iPanic

To see me is to see my iPhone. It’s quite literally an extension of my hand. It goes everywhere with me.

A few nights ago we ate dinner at Taco Bell. (Don’t judge) Afterward we went to the adjacent King Soopers to pick up a few things. Aside from the Taco Bell slip, we’re trying to eat better. (Hey! I thought you wouldn’t judge!)

I wanted to scan a package of whole grain bread to see the nutrition info. I reached for my phone. It wasn’t in my pocket. I checked every other pocket on my person and probably looked like I was publicly groping myself in the bakery. No phone. “Honey, is it in your purse?” Sheena found hers, but not mine. “I gotta check the car!” I knew I left it unlocked and if my phone was in there, it was on the center console in plain view.

I whizzed through the chip aisle and made a bee-line for the door. It was already dark out and I ran for the Jeep through passing headlights, dodging moving cars. I pulled open the door to find. . . NOTHING. It hadn’t slipped to the floor. It wasn’t beneath the seats.

PANIC.

I checked the ground around the vehicle. I must have left it on the table when we ate. I lurched forward toward Taco Bell and started to run. No! I’ll drive! I stopped on a dime and pivoted around toward the Jeep. No! I should tell Sheena I’m leaving! I jerked back toward the store. With my arms stretched forward I must have resembled a zombie from Michael Jackson’s Thriller. (Never thought THAT name would surface in a blog entry) No! There’s no time to waste! I climbed in the Jeep and sped through the lot toward Taco Bell.

They didn’t have my phone. I felt like a fool for even asking at the counter. Like someone would really turn it in. My shoulders slumped and I drove back to the store to get Sheena and Lillian.

When we made it home, my smart little iPhone lay obediently where I left it: On the bed where I rested this afternoon to play Doodle Jump. (Don’t judge!)

The Food Critic

My nephew Connor is not your average 9 year old. Oh sure, he likes video games and he fights tooth and nail with his brother. But he has an unusual desire to finish his homework immediately and he’d rather be reading than playing sports. Sometimes I think he’s my kid.

Connor is particular. Some might even say picky. This is especially true when it comes to his taste in food. He won’t eat anything below his standards. My sister suggested Taco Bell for lunch one afternoon. Connor refused. “Mom, they slap it together with absolutely no effort and have the nerve to call it food!” How can you argue with that? Don’t suggest McDonalds either.

Since he was old enough to eat he has always been a food snob. It was Christmas 2002, Connor was less than 2 years old and barely old enough to talk. We were downtown to view the Parade of Lights and stopped on the corner of the 16th St mall. Starbucks was giving away free samples of hot cocoa. I took one and bent down to the stroller to give Connor a taste. “Mmmm. Chocolate!” I was blown away. I had no idea that he knew what chocolate was, let alone be able to pronounce it so clearly. When I was 19 months old my tastes barely reached apple sauce.

Anton Ego

Some kids know from an early age what they aspire to be in adulthood. I knew that I wanted to be a writer when I was probably about 6. Last year Connor revealed his dream occupation. “I’m going to be a food critic.”

Yesterday morning I noticed that my sister prepared pasta for Connor’s lunch. Wendy noticed my raised brow and told me that she was out of bread. I asked Connor why he didn’t eat school lunch. “School lunch is disgusting. I won’t eat it.” I asked what type of ‘disgusting’ foods they serve. “Burgers with tasteless meat, disgusting macaroni and cheese. There’s absolutely no fruit.” No fruit? What kind of school lunch is that? “They give apples and oranges, but nothing else. Worst of all, they won’t even let us talk to each other during lunch.” Connor enjoys good conversation with his food. It brings enjoyment to the meal.

His dad mentioned a friend of his with a son Connor’s age, named Conner with an ‘e‘. Kenny told him that the kid has dreams of being a chef and opening his own restaurant. Our little food critic said, “Well if his food is bad, I’ll give him a bad review and have him shut down.”

Recently Connor revealed his Top Ten list of sauces while in the car with his dad. Like any true critic, Connor treats his opinions like fact. The list goes like this:

1)Ranch dressing
2)Marinara
3)Honey Mustard
4)Ketchup
5)Barbeque
6)Teriyaki
7)Worcestershire (which he said is moving up)
8)Soy
9)Orange Chicken glaze
10) A-1 (but only with pork chops)

What I told Connor is this simple. Who says he has to wait until he’s grown-up to be a food critic? He’s old enough to eat, right?

The Irony of my Ironing

“Ronnie, get in here. It’s your week to clean the kitchen. Wendy had last week.” Mom trumpeted through our small house. An awkward 12 year old shuffled through the living room and groaned looking at the stack of breakfast dishes in the sink and grimy pans stacked on the stove. “That’s not fair!” I said. “Why doesn’t Danny ever have to clean?”
“Because he’s a boy and cleaning is women’s work.” Mom’s words infuriated me. The burning started in my feet and rose quickly through the rest of my body, finally shooting out my mouth like a shift whistle.
“That’s bullshit!” I screamed! “Since when does having a penis count as a free pass from housework?”
“Since the beginning of time, garbage mouth. Now get busy or you’ll be here all day.” She handed me a rag and slammed the dish soap on the counter.
There was no use fighting her. I set to work rinsing egg yolk from dirty plates. Scrubbing the pans coated in bacon grease and cooking oil seemed to drag on forever.
Just when I thought I was finished, Mom would come stomping in there and point out the burned-on food on the stove top.
“Get an SOS pad from under the sink and clean these burners. Don’t just wipe down the counters, move the appliances and clean under and behind them with bleach. Clean the refrigerator handle and door. Sweep the floor when you’re done and then call me so I can come and check it. You know, one of these days when you have a husband and kids, you’ll be thanking me for teaching you how to properly clean. If you settle your ass down and watch me, I‘ll teach you how to cook.”
My mom’s 1950’s mentality made my jaw hurt, most likely from gritting my teeth. And once again, my adolescent rage came bubbling up and out. “It’ll be a mighty COLD DAY IN HELL when I cook and clean for ANY man!”


