Purging the files

Last weekend, I purged my recipe file. I have this big green file folder that I use to store recipes. For the past 5 years or so (okay, maybe 10), I have been collecting recipes that looked good. And stuffing them into the file folder (organized into categories, of course. Sort of.) And I thought about it recently and realized that if I were hit by a bus tomorrow, Emma would go through that file and instead of thinking fondly about the great family dinners we had, she would think, “Look at all these recipes that don’t even sound familiar.” So I decided to purge. This requires getting honest with yourself about what you’re never going to do. Kind of like going through your closet and getting red of anything you haven’t worn in a year. And here’s what I purged:

1. Any recipe for sorbet, ice cream, granita, sherbet, popsicles, or anything found in the frozen treats section. Easier to buy it. And probably better.

2. Anything that requires pounding something with a mallet.

3. Crock pot recipes for anything that is not intended to be served mushy. Because it always ends up mushy.

4. Anything that contains both chocolate and noodles.

5. Anything that has more than 10 ingredients. (Unless a) it’s for a special occasion and b) I’ve already made it so I know that it’s worth it.)

6. Anything that contains both fruit and meat. (I make an exception for apples and pork. Yum.)

7. Anything that has a jello-like consistency and isn’t jello. Like aspic.

8. Cold soup. (I know that some people like them. I don’t.)

9. 10 recipes for variations on “chicken in peanut sauce”. Because I have one that we all love and who needs more than one way to cook chicken in peanut sauce? Ditto for chicken enchiladas.

10. Candy. There are lots of professional candy makers who can make it better than I can. And that whole candy thermometer thing is a pain.

I got rid of about half of my recipes. In all honesty, I probably could have gotten rid of 3/4. But it’s a start.

The world according to Bob Maue

My dad would be 94 years old today. In honor of his birthday, I’m remembering some of my favorite Bob Maue quotes:

1. If you keep watching Batman, you’re going to turn into a moron.

2. Why don’t you play it slowly until you learn it, and then you can play it fast?

3. Take the spoon out of that glass, or you’re going to put your eye out.

4. (In “sympathy” for my falling down the stairs): If you didn’t wear such dumb shoes, that wouldn’t happen.

5. (Also in “sympathy” for my falling down the stairs): If you wouldn’t come down the stairs in your stocking feet, that wouldn’t happen.

6. The sun is over the yard-arm. (Meaning it’s past 5:00, and therefore, cocktail time.)

7. If that guy had a propeller on his head, he could fly. (Said about a certain former pastor of our church, who will remain nameless out of respect.)

8. In response to my mom’s question, “If Ann-Margret came to the front door and asked you to run away with her, would you go?”: I’d have to think about it.

9. Jesus Christ, why can’t you let the clutch out slowly? (After about 5 stalls in a row, as I was learning to drive a stick shift in the Knoebel’s parking lot.)

10. While you’re up, get me a beer, would you?

I miss you, Daddy.

Undecking the halls

Is there a sadder annual chore than taking down the Christmas tree?

When we trim the tree, there’s such hope. Not only “hope” in the traditional Advent kind of way. But hope for the season. That all the presents will be perfect. That all the children will be happy all the time, even on long car rides. That everyone will get along. That all of the food will be ready at the same time. That you will take advantage of the long university break and work out every day and clean closets and figure out how to use an iPod. That your sister will make apple pie for New Year’s dinner. (Never mind.)

Actually, I usually start the holiday season with fairly realistic expectations. I know that, like most things, there will be good and there will be not-so-good. That nothing is perfect. That much of how it all turns out will be out of my control. (Imagine that, something being out of my control.)  But somewhere along the way, I get sucked into the Christmas vortex. My expectations rise.

And, as usually happens in life, there was good and there was so-so and there was not so good.

Not every gift was a delight. Some will never be played with and will be taken to Goodwill as part of next year’s pre-Christmas toy purge.  (And one or two didn’t even make it through Christmas morning without a tiny-but-important piece being lost.)

Feelings were hurt.

Situations were uncomfortable.

People got tired and cranky.  (Mostly me.)

