. This was the twilight of the Age Before Internet Dating, so I turned to the Philadelphia Inquirer personals. Was my soulmate calling out to me from there? First, I had rules. Standards. No kinky stuff, and most importantly no one who said they liked walks on the beach at sunset or candlelight dinners. Please! I’m worthy of someone more original than that. The personals were set up so that you left a message in a voicemail box and gave your phone number, hoping they’d call you back. The message would be all they had to go by, so every time I left a message I would rehearse it several times, to make it sound light and breezy, and spoken in confident low tones. It took nothing less than total concentration.
The first man to call me back was Josh. He was a therapist in the Northeast, and easy to talk to, as a therapist would be. An hour went by before I knew it, and we set up a date for a drink in Center City, non-alcoholic, of course. Standards. Josh had warned me that he was six feet eight inches tall. I marked it on the wall of my apartment and practiced looking up to where his eyes might be. It was very high. Still and all, I thought of my own 5 ft. 8 inches, and thought, “Tall’s good, right?”
What he didn’t warn me about was that would be ramrod thin, with an outsized nose, wearing a light blue seersucker suit, and sporting a straw hat. Six feet eight. Light blue seersucker suit. Straw hat. Huge nose. I became acquainted with a sinking feeling that I was sure he could see in my face. In the whole time we talked in the coffee shop, the feeling never went away. I fought back tears. It hadn’t occurred to me me that a person who sounded so normal could be so mortifyingly strange-looking. I prayed to God that no one I knew would see me with this character, who looked like he could play the part of a Bible salesman in a Flannery O’Connor novel. Then I felt ashamed of myself for feeling this way about a perfectly fine person. Finally a decent interval passed, and we parted. “Can I call you again some time?” he asked just before he went down the steps to the subway station,” and I said “No, I don’t think so.” His face fell and he said, “OK, well, thanks, anyway.” And his lanky frame disappeared into the darkness of the station. And I crawled back to my apartment on my belly, groaning and eating dust.
Weeks went by, in which I was actually driven to write a chapter or two. But then I did it again. This time the ad intrigued me because this man said his favorite movie was Gregory’s Girl, which was also one of my favorite movies at the time. The guy couldn’t be that bad. So I rehearsed another call and left a polished version in the voicemail box. He called me back, and I learned his name was Jeff and that he worked for Community College of Philadelphia. And that he was five feet eight and lived in Roxborough.
Fine. I prepared myself for a plain-looking man. Realism, realism. A plain-looking man with a discerning taste in movies, of modest height living in a working class neighborhood. A humble man, faithful and true! Who would love me through all the years of our lives. As I approached him I could see that had no discernible chin. What I mean is that a large flabby something existed between chin and neck, it being itself neither chin nor neck. In other words, he was ugly in a completely different way, a diametrically opposite way from Josh. “Lauren, you must be Lauren!” he said eagerly. “Hello Jeff,” I said in a lukewarm tone of voice. “I’m getting better at this,” I thought. “My mortification and shame are decidedly duller this time. And I don’t think he can even see it in my face.”
My smugness was shattered when I glimpsed a man I knew. I hid behind a column. “You were saying?” I asked brightly. “I was saying, I read your article. What does that French quote mean?” My unnerving was now total. I remembered I had told him about an article that I had published in Modern Drama. And he read it. The only person to this day who has read it, to my knowledge, other than my professor. And he wants to know what that French passage means! Shit! “I don’t even remember, to tell you the truth.” He was trying way too hard.
We had a soda at a neighborhood restaurant, and some appetizers. I ordered a hummus platter, whereupon I learned that he had never heard of hummus. Never heard of hummus? How was that even possible? I was mystified. Hummus was the staple food of every grad student party and I guess I thought everyone ate the stuff. “So do you like Roxborough? I asked, and he said yes, and that he would never leave it, because it was “safe” with so many cops living there. “Safe.” I was moving away, fast, from humble man, faithful and true, to bigoted man, narrow-minded and . . . . and doesn’t that tie pinch his neck? Or is that his chin?
Third time’s a charm, right? One more time, I told myself. Late July. There’s still time to find Mr. Right before my roommate returns and deflates my hopes. Before classes resume and I get back in the groove of flirting harmlessly with the safe married men and the safe gay men of my department. One more foray into the uncharted territory of the personals. Think Goldilocks, Goldilocks.
