Mermaid Cafe

But for the grace of God, there go I.

2010-05-31T11:53:00.000-04:00

Please pray for Katie Granju and her son. Katie's teenage son is recovering from a traumatic brain injury and drug addiction. Katie is eight months pregnant. She is bravely writing about her son's struggle. When I was leading breastfeeding support meetings on Long Island, Katie's book, Attachment Parenting - Instinctive Care For Your Baby and Young Child was the most popular book in our group's lending library. That book provided countless mothers with information and support. You can read Katie's blog here.

"She never had an education, She uses life as her vocation, Standing on ledges clinging to the edges, The world's a hard place to land on..." Elsie, by the Divinyls

2010-05-16T10:03:00.000-04:00

If you take the Long Island Expressway, you can still see her, every day, rain or shine, on the Service Road, in her big yellow hot dog wagon. My Aunt Elsie, at 80 years of age, gets up in the morning and sets her truck for the day's hard work. Her kosher hot dogs are a treat. I recommend you have one with her special onions and cheese, but if you are from out of state, you'll want the traditional New York dog, with sauerkraut and mustard - and she'll give it to you, with a smile, a funny story, or a piece of her mind, depending on her mood.

My Aunt Elsie was the neatest grown up I had ever met. She was not like any of the others. She was never too busy to talk to me. She treated me like I was special, and when we came to visit, she paid more attention to me than anyone ever had. In many ways, she was like a fairy godmother. When I was a very little girl, maybe four years old, and we would visit New York, it was overwhelming. It was loud, and confusing. Everything smelled funny, and people would switch languages and I never knew what they were talking about, and they all looked alike, so I could not tell them apart. All these strangers that were my family were really strange to me. What were they saying? What were they trying to get me to eat? Why did they laugh at me when I put butter on my rice? I could never quite get anything right, and I felt like I was being swallowed up in this loud ocean. Everyone else was having fun, like they were at a beach party, and I was lost at sea. In the midst of the mayhem, just as I felt like I was about to go under, my Aunt Elsie would come and find me, and she would take me aside and into her magical world – the garage.

Aunt Elsie’s magical garage was the most wonderful place I had ever been – filled with more soda than I had ever seen – and not just Coke-ola. Aunt Elsie had sodas in flavors! Orange and Grape! And most wonderful of all, a special drink that I thought she invented right there – Yoohoo. It was not chocolate milk, and it was not soda. It was chilly and smooth, and Aunt Elsie said I could have as much of it as I wanted.

I had never been in a garage before. I remember the feel of the cold cement on my bare feet, and if I close my eyes I can still remember the smell. It was the most glorious smell. the essence of nine million white bread hotdog buns – and sugar – an abundance of Reeces cups and chewing gum, and the slightest, lightest, loveliest smell of all – one I can’t quite describe. It floated above all the other smells in that cool, dark haven. It might have been the mingling of onions entwining with the scent of tobacco from fresh cartons of unopened cigarettes, I’m not sure. Could it have been something else? I think so. I suspect it might have been the smell of a fat wad of cash she kept, rolled up and wrapped in a rubber band. This wad of cash would mysteriously appear, and Aunt Elsie would peel off a couple of singles and press them into my little hands. “For candy,” she would say. “Here! Take it!” Holy Mother of Happiness! I was in kid Heaven. My Aunt Elsie had a garage full of candy, and she was paying me to eat it!

The next morning she would take me with her, in her truck, to get her meat. She drove across Long Island into some mysterious neighborhood – I think it might have been the Bronx. I was on the ride of my life! Aunt Elsie could drive and talk at the same time, and she didn’t even have to look at the road! She was always looking back over her shoulder, at me. It was exhilarating to ride with Aunt Elsie. More exciting than The Cyclone at Cony Island. A ride with Aunt Elsie was a trip like no other.

Aunt Elsie took me on several special trips. She took me to the corner of Madison and 118th street, and told me what it was like when my mother was born, and pointed out where Grandma ran the store. Once she took me to the automat in New York City. It was the most amazing place. There was a whole wall of little glass windows. The sun reflected off them, and when we first walked in I did not understand what it was because I could not see, but she took me close and let me take my time looking through all the little windows – then she bought me a piece of lemon meringue pie.

Aunt Elsie had a little poodle, and she would let me walk it. I remember being very upset when the poodle peed on a mailbox, but Aunt Elsie laughed and explained to me that dogs do that, and it was ok, because the dog just wanted all the other dogs to know it had been there. Aunt Elsie always took time to explain things to me.

When my mother and father celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary, Aunt Elsie came to Kentucky. I was not quite 12 years old, and I was acting out, being rebellious toward my mother. I wanted to wear a glamorous dress and high heels, like my sister Jane wore. My mother forced me into submission and made me wear a dress appropriate for my age, with little blue flat shoes. Instead of buying me a bra, which she insisted I did not need, Mom bought me little white ankle socks to wear with these little flat shoes. I was humiliated, and I was being a horrible brat about the whole thing, but Aunt Elsie took me aside and worked her magic.

We went into the dime store, and she bought me real pantyhose to wear with the dress. She also got some robin’s egg blue ribbon, the same color as my little flat shoes, and she sat down with a couple of twist ties and bobby pins, and fashioned the ribbon into bows for my hair. I had never had a hair bow, and it transformed me. She fixed my hair, taught me how to put on the pantyhose, then let me help her put on her makeup. She showed me her beauty tricks, and I was impressed. She had a little stick of cocoa butter, that looked like a translucent lipstick, and she rubbed this on her cheeks. Then she dabbed a little lipstick on top of that. Voila! Her blush perfectly matched her lipstick. Aunt Elsie understood beauty, and she made me feel like I was beautiful, too.

When I got older and we would visit New York, Aunt Elsie still treated me like I was special. She let me go on her truck with her and sell hot dogs, which was really fun. She also took me to my first Pentacostal tent revival, which was not nearly as much fun as working the truck. It went on all day and into the evening. I fell asleep at one point and she thought I had been hit by the Spirit. She tugged on me and woke me up and tried to get me to go to the front where they were casting out demons and such. I knew I was not ready to be born again, since I was pretty sure I was born right the first time. I felt torn, because I did not want to disappoint my dear Aunt, but there was no way in Hell I was going down to the front of that crowd.

Lucky for me, my little brother Kelly felt moved by the Spirit, and his conversion both thrilled and distracted her. After the service, Aunt Elsie took us to Friendly’s and bought me my first patty melt. Over buttery grilled bread, melted cheese, sautéd onions and a meat patty, she told me it was the devil that made me want to wear that tight sweater. I was to watch myself, and remain pure, so as to make it hard for the many demons that were waiting to possess me. Say what you want about my Aunt Elsie, but there is no one else out there ready to battle the beasts of Hell for our souls. She has our back.

When we lived in Kentucky, Aunt Elsie would call my mother on Saturday mornings. We always knew when she was on the phone, because Dad would leave the receiver on the table and walk upstairs to get my mom. If mom was in the bathroom, the phone would sit there like that for quite some time until one of us picked it up. We would pick it up midstory, and Aunt Elsie would just be talking away, unaware that no one was there. I would fuss at my father about this. He would just laugh and say, “It does not matter. She doesn’t know. Elsie’s phone has no ear-piece, only a mouth piece!” We laughed about this, but we treasured her calls.

When I was in college, Aunt Elsie sent me a plane ticket to New York for Christmas. My friend Paul came with me, and we had a blast. We were only supposed to stay for a week, but we had so much fun we stayed for almost three. When Aunt Elsie picked us up at Newark, she took one look at Paul, and sized him up and down. Then she saw the three suitcases he packed for the trip, and her eyes got really big. She was scared. “How many days are you planning to stay?” she asked, “because it looks to me the way you packed, you think you are moving in! Don’t think you are going to move in with me. Only able bodied men can move in with me, and they have to pay rent. No free rides, you hear?” Aunt Elsie nicknamed him Three Suit Cases, but when she decided she liked him, she called him Three Suits for short.

I asked Paul to send a memory about Aunt Elsie from that trip and this is what he wrote:

The first, best memory of Aunt Elsie is when she picked us up in Newark and started quizzing me on if I knew where I was going to be staying for the week. I said "Long Island," and she said, "LonGisland". I said "Long Island" and she said LonGisland!". Repeat, getting louder and louder until I finally realize she's putting the stress on the "G".

So here I am, some young pipsqueak from Kentucky, in NY for the first time in my life and within a half hour of hitting the tarmac I got some crazy lady screaming at me while she's driving in cross-town traffic, "LonGisland! LonGisland! LonGisland!" Of course I fell in love with her instantly. It wasn't until later, when I tasted her hotdogs that I realized she was too good for me.

Please tell her I wish her a *very* Happy 80th! And let her know that I am still a compulsive over-packer.

When Paul and I left for the airport to return to Kentucky, Aunt Elsie hugged me goodbye, and pressed a wad of cash into my hands, for candy. That candy money paid for my college text books for the following semester.

When I left college and moved to New York, Aunt Elsie was good to me. I was living in an apartment in Queens, bringing home $212.00 a week, and paying $200 a week in rent. Aunt Elsie knew I was always broke, so she would show up at my apartment with hotdogs, pantyhose, coffee, milk, and little things she thought I might need. I was lonely, and I really appreciated those visits. Sometimes she would take me down to Jamaica Avenue and we would shop at May’s. Other times, on my favorite nights, she would check to find out when it was big trash night on the North shore. On big trash night people would put out their furniture and old televisions and things too big for the regular garbage pickup. She would pick me up and we would carouse the very best neighborhoods looking for furniture. People on the North shore did not put out junk. They knew quality - and Aunt Elsie had an appreciation for quality, especially abandoned quality on the side of the road. I still have a coffee table from Manhasset. Sometimes we would stop at Carmela’s. Other times we would just cruise, treasure hunting. At the end of a good night, she would drop me off at my apartment and press a few dollars into my hand. If I tried to protest she would say, “For candy! Spend it on candy!”

When I married and moved to Long Island, Aunt Elsie would come to my cottage in Amityville for coffee. When I was pregnant, she doted on me, and told me stories. She helped me sew the white eyelet cover for Eden’s bassinet, and she loved on my babies like nobody else. Before Eden was born, Aunt Elsie sat at the kitchen table with me and patiently folded envelopes I was making in which to mail the birth announcements. When Eden was born, at Good Samaritan hospital, my other wonderful aunts came to the hospital for visiting hours, but there was no Aunt Elsie. At the end of visiting hours, she burst onto the maternity ward as if she had been shot from a cannon. She had two dozen pink roses, and a bad attitude. She was angry. Or, as Aunt Elsie would say, “She was howyousay ANGRY! A! N! G! R! Y!” When Aunt Elsie feels passionately about something, she is likely to, howyousay, spell it out. Aunt Elsie can spell, and she can curse, in both languages.

