Monday, November 20, 2006
Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One
Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One
Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.
My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.
My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.
Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.
“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.
With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.
The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.
Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.
This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.
Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.
My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.
My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.
Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.
“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.
With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.
The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.
Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.
This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel
Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel
As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.
My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.
"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.
The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.
"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.
"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.
"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.
"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.
"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.
"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"
We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.
"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."
"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"
Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.
"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."
The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.
"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.
"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"
"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.
"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"
"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.
"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.
"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"
Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."
In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.
All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.
"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.
"Good riddance," I replied.
Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.
We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."
As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.
My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.
"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.
The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.
"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.
"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.
"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.
"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.
"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.
"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"
We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.
"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."
"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"
Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.
"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."
The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.
"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.
"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"
"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.
"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"
"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.
"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.
"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"
Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."
In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.
All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.
"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.
"Good riddance," I replied.
Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.
We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."
Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life
Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life
Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.
One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.
Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.
Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.
Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.
Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.
There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"
Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.
So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.
Revel in the soundtrack of your life.
Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.
One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.
Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.
Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.
Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.
Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.
There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"
Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.
So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.
Revel in the soundtrack of your life.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Pinatas Make the Party
Pinatas Make the Party
If you have ever been to a toddler's birthday party, you know that some parents take leave of their senses when it comes to reasonable and appropriate celebrations. It was a piñata at my son Sam's third birthday that made us lose our minds.
I planned for weeks, compiled a lengthy invitation list and offered up ideas for entertainment to my husband Steven, a man who subscribes to the idea that cake and ice cream constitute a wild party.
"What about a magician?" I asked from behind a tri-fold brochure.
"A magician?" he replied. "Won't that scare those little kids?"
"No, of course not," I squealed. "They'll love it. How about renting a ball pit? It comes with no fewer than 50,000 balls!"
But he wasn't listening anymore. The dollar signs were distracting him.
Finally, after perusing dozens of marketing packets on how to dazzle wee ones on their special day, I settled on the magician, a Tigger cake, a dozen games with fabulous prizes and the ultimate party energizer, a piñata.
"Do we really need a piñata?" Steven asked. "Isn't the magician with the fake rabbit enough?"
But I wasn't listening anymore. The carnival supply ad with dozens of high-strung papier mache' animals had me at "Kids JUST LOVE a piñata!"
The big day arrived and we nearly killed ourselves arranging balloons, crepe paper streamers and food for half of Harrison County. As the guests arrived, Sam led each one out to the tree house in the backyard. The weather was warm for November. The sky sparkled blue and crisp, and a gentle breeze nudged the remaining pecan tree leaves. Boys and girls raced around the yard, avoiding full frontal lick attacks from the dog and taking turns on the swing. Everything was as it should be for a birthday boy. But then his mom got involved.
"Hey, everyone, do you want to see some magic tricks? The magician is here!"
They stopped their outdoor revelry to look at me like I had announced liver and onions refreshments.
"No! We no go see magic!" declared Sam. "We wike it out heah!"
"But the magic is great! You'll love it! And I got him for $50 off!"
Reluctantly, the gang ventured indoors, smelling of baby sweat and fresh air. The magician greeted them with a booming voice and immediately sent half the audience to their mother's laps. From there, it was downhill all the way.
The music the magician played indicated he was still in Halloween mode. It was creepy and made the kids squirm. His tricks were lackluster at best, and one kid made it his duty to reveal the true nature of each one.
"Hey, that came from up your sleeve! And that's not a real rabbit! That came from Wal-Mart!"
Thankfully, we had the piñata.
"OK, kids, one at a time. Put on the blindfold and try to hit the donkey as hard as you can with this stick. You get three whacks!" Somehow, the violent nature of this activity didn't occur to me when I read the flashy ad.
"I can't see!" the first kid screamed. She turned 180 degrees and knocked her dad squarely in the shins.
Each child took his or her turn. No one hit the donkey.
"OK, let's try it without the blindfold, and you keep swinging until you hit the donkey!"
It was like striking a dangling tombstone. The donkey smiled, unaffected.
After countless rounds, the crowd on our sun porch dwindled to a bunch of frustrated parents who wanted their own shot at the donkey. The kids ran crazily around the yard, glad to be free of the torture chamber. Steven released the donkey from his tether and took it outside to the patio. He unleashed a furious assault that brought applause from the adults. The donkey, no longer smiling, lay ruptured and hemorrhaging lollipops and bubble gum on the bricks.