Kids got bored and crabby and threw french fries at each other in the car.

But there was lots of good as well. Laughter with family and good friends. Long days with no plans and no goals. Cookies and carrots that magically disappeared after Christmas-eve bedtime, much to a 4-year-old’s amazement. Presents that delighted. Reconnections with people I don’t see very often.

And now it is over. The tree comes down and the decorations go back into storage. Until they come out again, bringing with them the hope of next holiday season.

When everything will be perfect.

 

Nine lies and a truth

It seems that my most frequent blog topic is around why I haven’t had time to blog. Here’s the latest list (see if you can spot the true one):

1. First-grade math is kicking my ass.

2. Spending every spare moment with Lisbeth Salander (the heroine of the “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” series). (“Daaaaddyyy, I’m heeeere…”).

3. New episodes of “Glee”, “Parenthood”, “30 Rock”, and “Modern Family.”

4. 24-hour coverage of the Chilean Miner rescue.

5. Trying to learn the rules of soccer. (Rule number one seems to be that everyone is not supposed to cluster around the ball.)

6. Navigating the torn-up streets in south Oak Park adding hours to my commute.

7. Sewing homemade Halloween costumes. (Ok, that one’s obviously a lie.)

8. Buried under mountain of art projects sent home from preschool every day and trying to find my way out. (This week’s theme was “leaves”. Oh boy.)

9. Exploring run for mayor of Chicago. (I think I have a better chance of winning than Rahm.)

10. School, work, soccer, gymnastics, cross country, homework, piano lessons, college visits, birthday parties, running, getting ready for Halloween (seriously, did Halloween require this much preparation when I was a kid?)

Molasses and salsa

September makes me want to get organized. To throw things out. To find out how many jars of molasses I have in my cupboard and put them all together. (4. I have 4 jars of molasses in my cupboard. All of them open. And I have 4 bottles of Worcestershire sauce, 8 jars of salsa, 4 large containers of Crisco and more bottles of vinegar than I can even count. And cumin. Man, do I have cumin.)

But I digress. (Maybe it’s been a few Septembers since I organized the kitchen cabinets.)

September makes me want to go through closets and get rid of things that don’t fit anymore. (Don’t fit the kids anymore, I mean. Of course, everything still fits me.) To get rid of the mountain of papers in the office. To organize and fold. To clean that utility closet that still sort of smells like the cat died in it  bad.

I’ve long thought that the Jewish calendar, with the New Year in September, made so much more sense than the random January 1 date in the middle of winter. (Of course, I realize that it’s not winter everywhere in January. Typical American-centeredness, I know.)

September, with its cool (er) nights and low (er) humidity (okay, on some days), gives me energy. The start of school makes me feel like it’s a new beginning. Like the world is full of possibilities. Like anything is possible. Like this is the year that I will get organized and stay organized. Like this is the year I will write songs, and write in my journal every day, and talk to all the people I care about on a regular basis.

Yep, this is going to be that year.

And in the meantime, just let me know if you need any molasses.

Summer fantasies

Ah, the fantasies of summer.

Each year (round about April) I have this fantasy of the way summer is going to be. Long, lazy days with no homework, no 8 a.m. school arrival times, no cross-country practice, no ACTs to prepare for. No food-service cards to recharge online. No keeping track of when pajama day is. (Or when show-and-tell day is. Or what the show-and-tell theme is.) No identifying 15 things in the house that start with the letter Y.

Nothing to do, nowhere to be. Late dinners of simple, grilled food. Trips to the pool after dinner. Relaxed bedtimes. Relaxed wake times. Low stress.

And I count the days until the end of school.

At which point reality sets in.

8 a.m. school arrival times (to the elementary and preschools 6 short blocks from our house) are replaced by 8 a.m. (ok, “-ish”) arrivals at the day camp program (a 20-minute round-trip from home). And the same trip in the evening.  Homework is replaced by swim lessons four nights a week. The camp also has pajama day. And super hero day. (Which I forgot have no memory of ever knowing about.)