Joe was man number three. I sat waiting for him at Le Bus thinking I’ve seen two physical extremes, so now I’m hardened to anything. That guy from Beauty and the Beast is kind of sexy after all. Plus, I don’t really care about meeting a man, anyway, so what if I’m single and childless my whole life? Even if I become a bag lady, I’ll at least have some good books in that bag and some funny stories. “Hi, are you Lauren?” asked a man with black hair and a beard. “Yes?” “I’m Joe.” He smiled warmly. I stared. There was nothing perceivably amiss about his appearance. He was actually attractive. Decently dressed. Didn’t smell bad. Goldilocks. We had a lovely conversation. He was a nurse. He lived in West Philly near me. He played the saxophone. He was Italian. He was masculine without being macho. His last words were “I’ll call you. We’ll listen to jazz at Ortlieb’s.”
What can I say? “Goldilocks.” We married the next year, and now we have two sets of twins. Couldn’t be happier. I could also say “Stinky Cheese Man.” I waited for Joe to call me. Three weeks later, I finally called him. Light and breezy. Confident low tones. “Hi Joe. It’s Lauren . . . how have you been?” “Lauren . . .?” “From Le Bus three weeks ago?” Silence. “We met through the personals? I ordered an Orangina?” I was beginning to hate myself. “I have to say, I don’t remember you. I’ve been working through a lot of issues lately . . . . I’m sorry.”
Another chapter in my dissertation got written. I swore I’d never tell my roommate about my summer. She came back and I promptly told her everything. She said “That’ll teach me to go away for the summer.” I fell back into the academic routine, flirted with the safe men. The next year I finished my dissertation, got a teaching job, and met my husband at a party at my own house. We now have two wonderful children. But not before I joined a dating service and met a lawn and garden supply salesman and a brick salesman. Did you know there are 250 different kinds of bricks?
It was the summer of 1994. I was supposed to be writing my dissertation. My roommate was in Hawaii for the summer. My interest in the O. J. Simpson case waned immediately after peaking, and, like any self-respecting doctoral student, I sought distraction. A boyfriend would do just fine.
At the age of 35, my single status was getting, shall we say, old. My mother and grandmother had given up on me, but I hadn’t yet. This was the twilight of the Age Before Internet Dating, so I turned to the Philadelphia Inquirer personals. Was my soulmate calling out to me from there? First, I had rules. Standards. No kinky stuff, and most importantly no one who said they liked walks on the beach at sunset or candlelight dinners. Please! I’m worthy of someone more original than that. The personals were set up so that you left a message in a voicemail box and gave your phone number, hoping they’d call you back. The message would be all they had to go by, so every time I left a message I would rehearse it several times, to make it sound light and breezy, and spoken in confident low tones. It took nothing less than total concentration.
The first man to call me back was Josh. He was a therapist in the Northeast, and easy to talk to, as a therapist would be. An hour went by before I knew it, and we set up a date for a drink in Center City, non-alcoholic, of course. Standards. Josh had warned me that he was six feet eight inches tall. I marked it on the wall of my apartment and practiced looking up to where his eyes might be. It was very high. Still and all, I thought of my own 5 ft. 8 inches, and thought, “Tall’s good, right?”
What he didn’t warn me about was that would be ramrod thin, with an outsized nose, wearing a light blue seersucker suit, and sporting a straw hat. Six feet eight. Light blue seersucker suit. Straw hat. Huge nose. I became acquainted with a sinking feeling that I was sure he could see in my face. In the whole time we talked in the coffee shop, the feeling never went away. I fought back tears. It hadn’t occurred to me me that a person who sounded so normal could be so mortifyingly strange-looking. I prayed to God that no one I knew would see me with this character, who looked like he could play the part of a Bible salesman in a Flannery O’Connor novel. Then I felt ashamed of myself for feeling this way about a perfectly fine person. Finally a decent interval passed, and we parted. “Can I call you again some time?” he asked just before he went down the steps to the subway station,” and I said “No, I don’t think so.” His face fell and he said, “OK, well, thanks, anyway.” And his lanky frame disappeared into the darkness of the station. And I crawled back to my apartment on my belly, groaning and eating dust.