She was all riled up that night, as only she can get. They would not let her see her niece! Can you believe the nerve of them? Never mind that she had been down the street, at Southside Hospital, and I had the baby at Good Sam. They should have let her see her niece! She had been giving them Hell, those yellow rat bastards! She was there, and they were refusing to let her onto the maternity ward. Finally, one of the nurses called Good Sam, and found out where I was, and sent her on her way. As she told the story, Aunts Minerva and Raquel collapsed in a fit of laughter, Aunt Raquel telling her to calm down, because she was here now, and Aunt Minnie saying, “They wouldn’t let you up because of your hair! They were afraid you would scare the babies! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you own a mirror? Look at your hair! Stop scaring the babies!” That’s when Aunt Elsie started to laugh, too. She said, “I must look like Whodunitandrun! I didn’t have time to fix my hair! I had to get to the hospital! I had to see my neice!” then there was a slight pause, “But I do have my eyebrows on!” and we all laughed some more.

When I got home from the hospital, she came to visit again, and when she thought I was not looking, she took my baby over to the sink, real sly-like, and baptized her in the tap water. That’s my Aunt Elsie, looking out for my baby’s soul. If only everyone had an Aunt like her.

This is what I remember most: The laughter, the love. The way she looked out for me. The way all my Aunts come when they are needed and shower us with love. All my aunts have given me something special. Aunt Virginia gave me shelter when I needed it most, and taught me to make pernil (use plenty of garlic). Aunt Maria taught me how to make empanadas (you can bake them, but they taste better fried) and gave me stories that helped me understand our family. Aunt Minerva taught me how to make rice and beans (it's perfectly acceptable to use the Goya beans in a can and a packet of Sazon). Aunt Minerva also took me to my first mall, and bought me my first soft pretzel. She taught me that once I was a married woman, my status was changed, and I was equal to every other married woman. Aunt Raquel reminds me how important it is to stay connected with family. When I've suffered loss, it has been Aunt Raquel who called me, and offered comfort, and although she never took me to a tent revival, I know there were times when she prayed for me. All my Aunts are special, but my Aunt Elsie, well she loves me best, and always has. She was my fairy godmother. I am so very blessed.

"Day by day, Day by day. Oh, dear Lord, three things I pray, to see Thee more clearly, Love Thee more dearly, Follow Thee more nearly, Day by day by day." Fredric Nietzsche

2010-03-24T22:26:00.002-04:00

So, I've gone and done it again. I bought myself a new organizer, because I know if I can just get the right day book, my life will be all unicorns and rainbows. I will always know what day it is, where I am supposed to be, where my kids are and what I need to pick up at the store. This one is just dandy - a Day Runner Life Tracker, featuring the X17 Modular Binding System, patent pending.

It has a sunshine orange plastic cover, not so bright as to make one proceed with caution, but vivid and trendy. The plastic cover is practical, easy to wipe clean. The Day Runner Life Tracker is made up of separate little notebook style components, called modules, which slip into the plastic cover, allowing you to customize your book to fit your life.

The X17 Modular Binding System has sleek black elastic bands to secure the modules. Just slip those custom components in under that elastic band and organize your life. It is comforting to me to think that when I am barely holding it together, those sleek black elastic bands will secure the pieces of my life. For an additional $8.95 I added an expense tracker, so that I can chart each penny I spend and figure out why I am broke.

I tied a pretty striped ribbon to the elastic bands at the top of the spine, so that I could use the tail of the bow to mark the calender page for the current week. The X17 lacks a pocket, so I taped an envelope to the inside of the plastic cover so that I have a place to save all these receipts until I have a chance to enter them into the expense tracker. In the past my day books have had a place to slip a photo of my kids, in case I forget what they look like while I'm at work. The X17 lacks this feature. I hope this does not become an issue.

The only real concern I have about this new day book is it's name. They call it a Life Tracker. When I hear the word tracker, I imagine an expert marksman, out in the woods, tracking a wounded bear in order to shoot it, and put it out of it's misery. Maybe this is a fitting image. Maybe what I really want is for someone to track my life, and put me out of my misery. I will try not to think about that. Instead I will focus on the positive. It is the end of March, and I have selected my new calender. It holds such promise, such hope.

I just know that now all my problems will melt away within the plastic orange goodness.

"See the west wind move, like a lover so, upon the fields of barley. Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth, among the fields of gold..." Sting

2010-02-02T06:10:00.003-05:00

I saw a new doctor yesterday, and now I have some research to do on grains. She took one look at my medical history and advised me to go gluten-free. I was stunned.

All I could think, as I heard these words, was how this was going to seriously impact the life in my kitchen. The baking station is the heart of my home. Kneading bread while listening to Joni Mitchell is my therapy. My cookie jar runneth over.

I closed my eyes as the doctor spoke, but I had to open them again, because the visions I was having were too disturbing. Thin slices of country ham floated by on buttery angel biscuits while onion laden foccacia and homemade yeast raised doughnuts appeared from nowhere. I've never made those doughnuts, but they have been on my to do list for quite some time.

Oh, beloved wheat. What will I do without you? It was only a few short months ago when I placed a crown of wheat upon my head and went to the Halloween parade dressed as Ceres.

After work last night, I went online to research the things my new doctor and I discussed. Again, I was stunned. Dennis looked over my shoulders while I read lists of symptoms from site after site after site, both of us shocked that every physical difficulty I have experienced, for as long as we can remember, could be the result of gluten intolerance. Why had I never made this connection?

Good bye, scones. So long, soy sauce. Buttermilk biscuits, I see you in my mind's eye, gently holding a slice of homegrown heirloom tomato, all warm in your blanket of cream gravy, with a light sprinkle of black pepper and kosher salt. Visions of you have gotten me thought some difficult winter days. I'm going to miss you most of all.

Dennis is not sure how I will make it. I usually buy my flour at Sam's Club in 25 pound bags. I guess Dennis won't have to go shopping with me anymore. I only need him when I shop so that he can lift that awkward heavy bag.

If you are familiar with gluten-free baking, please contact me. I welcome any suggestions on recipes and products.

"Listen. Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?" The Beatles

2010-01-31T16:47:00.002-05:00

As a rule, I don't believe in keeping secrets. I get a sick feeling in my gut when I think about keeping secrets, perhaps because child abusers often tell their victims that it is their little secret, and threaten them if they tell. Some secrets are dangerous to keep. Some secrets are too hard to hear.

Some beliefs, although not secret, are held close to the heart, in a place so private it is hard to enter. That is how it should be. There are things you do not want to know about me, and there are things about you that I am pretty sure I don't want to know.

I am sometimes afraid to express my beliefs because they have the potential to cause other people pain. Other times, I am afraid to express my beliefs because I know that others, who disagree, will become confrontational, and we will both be injured. There are some subjects not meant to be discussed in polite company.

This morning, someone I have never even met in person, hijacked a thread on my Face Book wall because I don't believe in abortion, and she does.

People, who know me well, know that I do not believe in abortion. This is not a secret. It is something I don't like to talk about. I did, however, make the mistake of posting a link to a news story regarding legislation advanced in my home state of Kentucky that protects breastfeeding mothers from harassment, protects whistle blowers, and requires mothers having an abortion to undergo ultrasound before consenting to the procedure.

These are all subjects about which I care. I shared the link because I knew of several people reading my page that would be interested in following at least one, if not all of these subjects. I have since removed the thread.

Abortion is one of many delicate subjects likely to cause internal as well as external conflict. If you have had an abortion, and you regret your decision and need to talk about it, we can talk about it. I listen with compassion.

If you have had an abortion and want to come down on me because I don't believe in abortion, and then criticize me for being judgmental, please don't.

If you think I want to make you feel guilty, rest assured I don't. My beliefs are based on my own personal and spiritual experiences, and have nothing to do with you.

Sometimes, when people find out I don't believe in abortion, they begin to act like bullies, and try to make me justify my belief system. I think that is what happened to me this morning. I have seen this happen to other people in public forums as well. I don't try to make them explain their beliefs. Why do they think it appropriate to challenge mine?

People who do not know me well assume that I am pro-Choice because I am liberal on most social issues. The reason I am a liberal is because I believe in society working to take care of all people, including the unborn and the women who carry them. I am always shocked and disturbed when a woman I barely know tells me about her abortion. I can hardly have this conversation with women I deeply love. I certainly don't want to discuss this with someone I hardly know.

I don't spend my weekends going to pro-Life rallies. I do not think anyone is justified in going into an abortion clinic and shooting the place up. Neither is there any justification for shooting up a church.

I have seen a bumper sticker that says, "Against Abortion? Then don't have one." When I see that on a car, or in someone's signature line on an internet posting, I want to shake that person, slap them in the face, and rage at them. How dare anyone take something as serious as abortion and reduce it to a slogan on a bumper sticker? How dare they trivialize abortion and invite me to join their pro-Choice Facebook group? What makes people think this is acceptable social behavior?

I know and love many women who have had abortions. I do not condemn them. When I think of their situations, I try to hold compassion and love in my heart. Some of these women had illegal abortions in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Others chose selective reduction after undergoing assisted reproduction procedures, something that is hard for me to wrap my mind around. One friend lost her unborn baby's father on 9/11 and made her decision while experiencing shock, severe trauma and grief. Her situation is tragic. Every abortion, in my opinion, is tragic.

Please don't presume you know where a woman stands on this issue. If you believe in a woman's right to choose, don't talk down to me as if I am too stupid to have an opinion. Don't talk to me of chromosomal disorders and having to choose between your own life and that of your unborn child. I had to make that decision while signing consent forms for a blood transfusion and trying to get someone on the phone to take care of my toddlers. I have strong feelings on the subject, and you don't want to hear them.

If you are going to reveal something to me, and you don't want me to judge you, then don't tell me. I have a hard enough time taking care of my feelings about my own reproductive health. I would rather not worry about hurting yours.

There are some things I don't want to know.