And strangely enough, he agreed with me.
"You know, Kris?" he said, grinning. "This piñata turned out to be a good idea, after all."
If you have ever been to a toddler's birthday party, you know that some parents take leave of their senses when it comes to reasonable and appropriate celebrations. It was a piñata at my son Sam's third birthday that made us lose our minds.
I planned for weeks, compiled a lengthy invitation list and offered up ideas for entertainment to my husband Steven, a man who subscribes to the idea that cake and ice cream constitute a wild party.
"What about a magician?" I asked from behind a tri-fold brochure.
"A magician?" he replied. "Won't that scare those little kids?"
"No, of course not," I squealed. "They'll love it. How about renting a ball pit? It comes with no fewer than 50,000 balls!"
But he wasn't listening anymore. The dollar signs were distracting him.
Finally, after perusing dozens of marketing packets on how to dazzle wee ones on their special day, I settled on the magician, a Tigger cake, a dozen games with fabulous prizes and the ultimate party energizer, a piñata.
"Do we really need a piñata?" Steven asked. "Isn't the magician with the fake rabbit enough?"
But I wasn't listening anymore. The carnival supply ad with dozens of high-strung papier mache' animals had me at "Kids JUST LOVE a piñata!"
The big day arrived and we nearly killed ourselves arranging balloons, crepe paper streamers and food for half of Harrison County. As the guests arrived, Sam led each one out to the tree house in the backyard. The weather was warm for November. The sky sparkled blue and crisp, and a gentle breeze nudged the remaining pecan tree leaves. Boys and girls raced around the yard, avoiding full frontal lick attacks from the dog and taking turns on the swing. Everything was as it should be for a birthday boy. But then his mom got involved.
"Hey, everyone, do you want to see some magic tricks? The magician is here!"
They stopped their outdoor revelry to look at me like I had announced liver and onions refreshments.
"No! We no go see magic!" declared Sam. "We wike it out heah!"
"But the magic is great! You'll love it! And I got him for $50 off!"
Reluctantly, the gang ventured indoors, smelling of baby sweat and fresh air. The magician greeted them with a booming voice and immediately sent half the audience to their mother's laps. From there, it was downhill all the way.
The music the magician played indicated he was still in Halloween mode. It was creepy and made the kids squirm. His tricks were lackluster at best, and one kid made it his duty to reveal the true nature of each one.
"Hey, that came from up your sleeve! And that's not a real rabbit! That came from Wal-Mart!"
Thankfully, we had the piñata.
"OK, kids, one at a time. Put on the blindfold and try to hit the donkey as hard as you can with this stick. You get three whacks!" Somehow, the violent nature of this activity didn't occur to me when I read the flashy ad.
"I can't see!" the first kid screamed. She turned 180 degrees and knocked her dad squarely in the shins.
Each child took his or her turn. No one hit the donkey.
"OK, let's try it without the blindfold, and you keep swinging until you hit the donkey!"
It was like striking a dangling tombstone. The donkey smiled, unaffected.
After countless rounds, the crowd on our sun porch dwindled to a bunch of frustrated parents who wanted their own shot at the donkey. The kids ran crazily around the yard, glad to be free of the torture chamber. Steven released the donkey from his tether and took it outside to the patio. He unleashed a furious assault that brought applause from the adults. The donkey, no longer smiling, lay ruptured and hemorrhaging lollipops and bubble gum on the bricks.
And strangely enough, he agreed with me.
"You know, Kris?" he said, grinning. "This piñata turned out to be a good idea, after all."
Friday, October 13, 2006
Lessons for My Son
Lessons for My Son
Sometimes, he escapes me, the boy who has grown taller than I, fourteen years old and full of his own ideas of how the world should turn. He asks hard questions, not just matters of math and literature, but confounding inquiries like, “Just what have you ever taught me?” I struggled with that one, tossed to me as we waited in line at the grocery.
What, indeed, have I taught him?
My first response was sarcasm, a lame and useless retort about how I had obviously taught him nothing. It felt raw and full of hurt, not what I really wanted to say. Having reflected on it, though, I think I have a better answer. I think that sharing it here might somehow remind all of us what moms do teach their children.
I taught you when you were very small to love and learn from the dog. Your first dog, Winnie, groomed you well in matters of loyalty, laughter and appreciating the great outdoors. She and I both taught you that dog food is just for dogs.