Grilled food is actually a rotating selection of pizza/macaroni and cheese/scrambled eggs after swim lessons. Relaxed bedtimes are actually hurry-up-it’s-late-and-you-have-to-get-up-for-camp. Post-dinner trips to the pool are replaced by I don’t even know what.  Relaxed wake times are not possible because…oh yeah, I still have to go to work in the summer.

High humidities eliminate any hope of low stress. (Stop touching me.)

So here I sit on August 3, fantasizing about the start of school and the start of Fall. Counting the days (or at least the weeks) until we are back in our regular routine. Dreaming of cool nights and cool mornings. Of school shoes and new backpacks. Of hot dinners in the crock pot. Of seeing the other school moms on a regular basis.

And in my Fall fantasies… it will be perfect.

Less frayed around the edges

My sister and brother-in-law came to stay with the kids while I was out of town last week and as a result, we are now a lot less frayed around the edges. I’m happy to report that:

1. We have new shower curtain liners in both showers. No more mildew.

2. All the lights in the house are now working.

3. I have a complete inventory of everything in both freezers (including which freezer it’s in).

4. The refrigerator is clean, all of the shelves are at the perfect height and the cheese drawer is in a better place (no, not heaven. Just a more logical place in the refrigerator.)

5. Margaret dresses herself with no help from me.

6. The dining room table is reoriented the way it really should be (but I never realized that it should be that way.)

7. All of the Tupperware containers and lids are organized (but unfortunately, none of them match each other.)

8. David and Margaret’s Ikea dressers are assembled and all of their clothes are perfectly folded and organized.

9. I no longer have a coffee table next to the couch (that one’s going back, because I don’t have any place to set my coffee when I’m watching TV.)

So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my wonderful sister and brother-in-law, who love me and love my kids and come and help me when I need them and un-fray my house.

DNR

Our cat, Mick, wasn’t doing well.  He was old. Somewhere between 15 and 20 years old.  (We don’t know for sure because he had several owners before Tim.)  He was blind, he was down to skin and bones (maybe 4 pounds soaking wet), and this weekend, he could no longer jump on the couch.

Last night, when I got home from a church meeting, Emma told me Mick was worse. He wasn’t moving much, wasn’t eating, he had a pretty serious eye infection, and to be honest, he didn’t really look like the same cat as before…it was like he had already started to cross over.  So I planned to take him to the vet first thing in the morning.

Except that when I woke up, I couldn’t find him. We looked everywhere (actually, I looked everywhere. Emma refused to look under the beds.) I finally saw his big fluffy tail sticking out from under the shelving in the utility closet in the basement. Not moving. Not responding to his name.

This presented me with a dilemma. I didn’t want to leave him there to die if he wasn’t already dead.  I owed him more than that. If he wasn’t already dead, I wanted to hold him while he died. But I really, really, really didn’t want to pick him up if he was already dead.  Eeewww. So I started pacing. And making phone calls for moral support, hoping that someone would say something that would give me the nerve to pick him up.  And that helped, but I still couldn’t pick up the cat. Then I went to get Stephanie for moral support, but she was as scared and skeeved out as I was.

So then I did what any strong, independent woman would do.  I went around the neighborhood to see if I could find a man who was willing to pick up a potentially dead cat to see if it was actually dead.  Unfortunately, no one was home. Not Tom or Matt or Joe.  But luckily, one of my neighbor’s lawn service guys overheard me talking and offered to help me. (Thank you, lawn service guy whose name I don’t even know. He didn’t actually have to pick up the cat, because as we were walking down to the basement, Mick moved, so I knew he was alive.)

It turns out he wasn’t dead. But he was close. He was barely breathing.  He wasn’t moving much.

So I drove to the closest animal hospital that was open. (Not our regular vet.) The receptionist was so kind.  I told her that it was Mick’s time and she explained to me what would happen.

Then the vet came in and this is where the experience took a bad turn. She cheerily asked me when the last time was that he had blood work. I’m sorry…was this a date I was supposed to remember? And she said, you know, maybe he has something treatable. We could do blood work to find out.  To which I said, no thanks, I know that this is the right thing to do. It’s time.

