It’s All About Food

Jerry Seinfeld once said that relationships are the only thing we have to keep us from thinking about food all the time. Is he not embarrassingly right? The role of food in our lives has moved way beyond a source of fuel for our bodies–it’s an activity. And I love it. But sometimes, I will admit, the whole food thing is a bit much. Last week I looked around my kitchen counter at one point and almost felt despair: Coconut cupcakes, Apple pie and leftover Carrot Raisin bread. Various take-out containers in the fridge. It had been my birthday week, true–so that does tip the scales a little bit (Oh. Horrible pun. Horrible. Sorry) But still. It was a lot. And if I’m honest, my birthday week leftovers are not all that different from my regular week leftovers. Truth is, my mother is Italian, so this explains a lot. I’m not trying to lay blame here, but if you have an Italian mother, are an Italian mother, or know an Italian mother, then you could just stop reading right here because you already know how the story goes. It’s a wonder we’re not all 300 pounds…

Here is an excerpt from a real life conversation my mom and I had this week when I stopped in at her house:

Mom: Are you hungry? Can I make you a salad? Sandra and I just got back from the Farmer’s Market. There weren’t a whole lot vegetables there, but we bought some amazing cheese and some gourmet coffee and some bread. What can I give you?

Me: No mom, I’m good. Really. I just ate lunch.

Mom: Oh but you have to try this cheese. Just try some. It’s not like regular cheese.

Me: Really mom, I’m full. I really don’t want any.

Mom: Why don’t you want any? It’s so good. How about some of this bread?

Me: I really am actually full, mom. I just don’t want any. ( This I said as I put a bite in my mouth.)

Mom: Then have some of this coffee. Will you have a cup of coffee? You need to drink more– all the running around you do.

Me: Ok, Mom. I’ll have coffee.

Moments later, as I’m stirring in my cream, she slips into the dining room  and I already know what’s coming. She comes back in the kitchen and sets down a foil wrapped square of dark chocolate and smiles at me. “This is just a little sweet thing to have with your coffee.”  Oh, to be so loved. To be so taken care of. To be so full at every moment of the day. As a mom myself, (and obviously, a part Italian mother) I do relate to this. This need to feed my children, this feeling of nurturing them through food. The older they get, the less you have to do for them– but eating is one thing we never outgrow.

My husband has come to affectionately refer to the size of my mother’s servings as “Pat Servings.” This means regularly unbuttoning the top button of your pants to make room for the obligatory 2nd piece of cake. And if she’s trying to finish up another dish, you have to help the cause. In other words, you can have cake, but it comes with a free serving of fruited Jell-O. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t ask for the Jell-O or said, “No thank you.” We’re trying to finish it up and you have to help. Why are we trying to get rid of it? Why did we make it if no one really wanted it? It doesn’t matter. We have to make room for what’s coming next. And don’t think you’re leaving without leftovers. No sir. No one gets away easy. One night, after much protest, my brother once told my mom that he was going to throw the food out the window on the way home. That’s how much he did not want to take it with him. And here’s the crazy part–she didn’t care! As long as it seemed like he was taking it with him and she didn’t have to have it in her fridge, everyone’s happy. Or crazy. But one thing’s for sure–we’re full.

Now, all of this is regular food fodder in my family, but there is one Italian Mother Food Story that takes the cake, so to speak. My girls and I had gone along with my parents to visit my much-loved and missed Italian grandmother’s grave. It was a beautiful sunny day and they were going to be planting flowers and cleaning up around the stone. As my parents were digging and planting, the girls and I were just sort of roaming and looking around. After a little time had passed, I wandered back over to them, and low and behold, it was snack time. There sat my youngest ON TOP of my grandmother’s stone, legs dangling above my father’s head as he was weeding, eating brownies and Twizzlers. Evidently, my mother had brought snacks along because, well, that’s what she does. You know how hungry the cemetery can make you. For real. Does it ever end? But Granny was no doubt smiling from heaven, and like a true Italian grandmother, loving every minute of it.