Weeks went by, in which I was actually driven to write a chapter or two. But then I did it again. This time the ad intrigued me because this man said his favorite movie was Gregory’s Girl, which was also one of my favorite movies at the time. The guy couldn’t be that bad. So I rehearsed another call and left a polished version in the voicemail box. He called me back, and I learned his name was Jeff and that he worked for Community College of Philadelphia. And that he was five feet eight and lived in Roxborough.
Fine. I prepared myself for a plain-looking man. Realism, realism. A plain-looking man with a discerning taste in movies, of modest height living in a working class neighborhood. A humble man, faithful and true! Who would love me through all the years of our lives. As I approached him I could see that had no discernible chin. What I mean is that a large flabby something existed between chin and neck, it being itself neither chin nor neck. In other words, he was ugly in a completely different way, a diametrically opposite way from Josh. “Lauren, you must be Lauren!” he said eagerly. “Hello Jeff,” I said in a lukewarm tone of voice. “I’m getting better at this,” I thought. “My mortification and shame are decidedly duller this time. And I don’t think he can even see it in my face.”
My smugness was shattered when I glimpsed a man I knew. I hid behind a column. “You were saying?” I asked brightly. “I was saying, I read your article. What does that French quote mean?” My unnerving was now total. I remembered I had told him about an article that I had published in Modern Drama. And he read it. The only person to this day who has read it, to my knowledge, other than my professor. And he wants to know what that French passage means! Shit! “I don’t even remember, to tell you the truth.” He was trying way too hard.
We had a soda at a neighborhood restaurant, and some appetizers. I ordered a hummus platter, whereupon I learned that he had never heard of hummus. Never heard of hummus? How was that even possible? I was mystified. Hummus was the staple food of every grad student party and I guess I thought everyone ate the stuff. “So do you like Roxborough? I asked, and he said yes, and that he would never leave it, because it was “safe” with so many cops living there. “Safe.” I was moving away, fast, from humble man, faithful and true, to bigoted man, narrow-minded and . . . . and doesn’t that tie pinch his neck? Or is that his chin?
Third time’s a charm, right? One more time, I told myself. Late July. There’s still time to find Mr. Right before my roommate returns and deflates my hopes. Before classes resume and I get back in the groove of flirting harmlessly with the safe married men and the safe gay men of my department. One more foray into the uncharted territory of the personals. Think Goldilocks, Goldilocks.
Joe was man number three. I sat waiting for him at Le Bus thinking I’ve seen two physical extremes, so now I’m hardened to anything. That guy from Beauty and the Beast is kind of sexy after all. Plus, I don’t really care about meeting a man, anyway, so what if I’m single and childless my whole life? Even if I become a bag lady, I’ll at least have some good books in that bag and some funny stories. “Hi, are you Lauren?” asked a man with black hair and a beard. “Yes?” “I’m Joe.” He smiled warmly. I stared. There was nothing perceivably amiss about his appearance. He was actually attractive. Decently dressed. Didn’t smell bad. Goldilocks. We had a lovely conversation. He was a nurse. He lived in West Philly near me. He played the saxophone. He was Italian. He was masculine without being macho. His last words were “I’ll call you. We’ll listen to jazz at Ortlieb’s.”
What can I say? “Goldilocks.” We married the next year, and now we have two sets of twins. Couldn’t be happier. I could also say “Stinky Cheese Man.” I waited for Joe to call me. Three weeks later, I finally called him. Light and breezy. Confident low tones. “Hi Joe. It’s Lauren . . . how have you been?” “Lauren . . .?” “From Le Bus three weeks ago?” Silence. “We met through the personals? I ordered an Orangina?” I was beginning to hate myself. “I have to say, I don’t remember you. I’ve been working through a lot of issues lately . . . . I’m sorry.”
Another chapter in my dissertation got written. I swore I’d never tell my roommate about my summer. She came back and I promptly told her everything. She said “That’ll teach me to go away for the summer.” I fell back into the academic routine, flirted with the safe men. The next year I finished my dissertation, got a teaching job, and met my husband at a party at my own house. We now have two wonderful children. But not before I joined a dating service and met a lawn and garden supply salesman and a brick salesman. Did you know there are 250 different kinds of bricks?
Sep 22, 2005
A Dirty Pan Can Always Wait.