And then. And then she rolled her eyes and sighed a loud sigh. Yes, she did. And then she thrust a piece of paper at me and said in an exasperated tone of voice, “Okay, then, sign this.” And I wanted to yell at her….please tell me you didn’t just do the eye roll thing.  As if. As if I woke up this morning, and said, you know, this cat is really a nuisance. I think I’ll kill it today.

To be f air, she was much more compassionate and kind when she came back in the room to give him the shot. I don’t know why. Maybe she hadn’t actually seen him and the condition he was in before she suggested the blood work. Maybe she got over herself. I don’t really know. I was ready to give her a piece of my mind if she still had the attitude, but it wasn’t necessary.

So here’s my question….at what point did the expectation become that we’re supposed to go to extreme measures to prolong the life of a dying pet? And at what point did someone decide that any pet owner not willing to do this is cruel and heartless?  I don’t think it makes me a bad person because I wasn’t willing to do blood work on a cat that was clearly dying, and had, in fact, gone off to die in a place where I had trouble finding him. I know that I did the right thing. But did I really need a guilt trip from a young, holier-than-thou vet at that very moment?

My lasting memory of Mick will be of him sprawled across my abdomen as I was lying on the couch, when I was very pregnant with David. Mick was incubating me.  (I have no memory of him doing this when I was pregnant with Margaret. I think I was too busy to lie down.)

He loved soft, comfy blankets, and human companionship.  His favorite place to hang out was next to a warm radiator.  He loved us and we loved him.

And we will miss him very much.

Endings and beginnings

As long as I live, I will never forget the look on my dad’s face when my mother walked into a room. For 63 years, he got that look on his face every day.  

Next week, we head to Portland for the wedding of E and B.  E is the daughter of my cousin (makes you feel old when the next generation starts getting married.) Her family is part of my big, wonderful, extended family that loves and supports me. That accepts me exactly for who I am. That makes me laugh so hard that my stomach hurts. 

I remember E as a little girl, with big eyes and long, beautiful dark hair.  But I’ve really gotten to know and love her as an adult, a smart, warm, compassionate, funny, beautiful person. I’ve only met B several times, but t say that he’s a great guy doesn’t do him justice. It’s obvious to all who know them that this is a wonderful match.  

It’s strange going to a wedding when you’re going through a divorce. (There. I said it.) Hearing someone else say the words you spoke and gave your heart to.  In a time when things were different and people were different and you thought you knew how your life was going to be. As if you ever know how your life is going to be.

It would be easy to be cynical.  (And those of you who know me know that I am capable of being quite cynical.) But I’m not going there.  

My hope and my wish and my expectation for E and B is that they are for each other a soft place to land. That they are always kind to each other. And that they never lose the sparkle that each has when they look at each other.  I know that this is possible, because I am surrounded by many examples of it…in neighbors, friends and family. 

Best wishes for a long and happy life together.

And may you always have that look in your eyes.

Feels like home to me

I’ve been thinking a lot about home.  Which I’d always defined as that one place that, when you go there, they have to take you in.  One place. One home. 

But I’m broadening my definition.  Home is where the people who love you live. The people who love you for who you are.

So, by that definition, home is Shamokin, and Sunbury, and Pittsburgh, and Oak Park, and Portland, Oregon, to name a few.

I went to my original home last week. Well, not the original house. I wish I could have gone there and walked around. To see if it looked the same as I remember it, and smelled the way I remember it. But if not to the house, at least to the  town where I grew up, which formed me and then launched me into the world trailing a U-haul. Where I broke my front tooth in the playground of the Washington School. Where I learned to drive.  Where I fell in love the first time and had my heart broken the first time. Where I sang “Seasons in the Sun” over and over and over again.

I shared the places of my growing up with my children.  The cottage, Knoebels. Coney Island. I learned of the love that Emma has for these places, because of our frequent visits over the years. And I know that David and Margaret are developing that same love for the place I originally called home.

By the end of the trip, I was ready to return to our Oak Park home. The place where my stuff is. The place where my life is.  The place where I have wonderful, amazing friends who are like family to us.

But I’m grateful for all the places I can call home.