There’s a side story to the cemetery story that has to be told–while I’m recovering from the shock and awe of the snacks, my other daughter, who is a sensitive and deep thinker, had been reading nearby  family stones that said things such as, “Father, Angelo. Mother, Katherine” and so on.  But she came upon one that she was not expecting–it read “Father, Frank. Mother, Theresa.” Running back to me, hand to her chest, she gasps, “Mother Theresa is buried here!” What could I say? It was like a circus. All I could do was smile. “Yep. That’s right Sweetie. All the way from Calcutta, India to Niagara Falls, New York. Here, have a brownie. They’re good for you.”

You Cry When They Leave. You Cry When They Come Home.

There’s a secret that parents of college kids everywhere are keeping to themselves. It’s sort of a taboo subject that no one wants to talk about–but here’s the harsh reality: You cry when they leave, you cry when they come home. Really. And don’t judge. It’s a hard transition. So, now the cat’s out of the bag. I feel better just saying it out loud. Well, not  out loud in front of HIM, but ya know, to you. Can I get an amen from anyone?

Of course, our children are wonderful. Of course we miss them when they’re gone. Of course we don’t mind the grocery bill doubling. The dishes left around. The amnesia about where we keep the recycling bin. Sharing the car. Oh. Sharing the car. (Deep Breath. Breathe in Jesus, breathe out Satan.) Full blown meals made at 2:00 a.m. And of course we wouldn’t have it any other way. But there’s also a teeny part of us that gets used to  one less person to manage and navigate. And that same teeny part of us, well, liked it. A little bit.  Maybe more than they thought. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Let’s face it. The older our kids get, the more clearly we see how different we really are from each other. That  baby born almost 20 years ago was not  a blank slate. They have their own way of doing things, their own priorities, their own style. And when it’s not the same style as yours, you can feel the house closing in you. And don’t get me wrong–they feel it too. And sometimes, that clash is not pretty.

And yet. If he didn’t come home this summer, I would be back to where I was during the year. Yes, it was nice not oversee the “dailyness” of his life and the way he manages himself–but there are tradeoffs. Waking up in the morning and wondering if he had enough to eat for breakfast. (A little pathetic, I admit–but hey–it’s a mother’s prerogative to be pathetic at times.) Laying awake at night wondering if he was okay. Not for any reason in particular. Just having a sudden feeling of needing to know he’s okay. Sometimes I would lie there and think,”I’ll just text him really, really quick and check.” But if, like many other times, he doesn’t respond immediately, then what? Should I get in the car and just really, really quick go check on him? Just kidding. My husband would surely stop me.

But there’s all the good stuff too- he’s funny. Really funny. And fun to have around. And smart. And sweet to his little sisters, which melts my heart. And what would we do if we didn’t have baseball games to attend seven nights a week? Then what? I would miss him. Horribly. The day will come soon enough when he doesn’t come home for the summer. And I know I’ll be crying then, too. But right now, I’ve got to go run my errands. He needs the car at 1:00.

Blame it On the Rain

I am not a gardener. I don’t enjoy gardening and I don’t understand people who enjoy gardening. Sometimes I pretend to enjoy it because it seems like such a wholesome activity–like what kind of jerk wouldn’t like gardening? I really have nothing against it– I just don’t relate to the enjoyment of dirt and bugs and gross nature things you might find when you’re gardening. And as I like to say, “I like nature. I just don’t want it on me.”