"I'm so glad that you finally made it here. You thought nobody cared, but I did. I could tell. This is your year, and it always starts here, and oh, you're aging well." Dar Williams

2010-01-27T11:51:00.002-05:00

My husband’s birthday is this week. I feel guilty, because I have not yet planned a special celebration for him. I also feel guilty because he is aging so well, and I am not. Feel free to leave me lots of comments at the end of this post telling me I look really good (for a woman my age). Try to reassure me. The truth is, he is aging well, and I am not. In photos from the early 1980s, he looks almost exactly the same as he does now, even with the substantial increase in forehead. When people see these pictures, they exclaim, “Wow! Is that you? When was that taken?”
I do not look like I once did. Dennis looks like he always has. He hasn't packed on the pounds. He doesn't cover any grey. He says not to worry about it, that I look fine. Then he asks if I’ve seen his glasses anywhere.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror recently, as I was nearing the end of a bottle of face cream and reevaluating the need for a replacement. Did I really need to spend twenty bucks on Regenerist? “Nah,” I thought, “I'm aging pretty well.”

Just when you have a thought like that, the universe jumps up and bites you in the ass, or in my case, the eyelid. No sooner than that thought crossed my mind, it happened. I picked up The Glass of Cruelty - the mirror that 5x on the side I had been using, and 10,000x on the side I flipped over while wiping it down. You know the mirror, the one that makes my skin look like a pancake that is ready to flip, or a close up photo of the moon's crust, ashen, dry, and covered with craters. I had been blissfully using the kinder, more gentle side of the mirror. Ignorance being bliss was no longer an option, because I saw It.

I shudder at the memory.
Suddenly, where there had only been eyelashes, It as there.
It was vile. I could not wipe It away.
Suddenly, there was a pink fleshy mole in my lash line. It was awful.
It appeared from nowhere, like a giant pink finger pointing at my reflection. With an evil laugh It said, "Oh, really? You think you are aging well? Then you haven't met ME!" I think I was smote, as It was a harsh blow that came down upon me.

I asked my husband if he had seen It, and he said no, It was barely noticeable, and really no big deal. He looked at it closely, in the light, and suggested that if it bothered me, I should talk with the doctor. The Doctor? Which doctor? Dermatologist? Plastic surgeon? Psychiatrist?

Within a week, a second little mole appeared near It. I call them The Pointer Sisters, as when I look in the mirror they rudely point at me, mocking me and chanting, “Now you are now a woman of a certain age! Soon our cousins will appear on your neck! You cannot stop us! Our troops are gathering in your basal cells and soon to your epidermis we shall arise!”

Over the coming days, I light candles and set up an altar to Saint Stratum Corneum on my vanity. I offer Her the finest sable brushes, and consecrate to Her unguents and pots of colorful creams. I determine that as I invoke Her, if I apply brown eyeliner exactly right into the lash line, and I dab it carefully onto The Pointer Sisters, I can camouflage them as a clump of mascara.

This is tricky to do, and not without risks. First, I must wash my hands in The Holy Water of Sink. Then I must use my left thumb at the outer corner of my eye to pull the skin above my cheekbone toward my ear. While using my index finger to haul up and hold that flap of eyelid that was once under covered my brow bone, but now droops over my eye in one flabby fold.

I pray as I steady my right elbow on the vanity and firmly grasp the thin eyeliner brush in my shaky hand. I lean in close to The Glass of Cruelty and the ritual dabbing begins. If my prayers have been heard, and the Saints are pleased, my hand is guided by forces from the Heavens, and I do not poke myself in the eye. “Holy Mother of Mascara”, I mutter, “Don’t fail me now.”

Thus each morning begins. When I light my candles now, I say a new novena, one for my mid-forties. It is my husband’s birthday this week, and when he blows out his candles, he will not be the only one making wishes.
I wish I could be more like my husband.
I wish I could age without being judged, or imposing judgments upon myself.
I wish I could see my crow’s feet as pretty birds singing the harmony lines in the song of my life.
I wish I could be like the woman with the bundle of sticks in Dar Williams’ song - that I could beat back the voices in my head, and hear only the ones that say, “Aren’t you aging well…” Her song is beautiful. You can listen to it here. I have to go now and touch up my makeup.

"Boy of mine...as you sort among the stories you've been told, if some pieces of the picture are hard to find and the answers to your questions are hard to hold, take good care of your mother..." Jackson Browne

2010-01-26T14:19:00.022-05:00

It's like Where's Waldo, or maybe a crime scene.
It's like Jackson sings, "some pieces of the picture are hard to find."
In this case, the piece that is hard to find is the rest of the boy.
This is how I found my boy, sleeping in my bed, his body all the way across it. I knew he was in there somewhere, buried under comforter and covers and pillows Then I found it, a piece of my little boy.

These days, when I find a piece of little boy, it is delightful. He is not so little anymore. His world is bigger than I would like it to be, and he sometimes carries the weight of it. He experiences stress I can't absorb for him. He is tender and loving and kind, and I have to remind his teacher that he is just a little boy.

Sure, he looks tough, and he certainly acts tough, but under all that hair, he is still beautiful, soft, and sensitive. He can be those things and still be all boy.

We push our boys to toughen up. We expect the bumps and bruises they take to become calluses when they should still be tender feet. We expect them to sit still and walk in lines, to be more organized than their mothers. We've got it all wrong. We send them to play on playgrounds with signs that say No Running. We send them to schools that take out the swing sets because swing sets have become a liability issue.

"When did swing sets become a liability?" I asked. "Well, one child broke his arm when he jumped from the swing set," they told me.

Of course he did! When I was in elementary school, that happened about once every two years. Do you remember the year the kid in your class broke his arm?

When kids jumped from swings, our principal didn't consider it a liability. He considered it a learning experience. The howling boy would pull it together and act strong while the principal gently wrapped a magazine around the arm. He put an icepack between the arm and the magazine, and he taped it so that it stayed the way he wanted it. The magazine provided stability while the boy waited for his mother to take him for an x-ray. As the mother drove away, the principal told the other students, "Looks like a pretty good break. He'll be in a cast for a long time. Won't be able to play ball, or get it wet. No swimming," and everyone would be a little more careful when they jumped. We still jumped. We ran, leaped, fell, and smacked our heads and banged our knees and had fist fights, even us girls.

They removed the swings on which my boy loved to play. The boys started playing football at recess. They told them no tackle football, and the boys tried to keep it to touch, but they are little boys. Touch didn't last for long.

The first time a child fell they banned footballs at recess. Their footballs all confiscated, they took to the woods, and began playing the same game, only using a pine cone instead of a ball. It was easier to throw, harder to catch, and much more likely to put out an eye than a ball.

Sixth grade is hard. It was hard for his sister, too. I can't help but think it doesn't have to be, and it should not be. Our system makes it that way. They want to toughen them up before sending them to middle school. Schools used to provide more stability than stress. It used to be a place where the larger community kept an eye on you. They expected you to be a kid. I don't see that anymore. One sixth grade teacher told the parents on orientation night that she had never had a group of boys like this one, and she didn't know what to make of it. They are always hugging each other. Hugging each other! Not that there is anything wrong with that, but she finds it strange, and is not quite sure what to do about it. Harrison's other teacher said to me that she has never had boys as tightly knit as this group. I think when they get a glimpse of the soft little boys who aren't afraid to hug, it seems wrong. We have to make them afraid to hug. Make them feel ashamed.

My son is not habitually late with his assignments, but last week his teacher thought he needed to focus more on his reading, and kept him in from recess. I have asked her not to do that. Boys need recess - fresh air, sunshine. They need running and laughing without restraint. They need footballs and swings.

He is growing up too fast, as they all do. He watches the Jets with his dad, cooks with me, and drives his sister insane with his Nerf guns. Much to my horror, he is listening to Kanye West, while his sister is living Taylor Swift's Fifteen. She is a pretty good sister, and she loves him, but sometimes I have to remind her, "Take good care of your brother..."

"Call and they'll come to you, covered with dew. Vegetables dream of responding to you, standing there shiny & proud by your side, holding your hand..." Frank Zappa

2010-01-25T09:20:00.001-05:00

When I am troubled, I cook. When something bad happens, I cook. When I am happy, well I cook then, too. When my father was troubled, he drank.

You can always tell when something is bothering me by looking in my refrigerator. When my emotions are in turmoil, the shelves of my refrigerator are equally as upset. I just opened my Frigidaire, and it is a mess. I can't find anything in there. On the top shelf, there should be a carton of 18 eggs in the left corner. Heavy cream, half and half, a pound of butter and a quart of yogurt should line up accordingly from left to right. Tonight I see, on the top shelf, two cartons of eggs, a bowl of black beans, olives, a can of Pillsbury croissants, half a container of canned tomatoes, and the shiny silver cup that is used on the milkshake maker, half full of whipped cream. There is even stuff behind all that, but it is scary and I am very afraid.

In the cheese drawer, things have been shoved and it is hard to open, a lot like my brain. There is a head of lettuce, and one of cauliflower on the second shelf. Clearly, these belong at the bottom of the refrigerator, in the produce drawers. There is some ground turkey, which belongs on the third shelf, with the spare ribs, and tortilla wraps. A bottle of salad dressing is on this shelf, too. Odd - I don't remember opening it. I can't find the peanut butter. There is no dark chocolate. There are too many containers of leftovers.

During difficult times, when I am under duress, my shelves fill with small random dishes of leftovers. There are whole meals prepared and then abandoned - eggs on the wrong shelf and condiments askew. Multiple heads of cauliflower sprout from parts unknown. There is far too much broccoli. When I am under stress, I buy broccoli, and because I am preoccupied I have no memory of buying broccoli, so the next morning I buy more broccoli.

Broccoli is healthy. I am a good mother if I serve my family broccoli. I will loose weight if I eat more broccoli. My husband won't get colon cancer and it won't matter that we don't have health insurance and he will always be here to take care of me if I feed him more broccoli.

In my fridge right now, there are several bunches of broccoli. One is for the first week of classes, and the first assignment I have already screwed up. The professor sent it back to me, with a message to re-read the assignment and resubmit. One is because the mother figures in my life have recently decided to die, and the ones who didn't successfully die within the past two months have gone into nursing homes or shown signs of dementia. One is because no matter how nice we are to my daughter, she is sullen and cranky and turns on us. It is the broccoli of adolescence. One is because my son cries himself to sleep at night when he remembers that he has to go to school the next day. His teacher is less than nice. I also hold her responsible for the two extra heads of cauliflower, a second bag of carrots, and the nearly empty bottle of Absolute in the freezer. Sometimes, I think Dad had it right.