As it turns out, nearly 30 years later I only ate most of my words. My morning begins with making breakfast, getting my girls ready to meet their day, and shuttling the kid to school. I come back home and have a quick cup of coffee before… wait for it… CLEANING THE KITCHEN.

I find myself comfortably stepping into the role of wife and mother, but certainly not for a man. It’s Sheena that I wait for at the end of the day.

I do laundry, I do toilets, I do dusting and vacuuming. Hell, I even do windows. My favorite task is grocery shopping followed by home cooking. I love the game of budgeting, meal planning, and preparing a delicious meal. I hear my mother’s voice when I both encourage and discipline the kid. I am happy and proud to ultimately be choosing the same life my mom did. And now I understand that she did it because she loves my dad.

I’m sure my parents knew what took me years to understand. You can’t put a price on a solid home life when it comes to marriage and raising children.

Valarie's Home Table

Stuffins. That’s what Valarie called them. It was the night before Thanksgiving and she was trying a new twist on an old tradition. The stuffing was made with spicy sausage and apples. I helped her chop the apples and Val mixed the ingredients. When she was done the mixture went into the cups of a muffin tin and the tray was popped into the oven. The end result was a savory taste explosion in each muffin.

What do you call it when someone creates something so deliciously fantastic but can’t repeat the dish again? Culinary amnesia? Whatever the affliction, my sweet cousin suffers from it. Actually, those of us waiting at her table are the ones who suffer. But wait! The suffering is short-lived because Valarie will instead make something so tasty that you forget what you were wanting her to repeat. Culinary amnesia in reverse??

I remember an omelet she made that was so special, Adam, Amanda and myself were speechless. Yes, my cousin has a gift. But those of us who have been blessed to be guests at her table, are the ones reaping the sweet, and often savory, rewards.

Listen Globally...

An infinite beach of white sand melts into water of an unrealistic turquoise hue. The warm waters of the Arabian sea lay across the horizon, lulling me into a heavy and languid sleep. Sadness drips down the walls of my heart until it’s completely saturated. My soul swims in loneliness and struggles against the undercurrent. Tears fall heavily onto the sand before me…

Never have I fallen more deeply in love with a collective musical talent as I have with Pink Martini. Their music ensnares me until I’m a slave to their compositions. If their music were a flavor it would be the darkest chocolate paired with a glass of handmade basket-pressed cabernet. Then I listen again. My words fall flat. Its not simply listening to music. It is a completely encompassing experience. Not only does their music invoke vivid imagery in my mind, but deep and unexpected emotions. Loss, melancholy, like my experience above. Then, soul bursting happiness and joy.

Though Pink Martini originated in Portland they are not of this country musically. With them I have danced all night in a club in Greece, I’ve tangoed in a small bar in Spain, and cried tears over wasted time and heartache in Rio de Janeiro. I’ve felt the Siberian chill at my back while watching snow fall in Red Square. I’ve retreated to my room to smoke away my broken heart in Paris and I’ve looked for Yolanda throughout Mexico.

For me, the finest of these sensory decadent travels is when I spend Una Notte A Napoli… It is truly an out of body experience.

It is unlikely that I will ever have the opportunity to travel the most farthest and obscure places in the world.
…but to purchase the artful music of Pink Martini is to purchase a first-class ticket around the globe.
Photo by Adam Levey2007

Dan

For 42 years my dad has gotten out of bed at an ungodly hour, showered, dressed in uniform, and driven to work with coffee in hand. His days have been long in all weather conditions, besides mentally and physically demanding. He never ignored an opportunity to work overtime. Most of his weeks were 6 day weeks of at least 10 hours a day. He’s worked sick, injured, and I have no doubt there are days when he wished he would have been anywhere but in his mailroom, casing and sorting mail.

And still he showed up, my dad. With integrity and an iron work ethic.

My dad is a popular man. People are drawn to him for his kindness, generosity to a fault, and soul-warming laugh. He’s kind, considerate, and has a jovial nature. A great conversationalist and the heart of a child with everything still to learn.

I honor him for his wisdom. I respect him for his endurance. And most of all I thank him. Not only for being a provider of everything we could ever need and want, but for being an example of the person I will always strive to be.

Congratulations, dad. On your retirement and the beginning of your new future.

Thank you Veterans

Today I was watching a Story Corps animation short in honor of Veteran’s Day. It was about a man named Joseph Robertson who was a WWII veteran that served in the Battle of the Bulge, where over 40,000 lives were lost. Allied, German, and civilian. He spoke of a German soldier that he had to kill in self defense and how that memory haunted him for the rest of his life. Mr. Robertson lived until the ripe old age of 90, yet he would still awake in the middle of the night crying over the young German. He sacrificed his inner peace. I can’t imagine such a sacrifice.

http://storycorps.org/animation/germans-in-the-woods/

There are reasons I could never be a soldier. Number one being the fact that I couldn’t take the life of another. Even in self defense, as in Mr. Robertson’s case. Not because of religious convictions, and I sure don’t presume to have a higher moral standard than anyone else. I just don’t possess the strength.

I honor and admire those who fight for our country. I hope that Mr. Robertson finally rests in everlasting peace. I trust he was greeted in heaven by the lives he both saved and touched.