Despite my self-proclaimed lack of a “green thumb”, every year we still spend a good chunk of change on flowers and plants for around the pool and yard. And every year, after they’re all potted and planted and looking brand new and alive, my husband looks at me and says, “Now you know these need water, right?” And as always, I look at him as if to say, “Duuuuhhhhh. Yes. I know they need water.” But we both walk away knowing the truth. I will water them. When I remember to. Just not every day. Or quite as often as they probably need it. I’m more of a life guard for plants–just when they’re all shriveled up and about to die of thirst, I suddenly remember to save them. And truthfully, when I see them in such poor shape, it’s not the beauty and life of the flowers, or the money invested that I’m thinking of–it’s my hubs. I see the dried out blooms and wilted and leaves and have a sudden jolt of “Noooooo! If he sees you like this he’ll think I wasn’t watering you and taking care of you! And then he’ll be right!” Sometimes this happens around 4:30 in the afternoon–meaning I have about one hour until he gets home to save these plants.  This is a lot of pressure and not a lot of time for resuscitation. I spend part of the time watering and part of the time begging for forgiveness. (Because supposedly they like to be talked to. What I’d really like to tell them is to perk up quickly if they know what’s good for them. I’m their meal ticket. Sort of. )

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s not that I don’t WANT nice looking flowers and plants. Of course I do. I just forget. I mean, we have 3 kids–and they’re all thriving and healthy, so it’s not like I’m not a nurturing person. On my mental list of things to do, watering the plants just seems to fall to the bottom. But this year- this year is different. My annual private pact to take better care of the flowers seems to be finally making a difference somehow.  I even have a tiny little vegetable garden. So far, so good. Everything is green. Everything is growing. Flowers are blooming . I suspect my husband thinks it has something to do with all the rain we’ve been getting, but the plants and I know the truth. And they’ve been threatened to keep quiet.

My Personal Memorial Day

unnamed-3Every year while the rest of the country is celebrating Memorial Day, our family is also celebrating my dad’s birthday. There’s a special irony to this because while I fully appreciate and honor what veterans have done for this country, my dad, though not a veteran,  is a hero to me, too.

The stories I could tell about my dad are really not that remarkable or dramatic to anyone but a daughter– but that’s okay. When you need your dad and he’s there–that’s all the hero you  need. Take the time we were skiing together, headed up the mountain on the chairlift and I somehow slipped off, literally hanging onto the edge of the seat, dangling above Gore Mountain.  Fast as a flash, my dad grabbed onto my wrists and held me there like it was nothing until we reached the top. I didn’t think anybody could be stronger than him!  Or how about the time I was running in a track meet, and wanting to beat the girl who was threatening my lead as we approached the finish line, I literally dove, head first. I heard the crowd gasp as I went down onto the asphalt, skinning my knees and elbows to shreds–and as I looked up, there was my dad, in his suit and tie  racing down to the track to rescue me.  (Just for the record, I won.) Or the sandbox he built for my 5th birthday. Or the Richard Scary dolls he helped my sister and I sew together.  The Girl Scout wood- working badge. The desk for my room. Learning to drive. Singing Thunder Road, or A Cat Named Jake and a Dog Named Kalamazoo. Boating. Camping. Coaching soccer.  Of course, these are but a few…because can anyone really number the gifts a dad gives?

And yet, there’s one gift my dad has given me that stands out among the rest: The gift of  Optimism. I like to say that I was born with a sunny disposition; a glass half- full kind of girl. And I was. But the truth is, I inherited a lot of it from my dad.  “The race does not always belong to the swift but to those who keep on running!” Oh Dad, we would groan! Or, “If you never had a bad day, how could you appreciate the good ones?” >insert eye roll here< Or here’s a good one: “The difficult we can do. The impossible take a little longer.” Sigh. You just couldn’t drag him down.

One of my favorite examples of this was the time he drove a couple of hours to pick up a part for my car. When he got there, it turned out it was the wrong part. All that driving for nothing. I felt horrible. But not Dad. “I’d never been to that town before”‘, was all he had to say.  “It was a nice drive.” No whining. No complaining. And that goes for the rest of his life too– he worked hard–at the office and at home. He frequently could be found in his workshop or under the hood of a car, doing all the things dads do. I was impressed. And impressioned. Was anyone smarter or greater than my dad? He gave me an outlook on life that I treasure, that I would need– that I would try to duplicate in my own life.