I have to stop this. I will stop this - tomorrow or Wednesday when I have the energy.

Here is to the coming week, when I will have the energy to clean the refrigerator, find the control that is missing in my life, and in creating order, let go of the gloomy sadness that holds me. I will toss it out with the vegetable soup that my husband did not especially enjoy, and the sliced turkey that was not enough to make a full sandwich of, but too much to eat without mayo. When the shelves are tidy and the condiments back on the door, I will bake my minister a flourless chocolate cake. She announced this week that she is leaving our congregation. I am happy for her as she starts a new chapter in her life, but I think she is the reason I have so much celery.

"Met a redneck on a Grecian isle, he did the goat dance very well, he gave me back my smile, but he kept my camera to sell..." Joini Mitchell

2010-01-24T08:57:00.003-05:00

Aretha Franklin is the Queen of Soul, Mary is the Queen of Heaven, and I am the Queen of Yogurt. My reign began over the Christmas holiday when I first used my Yogotherm. Dennis suggested an official coronation after I made the fourth batch of yogurt in three days. In these economic times, the Queen's coffers are nearly bare. No longer can I afford to allow my court to feast on Fage Greek Yogurt, that sells for over $9.00 a quart in the supermarket- a King's ransom I dare say. Instead, I am providing for my subjects a superior yogurt for less than $2.00 a quart.

I can't believe how easy it is to make yogurt.Why have I never tried this before? I ordered my Yogotherm and cultures from New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. The Yogotherm is simple, just a plastic bucket in a styrofoam insulated cooler. Within the first week, my Yogotherm paid for itself. All I do is heat two quarts of milk to 180 degrees, allow it to cool 105 - 115 degrees, then add yogurt cultures, stir and pour into the Yogotherm. I add additional protein and thickness to the yogurt by incorporating 1/3 cup of dry milk powder when I add the cultures. Let it sit for five hours, and voila! Yogurt! I line a colander with cheesecloth and set it into a bowl in my fridge, strain the yogurt through that overnight, and in the morning my yogurt has gone Greek. Thick, luscious, creamy, fresh Greek yogurt. Yogurt so delightful, it is worthy of it's own Greecian urn. It is almost a sin to store this in a plastic container that once held won ton soup.

I've been serving Eden yogurt smoothies for breakfast, throwing frozen bananas and berries in the blender and letting it whirr into something she can grab on her way out the door and drink in the car on her way to school. I serve Dennis a bowl of yogurt with walnuts, honey and granola for lunch. Last week, I was inspired by the fresh mint I saw peeking through the snow in my garden, so I made Greek meatballs and taziki.

First I chop and salt a cucumber, and let it drain in a collander in the sink. Then, I pop that in the food processor with some garlic and fresh dill. I mix this into my Greek yogurt with a little lemon juice, and it is really nice.

Kostas, the very handsome Greek father of Eden's friend at school, tells me I should have used vinegar instead of lemon juice for the acidity. Kostas and his family spend their holidays in Greece, and if I save enough money making my own yogurt, my royal family can visit his family at their home in Greece, and I can learn the culinary ways of his people.

I needed a vehicle for the taziki, so I made some Greek meatballs and served them on a nice tandori flatbread. I had never made Greek meatballs, but I had fun coming up with the recipe. I took a pound of meatloaf mix from the butcher (equal amounts of beef pork and veal) and I incorporated 1/2 pound of ground lamb. Honestly, I don't like lamb - it is just too strong a flavor for me and freaks me out. All the Greek meatball recipes I found were made with only lamb. Dennis likes lamb, so I added it to the mix. I was surprised to like the result.

I also added crumbled feta cheese and an egg to bind it. I seasoned the meat balls with mint, cilantro, oregano, red wine vinegar, minced onion, salt and pepper. I put them on a parchment lined cookie sheet, sprayed them with olive oil and baked them.

I served the meatballs on the flatbread with lots of lettuce, some red onions and black olives, and a paste I made by running a jar of roasted red peppers through the food processor. With the refreshing, creamy taziki, it was a wonderful dinner. When my friend Julie came to visit later in the week, I made an appetizer using the leftover meatballs and taziki, serving them on little pita triangles.
This week, I the Queen of Yogurt, will take a break from cooking to concentrate on other important matters of state, namely schoolwork and household organization.

"I'm a monster for these cookies, I'm a beast for they treats, an animal for they crackers, head to feet they so damn sweet....I can't keep my hands out the cookie jar." Gym Class Heroes

2010-01-23T15:59:00.002-05:00

Dennis is working on a new film project, and he and his film project friend have been testing the equipment. This means that I get to sit on a stool in the kitchen and hold up signs indicating camera and soundboard settings and babble on, ad libbing whatever comes to mind so they can work out the kinks. On one hand, this is good, because Dennis and I have been too busy to actually have real conversations with each other. Now, once a week, we do this film test and if he wants to know what is happening in our family, he can come back later and just roll tape. I have talked about parent teacher conferences, my new job, school work, our friends' adoption saga, and pretty much everything else he needs to hear. The entire time I am talking, he is too engrossed in lighting and such to hear a word I say, but the sound guy - he now knows my most intimate secrets.

Dennis was using me for a film test a few days ago, when I made these cookies. I must say I think they are some of my finest work. It all started when my online friend Rachel posted a link to this recipe from cooking light. The Cooking Light chocolate chip cookie was really good, better than the Toll House recipe, and only 15 carbs per cookie. They are made with egg whites, beaten stiff, which is what makes them light in fat and light in texture. My cousin stopped by and had one, and commented that she found the cookie too sweet, so I went to work improving the recipe.

First I cut the sugar in half. When I made the cookies the first time, I found the dough too dry to come together easily, and I ended up adding a few teaspoons of Eggbeaters. Even with that they were too dry, but the reduced sugar was fine. In fact, the cookie was better with less sugar. The chocolate chips stand out more with less sugar. I also added a few more chips than the recipe called for. I think extra chocolate never hurts.

I decided to make another batch, using four egg whites instead of two, and substituting 1/2 cup of almond flour for the white flour. I still had to add some eggbeaters, but these cookies were unbelievable delicious. The almond meal gave them a really good texture. In the next batch, I am going to try adding oat flour.

A few things may come from these film tests. Thankfully, it is not often I get to see myself on a HUGE t.v. screen - and we know the camera never lies. In fact, it is more honest than a drunk uncle. On screen, it seems my hair is too dark, and shows up really flat, so I may try getting some highlights. Having seen myself on the big screen, I can certainly justify the purchase of a new bottle of Bobbi Brown foundation, unless I want to start wearing a brown paper grocery sack over my head. And in other news, we may start filming a cooking show from right here in the Mermaid Cafe.

"I break the yolks, make a smiley face I kinda like it in my brand new place..." Jewel

2010-01-23T15:22:00.003-05:00

I think starting a Saturday morning with a breakfast that will hold you all weekend is a good idea, so this morning I got up and made Dennis a big plate of huervos rancheros and a nice cup of Spanish coffee. This meal was so easy, quick and filling, that I am surprised I've gone my entire life without making it.

I opened a can of Goya black beans and while they were heating in a little pot on the stove, and heated up some left over refried beans in the microwave. I tossed a couple of whole wheat tortillas in my black iron frying pan and let them get nice and tasty with a little butter. I used no fat in the beans and skim-plus in the coffee, so I decided the minimal amount of butter would be justified. While the tortillas and beans were heating, I made a couple of eggs over easy. I smeared the tortilla with a little refried bean, added the black beans, and laid the eggs right in the middle, sprinkled with a little cheese. Then I dumped some Goya Pico de Gallo in the pan that was still hot from the eggs and let that cook down until is was thick and bubbly. While that was cooking, I sliced an avocado. Poured the salsa on the eggs and in less than 15 minutes made my husband a meal he loved.

Now that we won't have to eat again for a few days, I think I'll tackle the laundry.

"I went down to the sacred store Where I'd heard the music years before, But the man there said the music wouldn't play..." Don McClean

2010-01-23T14:59:00.002-05:00

The founding mothers of La Leche League International.

I was so sad this morning to hear of the passing of Viola Lennon, one of the seven founding mothers of La Leche League. Viola Lennon had ten children, and in addition to running her home and her family, she and her girlfriends founded an international organization that for nearly fifty years, thrived. People in my family don't seem to understand how important these women have been in my life, or why in this stage of my life when my children are far from nurslings, I would give these women and the organization they founded a passing thought. They seem surprised that when one of the founding mothers passes, I feel as if I have lost a beloved aunt or grandmother.

When I was a young mother, I had very few examples of mothering that I could follow. My own mother was far away. It was the mothers of La Leche League who mothered me. These were the women who provided me with an example of what being a mother could look like, and concrete tools I could incorporate into my life that would make mothering easier and more fulfilling. I was inspired by these women, with their large families, who were able to accomplish so much and help so many.

When I look back on the time in my life when I was the mother of small children, I do not forget how special those days were. Even when I was in the thick of things, sleep deprived, washing diapers, wiping noses, and chasing toddlers, I knew it was a special time. I wanted a large family, and have always been sad for the babies I did not have, but I loved every minute with the two I was blessed to carry to term.

I think it was easier for me to enjoy my babies because of the women of the League. I belonged to a subculture of society that gave me strength and love, and helped me to realize that as a mother, I had been given a sacred opportunity to nurture and protect my babies. In this subculture, my work was honored, and my happiness was shared. The grief I experienced when I lost Genevieve was also honored and understood. The women of this subculture gave freely of their lives. We loved each other's children. We cared for each other's families. If one of us was sick, a pot of soup was delivered to our door. The examples set by the founding mothers were like a good old-fashioned bowl of chicken soup - simple, nourishing, healing. We were a tribe.

I cannot go back to that time, or to that place where I heard the sacred music of motherhood. The organization has changed so much in the past decade, that for me, the music doesn't play. I have experienced these changes as a great loss. This is one of the issues in my life that has been too personal to write about, too difficult to share. The church bells all are broken, and now three of the women I admired the most have passed. Rest in peace, Mrs. Lennon.

"Bag lady you gone hurt your back Dragging all them bags like that I guess nobody ever told you All you must hold on to Is you, is you." Erykah Badu

2010-01-14T22:35:00.004-05:00

I need a new bag. My husband does not understand how anyone can possibly have as many bags as I do. He does not quite understand why women need a purse at all. Since, in man world, he sees no need for a bag in the first place, how can I expect him to understand that one would need different bags for different occasions? It seems perfectly logical to me that I would not carry a small beaded evening bag to work, nor would I carry a back pack to a wedding. I understand the lethal leather combination of white shoes with a black bag and the subtle nuances of Naugahyde and velvet. Even the most practical woman might find herself in need of several different bags.