I taught you, as has your dad, to love willingly and fully, to show compassion for others and that kindness is, more often than not, reciprocated. I taught you that cartoons are worth every minute you spend laughing at them and that the philosophy of Calvin and Hobbes should rank right up there with Aristotle and the Dalai Lama. I taught you that a sense of humor, whether silly or dry, could be both your most effective weapon and your greatest defense.
I taught you that humility rewards us with character and grace, and that our faith is what sustains us. I taught you that anger is a drain on your energy and depletes your desire to form truly spectacular and lasting relationships. I taught you that regrets are those things we wish we had done, but didn’t. I taught you to try to have no regrets.
When you were just starting school, I taught you about seeing the big picture, that it is not the end of the world to land a bad grade. Making mistakes is what life is really all about, but it is our duty to try not to repeat them. I taught you that mom and dad won’t, can’t and shouldn’t teach you everything. That is not our job. I taught you that everyone, even old mom, knows a few things that warrant your understanding. Along with your dad, I taught you that being a good listener is the first step to learning anything.
If you recall, I was the one who taught you to sing your first songs and write your first rhyme. Remember Bimbo? I taught you that not everyone is an artist, and that stick figures are woefully underrated. I taught you how to bake cookies and that women love a man who is comfortable in the kitchen, especially one who knows how to load the dishwasher and mop the floor.
What have I ever taught you, child of mine? I have taught you that you should never stop learning, no matter how tired or old or sick you get. I have taught you that even when you pour your heart into something, it doesn’t guarantee success or just rewards. It does help prevent those nasty regrets, though. I have taught you, or am trying to do so, that “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” can work better than WD-40 and duct tape at fixing things.
I know that when you and your sister have seen me for years as part of the furniture, a writer mom whose greatest joys arrived 12 and 14 years ago, it is difficult for a boy your age to remember that I graduated college and worked for many years at things that even you would find complicated and technical, challenging and important.
One day, your son or daughter will ask, “Just what did you ever teach me?” And if I have taught you as I think I have, in partnership with your dad, you will be able to answer as I have, with absolutely no regrets.
Sometimes, he escapes me, the boy who has grown taller than I, fourteen years old and full of his own ideas of how the world should turn. He asks hard questions, not just matters of math and literature, but confounding inquiries like, “Just what have you ever taught me?” I struggled with that one, tossed to me as we waited in line at the grocery.
What, indeed, have I taught him?
My first response was sarcasm, a lame and useless retort about how I had obviously taught him nothing. It felt raw and full of hurt, not what I really wanted to say. Having reflected on it, though, I think I have a better answer. I think that sharing it here might somehow remind all of us what moms do teach their children.
I taught you when you were very small to love and learn from the dog. Your first dog, Winnie, groomed you well in matters of loyalty, laughter and appreciating the great outdoors. She and I both taught you that dog food is just for dogs.
I taught you, as has your dad, to love willingly and fully, to show compassion for others and that kindness is, more often than not, reciprocated. I taught you that cartoons are worth every minute you spend laughing at them and that the philosophy of Calvin and Hobbes should rank right up there with Aristotle and the Dalai Lama. I taught you that a sense of humor, whether silly or dry, could be both your most effective weapon and your greatest defense.
I taught you that humility rewards us with character and grace, and that our faith is what sustains us. I taught you that anger is a drain on your energy and depletes your desire to form truly spectacular and lasting relationships. I taught you that regrets are those things we wish we had done, but didn’t. I taught you to try to have no regrets.
When you were just starting school, I taught you about seeing the big picture, that it is not the end of the world to land a bad grade. Making mistakes is what life is really all about, but it is our duty to try not to repeat them. I taught you that mom and dad won’t, can’t and shouldn’t teach you everything. That is not our job. I taught you that everyone, even old mom, knows a few things that warrant your understanding. Along with your dad, I taught you that being a good listener is the first step to learning anything.
If you recall, I was the one who taught you to sing your first songs and write your first rhyme. Remember Bimbo? I taught you that not everyone is an artist, and that stick figures are woefully underrated. I taught you how to bake cookies and that women love a man who is comfortable in the kitchen, especially one who knows how to load the dishwasher and mop the floor.