This is the first meme I've ever done. I'm doing this one because it's easy, and I'm procastinating scrubbing off the burnt-on remains of slow-roasted tomatoes from two pans. (I hate that last sentence. It went about as well as the scrubbing will.) I got the meme from Scrivener.
Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
So here is my sentence: "Presents?" I'm not sure it counts if it's not a complete sentence, but I'm not going be obsessive. A bit disappointing, eh? I'm still not ready to clean those pans, though. Maybe John will do it if they sit there long enough.
Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
So here is my sentence: "Presents?" I'm not sure it counts if it's not a complete sentence, but I'm not going be obsessive. A bit disappointing, eh? I'm still not ready to clean those pans, though. Maybe John will do it if they sit there long enough.
Sep 19, 2005
Montessori Musings
So far, so good. Jack is a kindergartener at Montessori, which means he is still in his class of children ranging in age from 2 to 6. But this year he is a "role model" and gets to help the younger children with everything from new "works" to tying their shoes and helping them with jackets. He is in school from 9:00-2:45 each day. Our la-di-da award-winning school district with the great SAT scores and plethora of AP classes for high schoolers still has half-day kindergarten. And not everyone will fit, so there's a lottery for who gets morning or afternoon. Going to school in the afternoon would suck, right? The nearby Chester-Upland school district has federally supported full day kindergarten because with their tax base they could never pay for it. Don't get me wrong, I totally agree with that use of federal money, it's just strange the way things work.
Anyway, Will also is at the same school this year, same times. It's a bit much for a almost-four-year-old, perhaps, but it's such a great place, and they do fun things in the afternoon, like Spanish, art, and gym. So far his teacher says he is "a sponge." A couple outbursts of temper, but nothing out of the ordinary. We keep giving him a cloth napkin and placemat every day at lunch last week, but they kept on not coming back, and at Parent Night we figured out he must be putting them in the "laundry" every day, which is where the extras go if kids have forgotten to bring their own napkin and placemat in. We still haven't gotten anything back yet, and I'm getting down to skeevy old washcloths for him to take in. On Friday he did mend his ways,though.
Wednesday's post and all the comments put me in the mood for more company, so I invited a family whose daughter is new in Will's class. Hadn't talked to the mom much, just felt like maybe we were on the same wavelength. We had a great time and the kids had a blast, eating their cotton candy ice cream on top of the "clubhouse" and playing mysterious games with quirky rules. I had a backlog of eggplant from the CSA so we had eggplant lasagna with garlic bechamel sauce, from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone. It was divine. They brought salad, bread and a red zinfandel. Her family runs a business out in western PA that John's family frequented, to we got to say "Small world!" I love saying "Small world, small world. . . . Huh." Another sip of wine.
Another thing I really like to say is "Two Silver Kayaks Upon a Silver Prius." Is that not a pleasant phrase? We spotted this vehicle (vehicles) on the way to church yesterday and marvelled upon its general silveriness. It was actually "Two Silver Kayaks Upon a Silver Prius with a Thule Rack." Ouch.
Anyway, Will also is at the same school this year, same times. It's a bit much for a almost-four-year-old, perhaps, but it's such a great place, and they do fun things in the afternoon, like Spanish, art, and gym. So far his teacher says he is "a sponge." A couple outbursts of temper, but nothing out of the ordinary. We keep giving him a cloth napkin and placemat every day at lunch last week, but they kept on not coming back, and at Parent Night we figured out he must be putting them in the "laundry" every day, which is where the extras go if kids have forgotten to bring their own napkin and placemat in. We still haven't gotten anything back yet, and I'm getting down to skeevy old washcloths for him to take in. On Friday he did mend his ways,though.
Wednesday's post and all the comments put me in the mood for more company, so I invited a family whose daughter is new in Will's class. Hadn't talked to the mom much, just felt like maybe we were on the same wavelength. We had a great time and the kids had a blast, eating their cotton candy ice cream on top of the "clubhouse" and playing mysterious games with quirky rules. I had a backlog of eggplant from the CSA so we had eggplant lasagna with garlic bechamel sauce, from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone. It was divine. They brought salad, bread and a red zinfandel. Her family runs a business out in western PA that John's family frequented, to we got to say "Small world!" I love saying "Small world, small world. . . . Huh." Another sip of wine.