Today was a typical day for me.
After I got the kids off to school, I went to the local bookstore where I run a breastfeeding support group meeting. For that meeting I had to carry the following:
*My day book,
*business cards
*water bottle,
*Burt's Bees Lip Balm
*Cash
*Pen
*Writer's Notebook
Breastfeeding Cafe specific notebook
Breastfeeding Reference Materials
Prop Doll
Sling
Netbook
*Altoids
*cell phone
*reading glasses
*sun glasses
*prescription medication
*glucometer
*snack
*feminine hygene products

From there I had to go to a committee meeting at school
For this meeting I needed my daybook and a different notebook, and a pen

From there I went to work where I needed
a set of files
traveling office supply kit (I have no desk or storage space at work)
Netbook
Water bottle
Snack
Two magazines
Prescription medication

As of next week I will need to carry textbooks and workbooks with me as well.

The only logical option for me is to design and sew one bag with multiple pockets for my basic supplies, those marked with an asterisk, and possibly a pocket large enough for my netbook.

Then I will have to set up a series of second bags for each role I play in my day, and at all times I would carry two bags- the main bag with multiple pockets and:
One for the hours when I am a student,
One for support meetings,
One for client meetings,
One for when I am working at school,
One for when I am teaching Sunday School.

In an ideal world, all of these bags would be waterproof.
Each bag would be easily recognizable by color.
The bags would be made of neutral fabric.
The interior pockets would be clear and labeled so that the system would work.
There would be enough room for a mini cosmetics touch up kit.
The pocket for the cash would contain real actual cash.
In an ideal world, my husband would understand why I need a minimum of six bags. Then we could talk about shoes.

"All alone...and feeling too foolish and strange to say the words that I had planned I know that I miss you but I don't know where I stand." Joni M.

2010-01-12T12:25:00.010-05:00

After so many months of neglecting this blog, I have come back to it, only to find 36 comments in need of moderation. Most of these comments included the word Viagra, and one was related to nude photos of Miley Cyrus. Come on, you spammers, can't you leave that poor girl alone?

I have wondered what to do with this blog, in the same way that I have wondered what to do with my life. The initial purpose of Mermaid Cafe was to keep in touch with my friends after our first move to North Carolina. When my life and my writing became too personal to publish, I abandoned this blog. I have considered a fresh start, with a new name and a new URL. I have considered writing under an alias, and renaming my husband and children to protect their privacy. I have considered not writing at all. None of these options seem right for me at this time, just as nothing in my life seems quite right for me at this time.

The past year has been one of mourning, losing my identity, stretching my boundaries, pushing myself beyond my limit and stretching some more. I have met new challenges and been lonelier than ever before. I was unable to laugh my way through it. I am ready to laugh again. I am ready to find some remnant of myself that I can still recognize and revive it. I am ready to find the lyric to the melodies that fill my head. For awhile, I had lost all my words, and I was living life in a minor key. Today I want to sing.

"Sleep pretty darling, do not cry, and I will sing a lullabye." John Lennon and Paul McCartney

2009-12-25T09:26:00.007-05:00

In Loving Memory of Marjorie Woodall, who left us on December 24, 2009

Recently the Bishop of Limerick resigned amid scandal. I had the urge to express my disgust about the situation by writing a bawdy verse of five anapestic lines with the rhyme scheme aabba. I was only able to compose such a piece because in my mind I could hear Mrs. Woodall reading it. I hoped she had not seen this story on the news, because it would certainly have riled her up. I had not gotten all of the “a” lines down, but I knew the b lines were going to be “He knew bloody damn well they would all rot in Hell.” I had decided that if I finished this masterpiece, I would send it to her. She is the only person who would get it. We have a lot in common, Mrs. Woodall and I. Uppity indignation is only one of the traits we share.

She had a dry sense of humor that went over most people’s heads. She had a quick wit, a clever way with puns, and a gift for honoring people with irreverent nicknames that sounded hilarious in her Irish accent. She said things like “ad-VERT-iz- ment “and “Al-loo-Min-ium foil.”

She had been in the military, in service to the Queen as an air traffic controller. She had left her home in Ireland and was stationed in England. I had never known a woman who had been that independent and had such an important career. I was impressed, and I found her life as a young woman intriguing and mysterious. She had fallen madly in love with a handsome American, and left her home to start a family with him here. It was all very romantic.

Of course, as a woman, she could not get a job as an air traffic controller in the states. She had been good enough for the Queen, but by virtue of her sex, was not good enough for Bluegrass Field. In those days, women could not hold such jobs. When she told me this, I was shocked at the injustice. It was 1981, and we were sitting on her back porch, watching the news, and President Reagan had just fired all the air traffic controllers who went on strike. I never considered that this woman, who raised six sons and a daughter, may have wanted a career.

Mrs. Woodall liked Billy Joel, and was shocked when Kentucky radio stations banned the playing of Only The Good Die Young. Did they not understand the premis of that song? It was actually a compliment to Catholic girls everywhere. I remember riding in the car with her and hearing Billy Joel sing You May Be Right. She loved the line: “Remember how I found you there Alone in your electric chair I told you dirty jokes until you smiled.”

She liked Billy Joel, but she loved her lads from Liverpool, her homeboys. Over our last cup of tea she expressed great disappointment in Paul McCartney, for forgetting his age and foolishly remarrying that young amputee. We could all see where that relationship was going! It wasn’t hard to disappoint Mrs. Woodall. Her expectations were high, and we have all let her down at one time or another, even Paul McCartney, but she loved us, and that love never stopped.

Mrs. Woodall had a little blue parakeet. Nothing tickled her more than when John Lennon would sing Crippled Inside and her little bird would dance. “Watch this! You have to see this! He only does this for his favorite song!” she would exclaim. When that bird danced, her eyes would twinkle and her smile was as big as the moon.

There were many times when I felt a little crippled inside. At those times I would head down that Woodall driveway and into the comfort of the back porch on Stoner Avenue. Mrs. Woodall would make me a cup of tea, and we would talk and laugh, and a very special brand of love would flow through her. I never had to actually tell her what was wrong. I always felt she just knew. With her I found peace and understanding.

I was not the only young women to seek refuge at her kitchen table on Stoner Avenue. Many teenage girls went there when they had nowhere else to go. We went there before dates, and during those hours between school and band practice and football games.

I remember an afternoon when it was cold and raining. I had strep-throat, and a fever of 102. I was absent from school, but my mother had driven me in for band practice, as was required. It was the night before a band competition, and Mr. Eberlein said I had to march the football game that night, so of course instead of going home, I went to Mrs. Woodall’s. She put me to bed upstairs. It was where I went when I needed a place to sleep. It was where we all went. When times were dark for us, when we were confused, when we were in trouble, we went to that kind Irish woman on Stoner Avenue who asked no questions, and opened her door and her heart.

Years passed, and I left my hometown, but every time I returned I went to see her. When I married, I struggled with infertility. Mrs. Woodall knew how desperately I longed for a child. One year on the first Saturday in May, not long after I had married, I was hospitalized. As soon as Mrs. Woodall found out, she called Father and put me on the prayer list. Father then went to the choir picnic, told my mother he was praying for me, and asked about my condition. My mother had no idea I was even in the hospital. Mrs. Woodall was efficient. She got the word first and she got the word out, and although it is painful to admit this, sometimes I was closer to her than I was to my own mother. This was one of those times.

Mrs. Woodall called me later that day in the hospital. I answered the phone in a Demerol haze, and through the fog I heard that charming accent. She said, “Don’t be down. Nothing can keep a Kentucky woman down on Derby Day!” She knew I was afraid, terrified actually, and certain that I would never have a baby. “Now, Desiree, I don’t think there is any reason to believe that”, she told me. She was the mother of seven children, the most fertile woman I had ever met. She knew what she was talking about. My case was not hopeless and that was that. Then she told me all about the horses running that year. She was home to me.

When I did eventually conceive, I was very ill. Mrs. Woodall gave me a medal to wear. It was a medal that her uncle had brought back from Italy for her own mother, who also struggled with infertility. It was the medal that her own mother had worn when carrying her. I wore that medal every day, and I carried my firstborn to term. I will always suspect that Mrs. Woodall prayed my child into existence.

After I became a mother, our relationship changed. She was no longer my friend’s mother, she was actually my friend. She shared things with me on a different level. She told me some of her regrets and shared some of her sorrows. She told me that often she could not sleep at night, because the angels needed her to pray for someone. The angels wanted her to pray. I know there were times when she prayed for me, because I could feel it.

When I decided to become a midwife, Mrs. Woodall encouraged me. When I began attending births, she would tell me her birth stories. She gave birth to her first son in England, in the method of Dr. Grantly Dick-Read, stopping in the middle of second stage to finish her cup of tea and enjoy a chocolate biscuit - just after Norman’s head first saw the light of the world, but before his shoulders had done the same. She stopped in the middle of giving birth to eat a chocolate biscuit. It is no wonder this woman was my hero.

I loved talking birth with Mrs. Woodall. We spent hours on the phone long distance. Long before I decided to study midwifery, she taught me an acupressure point to use for pain relief that I use with all my mothers in labor. It was something the nuns taught her when she was a school girl in Ireland. I remember when she showed this to me, and I thought, “Wow, this woman knows a little something about everything!” Not only did she know a little something about everything, she had an opinion about everything, and I mean an OPINION.

She never expressed an opinion without being certain that you understood why she held that opinion. If you had any sort of a differing opinion, perhaps because there were some unfortunate gaps in your education, she filled them. If the subject was politics, she put it in historical perspective. If it was Canon law, she knew in exactly which century the church first made a decision about whatever the point in question might be, what effect that decision had on the populace, when that decision was changed, what sociological event precipitated the change, which pope made the change, what that pope had for breakfast, and whether he had dined alone or with company.

There was never a Catechism teacher like Mrs. Woodall. I remember one class when we were all rudely chattering away, unfocused, and not especially inspired by scripture to be there. She had asked us about that day’s homily, and none of us had paid enough attention to Father’s sermon to answer her question. She asked about the readings for the day, and again there was no answer, but there was some talk about an upcoming sporting event, which we found much more exciting than an eccuminical discussion. This went on for a few minutes, and she lit a cigarette.