Now that I’m grown and a parent myself, I see some of Dad’s positive bravado in a different light–not that it’s not genuine–most of it is, I know.  But it’s a sacrifice. It’s a sacrifice to smile on the outside when the weight of your family is pressing on the inside. A mortgage payment. Job pressures. Kid problems. Real life, grown up problems. But you filter it all so that your kids can feel safe. Unfettered and unburdened with the cares of this world. So that kids can be kids–not afraid of life or hard times or bad days.  Because, as my dad likes to say, “If you have money in your pocket and speak the English language, you’ll be fine.”

Dad and I both know he wasn’t a perfect father. Because no one is. But I watch him with my kids now–the pride, the love, the adoration; The sparkle in his eyes as he watches all of us, actually. And I realize, though not a soldier in a war, still a hero in my eyes. Happy Birthday, Dad. And remember, “Old isn’t bad.”

Real Life. It’s Messy.

I like my house the way I like my life. Neat. Tidy. Picked up. No loose ends. All my ducks in a row. I can even tolerate a little dirt here and there as long as it LOOKS and feels like it’s all put together. When things start to pile up and kids start leaving stuff around and everything feels a little too helter skelter, I can feel my skin start to crawl. I have even been guilty of being a bit of a kill joy if I come home to a messy house. The atmosphere suddenly shifts because I want order. No matter what else is going on or supposed to be happening, I suddenly have one main focus: clean up the house. Regroup.

But lately, I’ve tried to be better about all this because here’s the truth: Real life is messy. Real, true, passionately lived life is a mess. It’s not neat. It’s not tidy. And it will probably never look like the magazines that showcase my home front dreams. (Which, by the way, where’s their stuff? When you look at those pictures, you know, where’s their STUFF??) I want to learn to be okay with all this because I’ve come to realize that that’s when my family and I are truly living. Muddy jeans and wet socks for the umpteenth time last week meant that kids were playing in the creek trying to catch fish and frogs instead of playing video games or watching T.V. The Barbie mecca, complete with in ground pool, that was constructed in the living room and left for several days was like a field of dreams for a little girl. Size 13 sneakers by the door, empty milk cartons and cereal boxes left on the counter, the T.V. stuck on Sports Center means our son is home from college. Last weekend, stuff was everywhere. Dirty dog prints on the hard wood floor. Dishes. Papers. Clothes. We were too busy to bother though–we were out and about DOING and LIVING. Would I really want it any other way? Just so it all looks and feels perfect? I want people to matter first. The house to matter second well, wherever it lands on the list.

But I’m not just talking about the house, really. I’m talking about life and relationships. Like most people, I’ve always wanted those to be neat and tidy too. But that’s just not realistic. Real life is messy. As people, we are constantly trying to battle for our identity; to be true to ourselves while trying to be true to the people we love. Sometimes we get it right, but lots of times we don’t. We hurt each other. Kids growing into their own have jagged and uneven edges. A marriage that is committed to last  no matter what, no matter how, is not always pretty. Raising a family will definitely stain your carpet with blood, sweat and tears and Lord knows what else. That’s another blog: the beauty of leather furniture–it’s washable.

While having this epiphany recently (I’m sure I was drinking a perfect cup of coffee from my Keurig–see! I think it even helps me think better!) my mental train of thought ended up comparing it all to child-birth.  Because really, childbirth is the literal analogy of bringing forth life. Talk about a mess. Holy Smokes. Talk about “stuff” being everywhere. (Sorry, guys, for that mental image– if you need a little brain bleach, the Mets are 22 and 25 right now.) Talk about the pain of battling it out–during the birth of my last child, as I neared the end of labor,  tears leaked from the corner of my eyes and I whispered to my husband, “I’m not gonna make it.”

But you know what? I did. And that’s life for you. It’s messy. It’s hard. It’s rarely perfect even when it looks like it is. But it’s washable. And fixable. And even when we think we’re not gonna make it, that we might not survive the mess, we do. And just like that baby, we wouldn’t give it back for the world.

Who is that Masked Woman?