Another thing I really like to say is "Two Silver Kayaks Upon a Silver Prius." Is that not a pleasant phrase? We spotted this vehicle (vehicles) on the way to church yesterday and marvelled upon its general silveriness. It was actually "Two Silver Kayaks Upon a Silver Prius with a Thule Rack." Ouch.
Sep 14, 2005
Whatever Happened to Dinner Parties?
Last Friday we had another family over for pizza. "You don't have to do that," was my friend's response when I called to invite them. We just wanted to get to know them better, that's all, and we have pizza a lot anyway . . . their son is the same age as Jack, we like the whole family, bla bla bla. In the world I pretend we live in, that's what you do. We had a lovely time. My trusty pizza crust recipe never fails and we put all kindsa stuff on top (homemade pesto was one). We have interesting beers (a Troeg's sampler,in this case, and Brother Adam's Braggot Honey Ale). We talk a lot and the kids are old enought to not need constant, nervous supervision. Life is good on such evenings. Cheaper than a restaurant, especially if you consider the babysitting costs,and so much more social and relaxed. And, for me, anyway, making food for people is life-giving.
Sometimes I hear this little whiny voice in my head saying, "When is someone going to reciprocate?" and I have to say that "reciprocation," the way my mother used to count it, doesn't happen often. But I learned a long time ago that true hospitality is a gift you give without expecting it "back." Or maybe you get it back in other ways, by simple appreciation or good thoughts. People at my church are quite hospitable in this way, and people from other churches I've attended in the past, because, whether liberal or conservative, hospitality is a part of our common value system that transcends politics. It's not about showing off, or "entertaining" in an orgy of perfectionism, but simply about sharing the bounty, being vulnerable and generous to others, and learning to know people more intimately.
Some people in my town belong to a "supper club," which no children attend, and for which each guest makes a gourmet dish that is prescribed by the host. It's four times a year and it sounds interesting, but also very high-pressure and a little scary. You probably need to devote some thought to your wardrobe and clean your house top to bottom and get a professionally made centerpiece? I don't know, because even though several people have told us about this supper club, we haven't been invited to the damn thing. Screw them.
Sometimes I hear this little whiny voice in my head saying, "When is someone going to reciprocate?" and I have to say that "reciprocation," the way my mother used to count it, doesn't happen often. But I learned a long time ago that true hospitality is a gift you give without expecting it "back." Or maybe you get it back in other ways, by simple appreciation or good thoughts. People at my church are quite hospitable in this way, and people from other churches I've attended in the past, because, whether liberal or conservative, hospitality is a part of our common value system that transcends politics. It's not about showing off, or "entertaining" in an orgy of perfectionism, but simply about sharing the bounty, being vulnerable and generous to others, and learning to know people more intimately.
Some people in my town belong to a "supper club," which no children attend, and for which each guest makes a gourmet dish that is prescribed by the host. It's four times a year and it sounds interesting, but also very high-pressure and a little scary. You probably need to devote some thought to your wardrobe and clean your house top to bottom and get a professionally made centerpiece? I don't know, because even though several people have told us about this supper club, we haven't been invited to the damn thing. Screw them.
Sep 13, 2005
The Truth Teller
A few proclamations from Will:
1. Last spring, to his Sunday school class, "My mommy has a vagina, but I have a penis." There, my secret is out.
2. About a woman standing very close to us at his Montessori one day after school: "Look, Mommy, she has a baby in her belly!" She didn't.
3. About a woman using a vending machine at the YMCA: "Look, Mommy, she's buying junk food!" She explained to him that it was okay because she was buying a granola bar with raisins and nuts. That's the kind of moral authority a three-year-old can assert.
4. During children's time at church, said really loudly so all can hear, "____________________________________." I'll fill this in when he does. This past Sunday he said something fairly harmless about how if a raccoon bites you you might have to go to the hospital, which had nothing to do with anything,and just made people laugh and look at us in that generic "Well, that was interesting" kind of way. That's okay.
1. Last spring, to his Sunday school class, "My mommy has a vagina, but I have a penis." There, my secret is out.
2. About a woman standing very close to us at his Montessori one day after school: "Look, Mommy, she has a baby in her belly!" She didn't.
3. About a woman using a vending machine at the YMCA: "Look, Mommy, she's buying junk food!" She explained to him that it was okay because she was buying a granola bar with raisins and nuts. That's the kind of moral authority a three-year-old can assert.