Did I mention we were in Catechism class? Well, we were. We were in Catechism class, and she was smoking a cigarette. She took a long draw from her cigarette and did that thing she used to do with her eyes – you know the thing - the thing where you weren’t sure if she was full-out rolling her eyes at you in disgust, or just half-rolling them as she looked toward heaven. It was that thing she did with her eyes when you knew in her mind she was muttering something under her breath. You were never quite sure if she was praying for you or saying something Godawfulbad.

After completion of the eye exercise, she exhaled a stream of smoke that really should have been shooting out of her ears, and in a rather harsh tone of voice she exclaimed, “Mary Magdalene was nothing but a damned dirty whore!”

Well that certainly got our attention. It shocked the daylights out of us. It wasn’t just what she said that was shocking, it was the way she said it. That accent of hers made every statement extreme. She could have said, “Mary had a little lamb”, and it would have sounded profound, if not a little scary. Once she got our attention, there was some discussion.

The discussion must have gotten lively, because after a few minutes we heard Sister Loretta coming down the hall to assess the situation. It was the first and last time I saw Mrs. Woodall move quickly. She quickly snuffed her cigarette out in a plant, opened the window, and frantically began fanning with the church bulletin. In popped Sister Loretta, and Mrs. Woodall just smiled and said, “Good morning, Sister Loretta,” and in unison we all repeated, “Good morning, Sister Lorretta.” In that moment, Mrs. Woodall became not only my Catechism teacher, she became my hero.

Who made me?

God made me.

Why did God make me?

God made me to love and serve Him.

There are times when I wonder about this God and why he made me. There are times when I am guilty of at least some of those seven deadly sins Mrs. Woodall had us memorize, times when I am in doubt, times when I ponder the things I am no longer sure I can believe. But there is one thing I will always believe. When I wake up and I just cannot sleep, it is the angels keeping me awake because someone is in need of prayer. I pray for those in need, the way she taught me to, and only then can I sleep. Sleep well, Mrs. Woodall. I have no doubt that you are in the arms of the angels now. Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.

"Operator, oh won't you help me make this call? The number on the match book is old and faded." Jim Croce

2009-08-05T22:02:00.004-04:00

I have been enrolled in a Teleclass for doulas. Tonight was our last conference call of the series. This class requires very little note taking, which is good for me, because I just don't have two hours to sit still and listen to a phone call. I have to keep busy.

This is how tonight's call went:
I was still making dinner when the call started at 7:30. Dinner was late because my car's battery died while I was at the supermarket. In addition, Harrison has a friend sleeping over and I promised him I would make french fries. As the call started, I was dealing with a cast iron wok full of hot peanut oil and a bowl of spuds.

No problem. I can listen while I cook.
Dennis and the kids were really loud when they sat down for dinner, so I put the phone on mute and retreated into the bedroom. I folded a load of clean laundry that was on the bed. I advanced two loads that were in the washer and dryer and made a pile of sock widows. John's Hopkins research shows no improved outcome when inductions are done because of low amniotic fluid.

I had the phone on mute, un-muted it when I wanted to talk and re-muted it when I finished asking my question. Except there was a problem. The instructions that the moderator gave for muting and un-muting were reversed, so when I spoke they could not hear me. I tried it again, but by the time I successfully un-muted the call had progressed to a new topic. I muted again. I think. I was not sure. Could they hear me? I couldn't tell. Women who experience unexpected labor induction may have many different emotions. Some may feel their bodies have failed them and may have more difficulty adjusting to motherhood during the postpartum period. Others are just glad to finally get the baby out.

I went back to the quietest room in the house, just in case mute was not working for me. My washer and dryer barely hum, so I felt like that was the best place. I went to write something down, but my mechanical pencil was out of lead, so I had to leave the laundry room to get a pen. 33 % of labor inductions end in c-section, as do 31% of all labors in this country, so the chance of c-section is not statistically higher in induced labors since our c-section rate has more than doubled in the past ten years. Of course our induction rates have doubled too.

I dodged some nerf bullets as I came out of the laundry room. French fry fueled little boys were running wild. I put my index finger to my mouth and made a shooing motion to send them upstairs. Weekly sweeping of membranes at 38 weeks does not reduce the incidence of medical induction as per The Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, June 2008.

Dennis had done many of the dishes, so I got a pen, made a note, then relieved him of his kitchen duties and did the remaining clean up. The Woods method of due date calculation verifies Mittendorf's research from Harvard in the 1990s. On the average, first time mothers deliver 8 days after their due date, and second time mothers are usually delivered three days after their due date.

I went back to the laundry room and sorted and repacked my birth bag. The call was getting very interesting, so I scribbled some notes on which issues of The Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology I need to pull studies from.

Then I took a minute to Google one of the people on the call. Very interesting,..

Eden came downstairs in a huff showing me a red mark on her arm and crying "Harrison hit me!" Then she stomped off in a huff because I was gesturing for her to go tell her father because I was on a conference call! Why did I have these kids?

I fed Violet the dog and folded another load of dry clothes, still listening. Remaining sexually active at least four times after 36 weeks is proven to reduce the need for medical induction prior to 41 weeks.

Then I noticed the smell of something burning.
I went to the kitchen and discovered black smoke pouring out of the bread machine!
In an attempt to prevent the smoke alarm from going off, I opened all the windows and began frantically waving a towel around.
Then I unplugged the bread machine ran to the front door carrying it to put it on the front porch.
The front door was closed.
Smoke was still pouring out of the machine.
I was holding my breath so as not to succumb to the inhalation.
I couldn't balance the bread machine, continue to hold the phone to my ear between my chin and my shoulder and get the door open. I hoped the phone was on mute as I yelled, "HELP!"

Although the boys had smelled smoke, the smoke alarm did not go off, so they kept playing their video game. Dennis ran down and opened the door. I abandoned the smoking bread machine on the front porch.

I went back into the kitchen, sat down at the table and listened to the end of call. Women who are more than 1 cm dilated at the time their membranes are swept are at greater risk of having their membranes rupture prior to the beginning of labor.
Then I yelled at both kids for fighting, the boys for not reacting when they smelled smoke, and
Eden for coming to me instead of her father when I was on a conference call.

Confused, they looked at me and said, "You were on a call?"
Do I normally walk around the house with my right ear attached to my right shoulder, playing charades and gesturing for them to be quiet and leave the room?

"Oh, oh, what I want to know, where does the time go?" Grateful Dead

2009-08-03T07:32:00.005-04:00

When will this rainy springtime end? Wait, it doesn't feel like it, but it is actually summer.Where has this summer gone? I start school in only three weeks, and the kids start right after I do. We have only been to the pool a few times, and if you divide the number of times we have used the pool by the cost of the pool membership, it has been something like a hundred bucks a visit! What has happened to the sunshine?

I have several huge tomato plants, but no fruit on any of them. My zucchini plants are producing, but their leaves are soggy and yellow. My zinnias still have not bloomed. My peas finally gave off some pods last week. Peas in late July? It has been a very odd season.

We have noticed that there are very few coyotes this year. For the past two summers we have had a large pack of them yipping outside our bedroom windows at night, and I have seen them when driving both at night and in the wee hours of the morning. This year, my neighbors and I have not heard them.

We do have a resident mama deer and two fawns in our yard each day. We also see a mama turkey and her six chicks. Yesterday we sat at the end of the driveway waiting for them to follow the mama across the road so we could turn in. It was so funny watching them start to cross, then run into the grass, then start to cross, then run again.

It has been reported that last week, over near my cousin's house, someone in a small pickup stuck hit an 800 pound female bear. That's huge! Usually a black bears are between 250 and 350 pounds. According to the DEC an adult male could weigh 600 pounds, but this is rare. The locals here tell me that none of them ever remember hearing of a bear that large. The poor bear did not survive the accident.

One thing we know for sure is that there is a bear in our yard on a regular basis, although I am sure the one in our yard is much smaller. I know he is here because he does not seem to like to poop in the woods. He prefers to come over to my place to leave his scat.

Last week, early in the morning, Eden came running in the house exclaiming, "There's a bear in the apple tree!" So, I go wake Harrison (the boy who always sleeps late) and Dennis grabs his camera and his longest lens and we all tip-toe onto the front porch and look down the hill to the apple trees.

We see nothing.
We wait.
Dennis begins his walk through the yard to get a closer look. Nothing.
Dennis goes far enough down the hill to worry me, and I call him back.
He holds his ground.
Nothing.
We watch in silence for ten minutes. Finally, Dennis says, "There's no bear in the apple tree!" and turns to walk back to the house. He takes three steps and WHAM! The tree began to violently shake! I mean I thought it was going to rip apart. It did not look like there was a bear in the tree - it looked like there were a couple of gorillas shaking the tree! Dennis ran back to the porch and I almost wet my pants.

We watched this violent shaking of the tree on and off for the better part of the morning. Finally it stopped. Still, we could see no bear.

Eventually, we piled into the mini van and drove down to the street with our binoculars where we could get a better look. The bear had torn off some of the upper branches and made a nest. If one looked very closely, one could see black between the leaves, but he had woven this nest so tightly that if we had been just walking by, we would have walked right under the tree and never known he was there.

Eden suspected that it was two cubs, because we got motion from two parts of the tree. I think it was one bear and we could see the motion in two places because the limb he was on would shake while he ripped off the higher branches. Our apple trees are about 80 years old, and they are not in good shape. Sometimes I think they are only standing because the poison ivy vines keep them up.

We took shifts watching the tree all day. The limb he was on sank lower as the day progressed, until at dusk it was almost touching the ground and I was wondering if it was going to snap and dump him right out. Sometime during the night, he vacated. We never got a good look at him.

"Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she precious? Less than one minute old..." Stevie Wonder

2009-07-31T16:00:00.005-04:00

Earlier this week, I had the honor of attending my friend Julie as she gave birth to her daughter. Those hands in the photo belong to a very gentle and very sweet big brother.

Julie and I have been friends for nearly 20 years. We met when she left her small hometown and came to New York City as a teenager on her own. She worked for us for awhile, until Dennis realized we were talking more than working and replaced her with an older woman who didn't like me enough to chat and was much more efficient.

I have now gotten a taste of what it must feel like for a mother to watch her daughter give birth. I have always considered Julie kind of a little sister to me. When I was pregnant with Eden, Julie was there. She spent holidays with us, complaining to my priest that we brought her to church on Easter and made her eat ham, explaining with a laugh that she was not a very observant Jew, just a little Jew-ish. She filmed my baby's baptisms and has been here for all their milestones. Her new daughter shares the name I gave the daughter I lost nine years ago. I am very touched by this. As the years have past, I didn't think anyone remembered.