I am a fussy sleeper. I wish this wasn’t true. It’s a pain. It’s a pain for me and a pain for my sweet husband, I’m sure. When we were first married, I sort of had a little motto: I’m up, you’re up– but I’ve gotten a little better about letting him have his sleep while I lay there bitterly. And unfortunately, my sleeping trouble has only gotten worse over the years. I like total silence.  If my husband is snoring  breathing heavy, I politely tap him and ask him to roll over. The spring peepers out my window make me want to shoot myself.  Crickets don’t lull me to sleep- they mock me. If a child needs me in the night, I’m out of bed before they’ve finished calling out.

I also need total darkness. The street light outside my bedroom window is too bright. The lit numbers on my alarm clock are too bright, as well–even set on dim. My husband doesn’t understand this. “Aren’t your eyes closed? How could that be bothering you?”  Really! They are! But after laying there for a while, I get bored. I’ve tried a lot of the tricks–Tylenol PM works. Sometimes. Melatonin, not so much. Sleeping pills are too scary–they have a “sleep forever” connotation in my mind, so they’re out. I count backwards from 500. I talk to Jesus. I’ve tried counting sheep, but my sheep have this crazy habit of jumping over the fence and then circling around to get back in line and it makes me dizzy. Ridiculous. Completely.  I know. But when it’s midnight and I start the countdown to how many hours left until the alarm goes off, my brain does crazy things.

And so in my despair, I finally found a pretty decent solution: The Sleep Mask. Actually, let me rephrase– because it’s really not that pretty. It feels absurd. I’m sure it looks absurd but my  husband is too nice to say anything negative. He encourages the sleep mask. I’m sure he is as desperate for me to sleep as I am. Almost. It’s black and in fancy pink writing it says ‘Do Not Disturb.’ And really, if I’m asleep, don’t. So I’ve taken to calling myself The Super Sleeper when I’m wearing it. You know, sort of like a Super Hero. Super Sleeper. And part of the Super Sleeper mystique is this–it’s never actually on me, or at least covering my eyes, when I wake up in the morning. I have found it around my neck, under my pillow, on the floor, on my head like a head band. If I’m finally asleep, what on earth is going on? Who knows what feats I’m capable of while wearing the Super Sleeper Mask? (Although I must admit, earlier in the week, the Super Sleeper forgot to assume the Tooth Fairy role, and so Super Husband had to step in…oops. I was sleeping.)

So, if you’re having trouble sleeping, I highly recommend trying the mask. I had a white one first, but it was still too bright. I suggest the black. Again, my hubs can’t understand how this could be since my eyes are closed. And he still has yet to solve the mystery  that somehow, when the mask is on, many times, I still keep talking. Huh. Must be Super Sleeper special powers.

How did she do it?

In my very first post, I introduced the name of my blog, “Truth is Stranger than Fiction”, and let me tell you,  I hit the blog material jackpot today. Really. Someone I know was very recently car-jacked. (That in and of itself is a bit of a phenomenon, isn’t it? ) Anyhow, her stolen car was consequently used in a bank robbery–which is also totally crazy. But here’s the part you could not make up– the bank robber was a 14- year- old girl. Yep. 14 years old. And all I could think when I heard this (after, of course, being appropriately horrified and sorry for my friend–who is okay, thank God), is that I really want to talk to this girl’s mother. But not for the reasons you might think. I try not to judge- really, I try. I mean, at the end of some very long days of motherhood, sometimes all you can say when your head hits that pillow is “well, no one’s in juvie. Or jail.”  I know– the craziness of the day when that’s my comfort is beyond pathetic– but be real- we’ve all been there.

So what I really want to ask her is this: How did you do it?  How did you raise a 14-year-old that is savvy and responsible enough to rob a bank? And apparently, this was not her first time, but her 4th time! That means 3 other times she didn’t get caught! I am as guilty as the next person for second-guessing my parenting skills– Am I  too hard or too soft? More rules, less freedom or more freedom less rules? Privileges, bed times, curfews, parties, sleepovers, sports, bad habits…I’ve struggled with the best of them.