4. During children's time at church, said really loudly so all can hear, "____________________________________." I'll fill this in when he does. This past Sunday he said something fairly harmless about how if a raccoon bites you you might have to go to the hospital, which had nothing to do with anything,and just made people laugh and look at us in that generic "Well, that was interesting" kind of way. That's okay.
Sep 3, 2005
Last Feral Outburst Before Preschool?
It was already an unusual day at the produce market. The Chinese lady who works there had asked me to write a sign for her. "You write big mum for twenty-three dollar? Each?" she pleaded, nodding her head vigorously. "Sure," I acquiesced. "Nice, nice, you write another same?" "No problem!" Then I proceeded to shop for apples, bananas, and a couple other things. Will and Jack were eating cereal bars because it was lunch time, really.
Right after I had paid for everything and was waiting to sign the receipt, Will tugged on my shirt. He pointed to his mouth, which was full. Then he pointed to a loaf of French bread, with a bite taken out of it, right throught the plastic. "You're almost four years old! I can't believe you did this! Now I'm going to have to buy this!" I scolded him, while trying to keep my voice down. "I'll pay for this in cash," I said, exasperated, turning back to give the lady the bread. Then--he did it again. To another loaf. "I was hungry," he wailed. Now feeling like a horrible mother who not only losed her cool at the store but who does not feed her children adequately, I looked back at women in the modest line behind me, for affirmation, a smile, a sympathetic glance? Nope. They averted their eyes.
The other day Will jumped around nervously, asked to sit on my lap, and then proceeded to pee voluminously. As I soon as I felt the spreading warmth I shot off my chair, and the kitchen floor took the rest of it.
It's not all backsliding, though. He got dressed all by himself yesterday for the first time! His underpants and shorts were backwards, but still. I let him do it in another room with the door closed, as he requested.
I think he will love Montessori. He is very "hands on," must touch everything, must play with everything. In the Montessori classroom all the "works" are within reach and the children can work with things as long as they want within "work time." Will will be in a different classroom from Jack, who is in kindergarten this year. The kindergarteners have their own class one afternoon a week, and the rest of the time are with the younger children. They help them learn new works and serve as role models. And teach them to tie their shoes and zip their jackets.
It's only going up to the low 80s today. As soon as I post this I'll turn off the air conditioning off and fling the windows open. The kids would rather go to the library than the pool lately, Will has his new backback, and fall is in the air. I love these days.
Right after I had paid for everything and was waiting to sign the receipt, Will tugged on my shirt. He pointed to his mouth, which was full. Then he pointed to a loaf of French bread, with a bite taken out of it, right throught the plastic. "You're almost four years old! I can't believe you did this! Now I'm going to have to buy this!" I scolded him, while trying to keep my voice down. "I'll pay for this in cash," I said, exasperated, turning back to give the lady the bread. Then--he did it again. To another loaf. "I was hungry," he wailed. Now feeling like a horrible mother who not only losed her cool at the store but who does not feed her children adequately, I looked back at women in the modest line behind me, for affirmation, a smile, a sympathetic glance? Nope. They averted their eyes.
The other day Will jumped around nervously, asked to sit on my lap, and then proceeded to pee voluminously. As I soon as I felt the spreading warmth I shot off my chair, and the kitchen floor took the rest of it.
It's not all backsliding, though. He got dressed all by himself yesterday for the first time! His underpants and shorts were backwards, but still. I let him do it in another room with the door closed, as he requested.
I think he will love Montessori. He is very "hands on," must touch everything, must play with everything. In the Montessori classroom all the "works" are within reach and the children can work with things as long as they want within "work time." Will will be in a different classroom from Jack, who is in kindergarten this year. The kindergarteners have their own class one afternoon a week, and the rest of the time are with the younger children. They help them learn new works and serve as role models. And teach them to tie their shoes and zip their jackets.
It's only going up to the low 80s today. As soon as I post this I'll turn off the air conditioning off and fling the windows open. The kids would rather go to the library than the pool lately, Will has his new backback, and fall is in the air. I love these days.
Sep 1, 2005
"All Those Black People, Drowned."