I always feel compassion for clients during labor, and I have attended the births of girlfriends before, but this experience was very different for me. I have now gotten a taste of what it must feel like for a mother to watch her daughter give birth. Oy, watching her suffer and not being able to take away her pain was hard. I am very proud of my very strong friend. She is a wonderful mother.

Tomorrow I am baking a special cake for the new mother.
It is a Gesundheits Kuchen, or Good Health Cake, a cake that German Jews traditionally prepared for new mother and to be served on a baby's name day.

This recipe is from the book In Memory's Kitchen: A legacy From The Women of Terezin. These recipes are from the women who were in the concentration camp, and they recited these recipes to each other as part of their survival under the most horrid conditions. I think it would please Mrs. Pachter to know that these many years after the war, this cake is being made to celebrate the birth of Julie's baby.
I also think that Julie's mother will be happy to know that I have found some Jewish recipes to take to the new mother.

Mina Pachter's Gesundheits Kuchen

Adapted from ''In Memory's Kitchen'' (Jason Aronson, 1996)

TOTAL TIME: 1 hour

Ingredients

6 large eggs, separated
1 cup sugar
1 cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/4 cup ground almonds
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
2 1/2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
Grated rind of 1 lemon
Confectioners' sugar

Preparation

1.: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and lightly flour a tube pan.
2.: Beat the yolks well. Add the sugar, beating well again. Add the cooled butter, almonds and almond extract, and mix well.
3.: Fold in the flour, baking powder, salt, lemon rind and milk.
4.: Beat the egg whites until stiff but not dry, and fold in.
5.: Pour into the greased pan, and bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean. Cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out and cool completely. Sprinkle the top with confectioners' sugar.

YIELD: 8 servings

NOTE
Approximate nutritional analysis per serving: 545 calories, 30 grams fat, 225 milligrams cholesterol, 290 milligrams sodium, 11 grams protein, 60 grams carbohydrate.

"Lady Madonna, baby at your breast, wonder how you manage to feed the rest." Paul McCartney

2009-07-27T16:13:00.003-04:00

I almost choked on my Allen wrench last week when I read that at the Ikea in Brooklyn, a mother was told by a security guard that she could not do "that" and would have to feed her baby in the bathroom.

I wish I could say I was surprised. I'm not. I was surprised a few years ago when a mother at the Mattituck library was told she could not breastfeed at the library. This mother was at a group for mothers and babies. Since then, I have gotten used to such ignorance.

The Ikea occurrence is a real bummer for me, because I love their inexpensive yet hip furnishings, and have had my eye on a couch, a dresser, and two loft beds.

Ikea is known to be breastfeeding friendly in Europe. I am told they have lactation lounges for their breastfeeding employees. Ikea won accolades from the National Childbirth Trust for its family friendly facilities. In 2006 Ikea was voted the best place in Britain to breastfeed, and breastfeeding mothers were welcomed there for a "Feed-in". They were even consulted on how to make the place even better for breastfeeding.

Why then, was a mother in Brooklyn made to feed her baby in the bathroom? Because this is America, and our country is largely populated by idiots and prudes who can't handle the site of a woman nursing a baby.

Just last week I was in a bar in New York City's West Village with a childless woman of childbearing age. She was telling me about a celebrity that walked into her friend's pub in the middle of the day with two kids in tow. She sat down in a booth, and began to breastfeed her baby. Her friend told this nursing celebrity to leave. She could not "do that" there. The young woman relaying the story was disgusted that someone would breastfeed in public.

The irony here is that we were sitting in the West Village. Have you seen some of the store windows in the West Village? A topless transgendered queen could be walking down the street swinging her girls in the middle of the day, and no one would blink an eye. I've walked by stoops where prostitutes were giving blow jobs right out in the open in New York City,right there on the sidewalk, and I am sure this young woman has walked by similar sites. Yet, it is the site of a breastfeeding mother that appalls her.

I wonder how she will feel when she is dealing with a crying baby, wet stains on the front of her shirt and rock hard breasts. Or, will this be one of those women who "tried to breastfeed, but just could not do it."

I have breastfed in bars.
Yes, I have taken my children into bars.
Why would I do such a thing? When I became a mother, I did not give up my life. I continued to go to restaurants and bars, concerts and plays, church services and movies. Everywhere I went, my babies went. Everywhere they needed to eat, they ate. If someone had a problem with me whipping it out, it was their problem. I am not responsible for their comfort. I am only responsible for the care of my children.

I did consider where I sat when nursing my babies. In church I often took the front row. That way, only the priest, deacon and servers could see me. I did the same thing during my brother's wedding, while sitting right next to my sister who most certainly would not have approved. She did not even notice. I was wearing a nursing dress. It was not very stylish, but it served the purpose.

I have only been asked not to breastfeed on two occasions, shocking considering the frequency with which I nursed in public. Once, at the Amityville Auction House, I was told that the auctioneer found the sight of me nursing distracting, and I was asked to leave. We chose not to spend any more of our money at that place, which was a loss for them as we were loaded in those days and in the process of buying art and furniture for the palace of excess.

The other time I was seating in the bulkhead row on an airline flight to Hawaii. I had fallen asleep with Eden at the breast. When Eden fell asleep, she slid off the breast. There were no other passengers in my row. The flight attendent woke me up and asked me to cover up. I told her we were fine, thanks, and asked her to bring me a drink.

I never breastfed in public to make a political statement or draw attention to myself. In my thirteen years of volunteer work with a national breastfeeding organization, I did not ever meet a mother who breastfed in public for those reasons. I have met mothers who desperately wanted to breastfeed but could not handle the criticism of their own mothers, mothers-in-laws and peers. If we want to have a healthy society, we will support mother and babies, and we will get over our fear of seeing lactating breast do its thing.

Next week is World Breastfeeding Week.
Remember, dear readers, a baby's head is sufficient covering for a breast. Please think about how you would feel if all bottle feeding mothers were told they could not give their babies a bottle in public? Do you like to eat on a public toilet?

I hope Ikea makes an appropriate public apology to this mother. I have a couch to replace.

"With a tear in your eye for the 4th of July, for the patriots and the minute men and the things you believe they believed in then such as freedom..."

2009-07-07T07:11:00.013-04:00

On July 4, under the misty cover of morning, I began to roll the towels and stock provisions. We loaded the truck and set forth, bravely declaring our independence from the oppressive rain of the Catskills. In pursuit of life, liberty and sunshine we crossed bridges and traversed the Bronx searching for sand. By 10:00 a.m., we had staked our claim, six inches above the high tide mark at Jones Beach.

There were 12 of us on this adventure. Three generations of weary sun-deprived souls, water logged from the unending rains of June that continue their assault. We were longing for a brief look at summer, and willing to creep out of the secluded Catskill woods and face holiday traffic through New York City and onto Long Island just to get it. It was an act of desperation, an unprecedented event.

It was a good road trip. As we crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge, Dennis recalled a 4th of July some 30 years ago on which he and his rowdy teenage companions rolled a car on the bridge. They were lucky to be alive, and lucky the cops did not search the trunk. Having anticipated the moment for miles, we became giddy when we tuned in WFUV and the signal was clear.

We were on the beach for over ten hours, my children, their cousins from out of state, and my in-laws. Dennis' brother and sister had been visiting us for a few days, most of which seemed to be spent in a frantic run to take cover from storms. A sunny day at the beach was a blessing.

The three eleven year old boys were in their glory, digging a moat around our blankets. My daughter the mermaid, and her teenage cousin spent much of the day laying on their backs side by side, with a towel draped over both their faces, goggling.

The girls found an abandoned beach umbrella in the garbage and fastened it into a flag which marked our territory. We had everything we needed. Two cases of fresh water, cherries, watermelon, homemade bread, yogurt, cheese and grilled chicken and homemade chocolate chip cookies. It takes a lot of food to spend a day in the sun. Our frequent forages into the cooler were interspersed with jaunts to the boardwalk in search of additional sustenance, the gyros, zeppolas, french fries, afternoon coffee and over-priced iced cold beer.

I was amazed by the efficiency with which the Parks Department runs things at Jones Beach. The Ladies' room was amazing. A fast moving line wrapped out of the building and and down the boardwalk. Inside, a team of women ran things like air-traffic controllers. I could hear one on the left side yell, "Two Left!" and the woman working the head of the line would dispatch the next two patrons to the left side of the bath house, where two women were stationed, each pointing to open stalls, and saying, "Have a good day at the beach!"
And so it went: "One right!"
"One left!"
"Two right!"
"Have a good day!"

The arrival of a tug boat towing a barge of fireworks was a highlight of the day, reminding us why we were there. We enjoyed most of the sights, although we considered forming a new support group CCF-CBC Concerned Citizens For The Coverage Of Butt Cracks. Initially there was disappointment when the high tide failed to breach our berm. Disappointment was followed by high fives when we realized the high berms and deep trenches made perfect recliners from which to witness the pyrotechnic display.

As the light softened at sunset, Dennis took family portraits. As the moon rose we huddled under blankets. When the first few notes of John Mellencamp rang across the night we looked to the sky. Colors soared from the barge and exploded into the sky.

"I can do the laundry and make dinner while I'm on the phone. Look at me I'm sexy as the devil when I mow the lawn. God bless the American housewife."

2009-06-23T08:56:00.009-04:00

I am a housewife again, except for my occasional work as a doula or a baby nurse. For the past two weeks I have been caring for a baby all night long, which has been good work for me. The only thing better than rocking a baby into the wee hours of the morning is getting paid to rock a baby into the wee hours of the morning.

For six months I went back to work outside the home, running the office in a retail establishment. I am glad that is over. Our family has dinner together again, and my husband and I no longer pass each other coming and going. We actually see each other a little every day.

During those six months, my children became a bit more independent, but taught me how far I have to go in getting them where they need to be. My husband lost weight because I was not home feeding him every day. The kids never did actually start to do their own laundry, and I learned that sometimes it is OK to overlook dust bunnies. If you overlook them long enough, they grow to the size of small bears and crawl out from under the beds on their own. This makes clean up much easier.

Eden is out of school already, and we are working to schedule some order into our lives. Harrison's school year ends this week and I can begin the never ending battle of prying him off the computer and forcing him into the yard. Ahhhh, summer.