It’s got to take A LOT of careful planning and a well-thought  out scheme to pull off a bank robbery, and I just want to pick her brain for some tips. Because here’s the thing: I have a child who is almost 20 and one who is almost 14– and let’s just say that neither of them, so far, appears to be “bank robber” material. Fabulous, loving, talented in many other ways, but hard to imagine them pulling off a gig like this one.  And #3 is still pretty underage as far as robbing a bank goes…but a mom can hold out hope, can’t she? (I have to be honest–it’s not very promising, so far, thanks in part to our fabulous Children’s Pastor at church. Sigh.)

Just this morning I reminded one of them that their retainer was sitting on the kitchen table. I sometimes have to ask if people have taken showers and used deodorant. I discover overdue library material. I find money, iPods, keys, ATM cards. Dishes are left on the table, chores are ‘forgotten’, the dog goes hungry >Insert Big Sigh Here< Where have I gone wrong? I mean, I’m not advocating or making light of a life of crime– but the poker face alone, required for such a task would likely disqualify my kids. One of them would have far too many sketchy facial expressions, nervous throat clearing and “umms”, while the other one would be on her knees praying for forgiveness while the money was still hot.

What’s a mom to do? So that’s all I want. Just a little insight and direction on how she managed to raise a 14-year-old who is able to carry out such a meticulous (and three times successful) plan. Of course I’ll have to navigate just how much I put to use.  I’ll  have to draw the line somewhere, I’m sure. After all, she does have someone in jail tonight and I, thankfully, do not.  So for today, I will cut my kids some slack. I must be doing  a few things right.

One small step for coffee…

My name is Julie and I love coffee. I have loved coffee for a long time. I
resist calling it an addiction because that would make it seem like a bad
thing. And it’s not. Coffee is a very happy part of my life. I take that
first sip in the morning (the first sip is the best) and I look at my day
and think, ‘I can do this.’
Several months ago I became enamored by the Keurig coffee maker. The
thought of a hot cup of coffee in under 60 seconds when I stumble down to
the kitchen in the morning was totally luxurious- no measuring coffee
and water, no messy grounds–and best of all, no waiting. And since they
haven’t yet created the coffee i.v. drip, this seems like a close second.

My husband, however, did not share my excitement. I probably don’t even
have to say here that clearly, he is not a coffee drinker. “You don’t
really need one of those” was his standard response every time I said I
wanted a Keurig. The nerve! Why would he NOT think I need one?? I would
bristle. I was sure I most certainly did need one. But, I would just
inwardly smirk and think, “Hhmph. I’m gonna get me one of those
sometime!”
One day not long ago, my day of poetic justice came. It was so gratifying
it couldn’t have gone better if I had planned it. My husband is part of a
re-enactment group and collects Revolutionary War era replicas of clothing
and primitive camping and war items. We happened to be chatting and he
said…Ready for this? “I’d really like to get a black powder rifle.” Come
again? Hello, trump card! A black powder rifle? As in a Revolutionary War era black powder rifle that costs ten times the price of a Keurig coffee
maker? My, my, my. How the tables have turned.
I could hardly contain myself. Steady. Steady now. Go slow. Don’t be
hasty. Your coffee dreams are hanging in the balance here. “Oh really
now. Would you? Huh. That’s interesting.” A smile was slowly spreading
across his face. I think he was on to me. “It seems to me,” I said as
sweetly as I could, “that you ‘need’ a black powder rifle” the same way I
‘need’ a Keurig.”
What could he really say? I have to admit I felt a teeny bit proud of
myself. Slam. Dunk. And what do you know? Happy Mother’s Day to me! I’m
now the proud owner of a Keurig coffee maker. It doesn’t matter that I
went out and bought it. It is every bit as dreamy as I knew it would be.
My husband seems just fine with it- happy, even. He must know Father’s Day
is coming.