So said a woman rescued from her rooftop in the Ninth Ward yesterday. The New Orleans Times-Picayune gives a heart-rendingly immediate portrait of the sadness because it is replete with specific losses and problems, and includes individual pleas. Someone is looking for Miss Rita and Aunt Eula, someone else for Robin and Ken and their four English sheepdogs. The following plea shows the plight of this city with every one of its capital letters.
PLEASE HELP US TO LOCATE OUR MISSING FAMILY. THEY ARE A YOUNG MARRRIED COUPLE, AGES 23 AND 24. THEIR NAMES ARE ANTHONY CURTIS JOHNSON AND SHELENA JOHNSON, OF NEW ORLEANS. THEY HAVE 3 SMALL CHILDRENS UNDER THE AGE OF 6. THE TWO YOUNGEST CHILDREN SUFFER GREATLY WITH ASTHMA AND DO NOT HAVE THEIR MEDICATION. THE WIFE AND MOTHER SHELENA, HAS BEEN DIAGNOSED AS BIPOLAR, AND DOES NOT HAVE HER MEDICATION. WE LAST HERD FROM THEM AT 4 AM THURSDAY MORNING. SHE WAS CALLING FROM A PAY PHONE AT THE NEW ORLEANS CONVENTION CENTER. THEY CAUGHT A RIDE THERE. BUT WAS LEFT WITH NO FURTHER RESCUE EFFORTS. SHE CALLED IN THE MIDST OF OTHER FIGHTING AND GUN SHOTS. THERE IS NO OFFICIAL LEADERSHIP OR ORDER. THE CHILDREN ARE ARE VERY HUNGER AND FRIGHTENED. MY NEPHEW ANTHONY IS TERRIBLY EXHAUSTED FROM DAYS OF LACK OF SLEEP. PLEASE SEND HELP TO THE CONVENTION CENTER, WHERE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN OVERLOOKED, FORGOTTEN, OR IGNORED. THEY HAVE FAMILY HERE IN HOUSTON WAITING TO RECEIVE THEM. PLEASE, PLEASE HELP!!!
And from a reader of the Times-Picayune in the Virgin Islands: "It is hard to believe that the wealthiest, and self-proclaimed STRONGEST nation in the world is so incapable of taking better care of its citizens in this DISASTER. It is embarrassing! Those attempting to render aid must be just as exhausted and frustrated as those dying to receive that AID. Amazing, simply amazing."
PLEASE HELP US TO LOCATE OUR MISSING FAMILY. THEY ARE A YOUNG MARRRIED COUPLE, AGES 23 AND 24. THEIR NAMES ARE ANTHONY CURTIS JOHNSON AND SHELENA JOHNSON, OF NEW ORLEANS. THEY HAVE 3 SMALL CHILDRENS UNDER THE AGE OF 6. THE TWO YOUNGEST CHILDREN SUFFER GREATLY WITH ASTHMA AND DO NOT HAVE THEIR MEDICATION. THE WIFE AND MOTHER SHELENA, HAS BEEN DIAGNOSED AS BIPOLAR, AND DOES NOT HAVE HER MEDICATION. WE LAST HERD FROM THEM AT 4 AM THURSDAY MORNING. SHE WAS CALLING FROM A PAY PHONE AT THE NEW ORLEANS CONVENTION CENTER. THEY CAUGHT A RIDE THERE. BUT WAS LEFT WITH NO FURTHER RESCUE EFFORTS. SHE CALLED IN THE MIDST OF OTHER FIGHTING AND GUN SHOTS. THERE IS NO OFFICIAL LEADERSHIP OR ORDER. THE CHILDREN ARE ARE VERY HUNGER AND FRIGHTENED. MY NEPHEW ANTHONY IS TERRIBLY EXHAUSTED FROM DAYS OF LACK OF SLEEP. PLEASE SEND HELP TO THE CONVENTION CENTER, WHERE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN OVERLOOKED, FORGOTTEN, OR IGNORED. THEY HAVE FAMILY HERE IN HOUSTON WAITING TO RECEIVE THEM. PLEASE, PLEASE HELP!!!
And from a reader of the Times-Picayune in the Virgin Islands: "It is hard to believe that the wealthiest, and self-proclaimed STRONGEST nation in the world is so incapable of taking better care of its citizens in this DISASTER. It is embarrassing! Those attempting to render aid must be just as exhausted and frustrated as those dying to receive that AID. Amazing, simply amazing."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