Our summer projects include a lot of sewing and a lot of swimming if the sun ever comes out. We have had rain 19 out of the past 22 days, and although I love rainy days it is beginning to get to me. Will this rain ever end?

I look outside and watch my garden drown. Inside, I am trying to find a place to create my new office. I start classes in the fall and will need a place to work. I have huge anxiety about going back to school. I worry that my brain is too old and tired to comprehend the material. When I tire of worrying about whether I can handle the work, I worry about where I will handle the work.

My intention is to transform a small corner that is in our kitchen/dining area. We are building window seats around the table that will function as both seating and file storage. The table itself will be my desk, and I will be disciplined enough to have it clear by 5:30 every day.

It is hard for me to believe I am going back to school. I was actually shocked that they even accepted me. Thank you, SUNY admissions, for overlooking the early 80s. I pray to the god of transfer students that they accept all my credits from the early 90s. Now I begin the work of being a student, but most of all, I just continue the work of being a housewife.

I visualize the coming school year - my children will enjoy their bus rides home. Now that mom is in school, she won't be driving them back and forth each day. They will come home and romp with their dog in the yard. They no longer whine and bicker. We all sit down for dinner together, and they cheerfully clear the table and do the dishes. Then we all gather round the table again to study together. We earn high marks and bring great pride to Dennis, who can't believe how we manage to keep such a clean house and still volunteer at church and in with our various organizations. Yes, I can enjoy the summer visualizing what autumn will bring.

It is healthy to have a vivid fantasy life, right?

"God bless the American housewife,
How she does it all, I'll never know
God bless the American house wife,
She could use a miracle for sure
God bless the American housewife,
Cleaning up the world for you and me" SHeDaisy

"Well, I've been one poor correspondent and I've been too, too, hard to find, but that doesn't mean you 'aint been on my mind." America

2009-05-07T14:42:00.005-04:00

I am cleaning my house, both physically and spiritually, for the next three days. After this task is complete, I will blog again. Wish me luck and send my your good energy. It has been a difficult time for me, and I am ready to come up for air, renewed and refreshed.

Yours,
Desiree

"I know a girl from a lonely street, cold as ice cream but still as sweet. Dry your eyes Sunday girl." Blondie

2009-02-17T19:51:00.004-05:00

"Let the disappointments pass Let the laughter fill your glass Let your illusions last until they shatter." Jackson Browne

2009-02-05T12:13:00.001-05:00

Harrison will not take me to the Sweetheart Breakfast at his school. I pretend it does not hurt that he has grown too big for such things, but it does. Only recently he stopped reaching out for my hand in parking lots.

I miss my little boy.

My son is cynical, and he does not like a lot of things. I wonder when he went from sweet to cynical. I think it was about the time that Gelato, the bunny in this photo, died. Harrison had adopted Gelato when the bunny was only a week old. He wanted to bring Gelato home from the farm where he went each Saturday morning. We did not let him. The bunny froze to death. Harrison refused to go back to the farm program after that. It was a death that could have been prevented and he is still angry with the farmer.

Harrison does not like the farm, and I understand that, but it is shocking to me some of the other things Harrison does not like. He recently confided in me that he does not like The Beatles. I was heartbroken. His revelation confirmed for me something I have long suspected. Harrison does not like anything that is pure and good.

He does not like any of the music I like, especially the song Our House. Even as an infant, when that song came on he would cover his ears and cry. Sometimes on long car trips, Eden sits in the back seat and quietly hums it just to drive him crazy.

Harrison does not like chocolate, or Popeye the Sailor Man, or swimming in fresh water.

He does not like very small children, especially one particular friend of our family who is perhaps the most pure bundle of goodness we know. "She is so annoying!" he exclaims. "She always wants to be in the same room as me and she just always keeps asking me, 'Why?', and so I tell her, 'I don't know why,' and then she says,'Why?' and I say, 'I don't know why,' and she says,'Why?" It drives me insane! I don't like her at all!"

Well, I can understand perhaps finding a toddler tedious, but he truly does not like any small children. He is not wild about children his own age either. I hesitate to even put this in print, but he does not like babies.

Now, some people reading this, Mrs. G. for example, are likely to be on the same page with him when it comes to babies and small children, but I know that babies and small children are pure and good.

"You know what else I don't like that's pure and good?" he asks me.
"What Buddy, What else do you not like?" I ask, although I am afraid to hear the answer.
"Crayons. I hate crayons! And I don't like Crayola Markers either. I hate Crayola markers with their big caps. They suck. Sharpies. I like Sharpies."

This is when his father chimed in," I don't like crayons either! They are useless! And I am not particularly fond of puppies."

Eden nearly fell under the table, tears in her eyes, mouth open in disbelief. "Crayons?" she asks,"How can anyone not like crayons? And puppies? What kind of people are you?
Stop the insanity, PLEASE, No More!"

But this just added fuel to the fire, as Dennis started reeling of some of the many things he does not like - things that other people might think are pure and good. So now we know exactly where Harrison gets it.

They both hate Oprah, not that she is especially pure or good, but they think a lot of women think Oprah is pure and good, so she made the list. They called her the Devil's sister, and they take great pleasure in not liking her.

"Any you know what else I don't like?" Harrison asks, because now he is on a roll.
"It's not pure and good, but I just don't like it. In fact I hate it. I hate it when you are on a road trip and you make a road stop to get a snack and a soda and you go in the restroom and there is a trucker in there and he uses the bathroom and he really has to poop because he has been holding it in for, like, a day and he takes forever and he makes that noise and stuff. I hate that, even though it's not pure and good. I just hate it."

"What do you like that is pure and good?" I ask my menfolk.
They both agreed on one thing.
Pancakes.
Homemade buttermilk pancakes.
But not just any pancakes. Harrison only like my pancakes, and Dennis only likes organic whole grain gluten-free hippie pancakes made with fresh buttermilk and fair trade shade-grown pecans. He especially likes them when he can imagine that the grain was ground into meal by braless young blonds in braids, barefoot and dressed in calico, but I digress...

I am glad to learn that Harrison does love the smell of garlic oil on his hands when he is making breadsticks. He also likes homemade vanilla ice cream, and he loves animals. Yet I think about the content pleasure I feel when I open a new box of crayons and inhale their unique smell, and it makes me sad for him. I keep thinking about The Beatles. My son, lovingly named after George Harrison, can't stand The Beatles. It makes me sad, and reminds me of a song by Jackson Browne. I would play it, but my son would stomp away upstairs and cover his ears.

"This land is your land, this land is my land...this land was made for you and me." Woody Guthrie

2009-01-19T18:37:00.002-05:00

Here at the O'Clair Inaugural Dinner, good food was had by all. My Baracaroni and Cheese was a success, my angel biscuits could not have risen higher, and Cousin Al's Obamatini was the perfect cocktail for the event. We also enjoyed a beautiful healthy spinach salad that Eden made, some roasted asparagus, roast chicken with pan juices, and Carmela's yummy walnut bread for desert. We had a lot of fresh raw vegetables for appetizers, so I could pretend this was a heart and figure-friendly meal. My husband put aside our political differences and enjoyed the party atmosphere. I wonder if it is hard for our children growing up in this blended family of ours. It is certainly not easy for Dennis.

I enjoyed making these corsages at work and only wish I had thought to make them soon enough to send one to my friend Sue Ann so she could wear it tomorrow in Texas. I love the little picture of our President Elect in there, and the blue star garland makes it festive.

Like many things, my blogging has fallen by the wayside since I went back to work. My husband and children have adjusted well to the changes and I continue to wade through the day rushing to get home, a bit disconnected and out of balance with our lives. There are things about my job that I really like, and I am in an environment that stimulates my creativity - then I come home and have no time to create. I was lucky to have all those years at home, and my perception of time seems to be changing.

So, for those of you that have been emailing me asking for this recipe - here it is:

Baracaroni and Cheese
Start by grating your cheese.
I used 8 ounces of Guyere and 16 ounces of white cheddar.
Boil one pound of pasta al dente in salted water, then rinse well with cold water. I use Barilla Pipettes. I love the macaroni shape, they don't get mushy, and the little ridges let the sauce cling.

In a skillet, brown some chunks of ham. I use a ham steak cut into cubes large enough that Dennis can push them around his plate in disgust before picking them out. Yesterday, while I was making this, Dennis stated that if not for our very different feelings about ham, he and I would have the perfect marraige.

So why do I put ham in Baracaroni and Cheese? Because no matter what my in-laws believe, and no matter what you may have read on the internet, President Obama is not a Muslim, so if he stopped by for dinner, I could feed him pork. Also, ham and cheese is yummy. And just a reminder, you should not believe everything you read online. You do not have to boycott Target. It is not a French company and the Veterans of the great war will not be harmed if you shop there. Now on to the making of the Baracaroni and cheese...

In a sauce pan, melt 4 Tablespoons of Butter. add 4 Tablespoons of flour and stir to make a nice roux. Let it bubble up a little so the flour cooks, and while constantly stirring add 4 1/2 cups of milk. Whisk this together while singing "Little Pink Houses." By the end of the song, the sauce should be coming up to a boil. Keep whisking while you sing the "Oh ah Oh ah Oh hoe hoe Oh Hoe!" part a few times. By the time you get to that part, the sauce should be nice and thick. Remove from the heat and stir in 2 teaspoons of salt, 1 teaspoon of dry mustard, 1/2 teaspoon of cayenne pepper, a good amount of freshly grated black pepper, a nice amount of freshly grated nutmeg. I used a lot of nutmeg. Then add the Grated Cheese.

Dump your cooked macaroni and ham chunks into the sauce pot and stir well. Pour this into a buttered casserole dish.

Slice the crusts off of 6 - 8 pieces of Rye bread, and tear the bread into crumbs. Melt few tablespoons of butter in a frying pan and add the bread crumbs. Dump into this mixture 1/2 cup of grated Parmesean, Romano or Locatelli cheese and toss well.

Spread bread crumbs over the macaroni and cheese and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes until all goey and brown and toasty and delicious.

This makes enough to easily serve 35 skinny people, or 12 people who are willing to toss all concerns about fat and cholesterol to the wind!
Here is a shot of Cousin Carmela, modeling her Inaugural corsage and as she brings the macaroni to the table.
I am sure glad my children are old enough that they will remember tomorrow's festivities. They will both be watching the event in school. I will be listening on Eden's old fashioned transistor radio at my desk at work, where... gasp..sputter..shudder in disbelief, I don't have a computer and there is no internet access.