What have I ever taught you, child of mine? I have taught you that you should never stop learning, no matter how tired or old or sick you get. I have taught you that even when you pour your heart into something, it doesn’t guarantee success or just rewards. It does help prevent those nasty regrets, though. I have taught you, or am trying to do so, that “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” can work better than WD-40 and duct tape at fixing things.
I know that when you and your sister have seen me for years as part of the furniture, a writer mom whose greatest joys arrived 12 and 14 years ago, it is difficult for a boy your age to remember that I graduated college and worked for many years at things that even you would find complicated and technical, challenging and important.
One day, your son or daughter will ask, “Just what did you ever teach me?” And if I have taught you as I think I have, in partnership with your dad, you will be able to answer as I have, with absolutely no regrets.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South
Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South
My mom and I were on the way to Houston when an 18-wheeler deposited the wiry remains of a shredded tire on the interstate, and I ran over it. Minutes later, a sickening moan issued from the front end of our van, and I hobbled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder. My left front tire was in shreds. The right one was hissing. And so I called our insurance office.
"I am sitting on I-12 headed west toward Baton Rouge, (La.)" I said. "I hit tire debris from a truck. My left front tire is in shreds. Can you help us?"
The voice on the other end verified we in fact did have roadside service.
"What do you want me to do? "Do you want to be towed? Do you have a spare?" she said.
"Yes, I have a spare," I answered. "Can they just bring a tire and change it out?"
"Well, I have no idea if they can do that or not," she said. I waited for instructions, but the voice seemed a little bothered by my questions.
"If they can bring a tire and change it, I guess that's what I need," I surmised. She said she'd check, while my mom and I hunkered down beside three streams of high-speed surge, bobbing in the draft of countless 18-wheelers. Finally, she called with the news.
"The first guy I spoke with said he doesn't do that at all," she said.
"Do what?" I asked.
"He said he can come out and put on a spare, but he can't bring a tire. Besides, your roadside coverage doesn't pay for that," she said to idiot me. "We can have you towed. Do you want to be towed?"
I considered my options. It was 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. We needed to get to Houston - six more hours.
"Just call a wrecker," I said.
"Well, I will have to know exactly where you are," she said.
I am geographically and directionally challenged. It was only by the grace of God that I knew where we were.
"I saw a highway sign about five miles ago that said 'Baton Rouge, 11 miles,' " I said. "So, I'm just east of Baton Rouge."
She hung up, called back.
"The man I talked to said you must be west of Baton Rouge, not east," the gal said.
"No, I'm headed west," I said. "I'm headed to Houston. I haven't got to Baton Rouge yet. That has to mean I am east of Baton Rouge."
"Well, you don't have to yell at me," the woman yelled. "I'm trying to help you, but yelling at me won't help."
I looked at my mom. She checked our bearings, confirming we were headed due west. Neither she nor I had raised our voice.
"I am sitting on Interstate 12, about six miles east of Baton Rouge, headed west," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "If you can direct a wrecker here, that's what we need. If not, please just give me the number of one. I will call them myself." I knew where I was, knew I wasn't yelling, and I had Mom to back me up.
The wrecker had no difficulty finding us. From that point on, we spent an hour or so at the Firestone of Denham Springs, La., where manager Brad Smith demonstrated the true meaning of customer service. He and his team stayed well after hours, replacing all four tires on my van and reassuring two decidedly nerve-wracked women that the ride from there on out should be fine.
As for yelling at the insurance clerk, I did no such thing, although I feel I had a right. My husband and kids say they know that voice - the one that says I mean business. It is the one I will use to politely but firmly cancel our policy with this insurance company since their customer service has obviously headed due south.
My mom and I were on the way to Houston when an 18-wheeler deposited the wiry remains of a shredded tire on the interstate, and I ran over it. Minutes later, a sickening moan issued from the front end of our van, and I hobbled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder. My left front tire was in shreds. The right one was hissing. And so I called our insurance office.
"I am sitting on I-12 headed west toward Baton Rouge, (La.)" I said. "I hit tire debris from a truck. My left front tire is in shreds. Can you help us?"
The voice on the other end verified we in fact did have roadside service.
"What do you want me to do? "Do you want to be towed? Do you have a spare?" she said.
"Yes, I have a spare," I answered. "Can they just bring a tire and change it out?"
"Well, I have no idea if they can do that or not," she said. I waited for instructions, but the voice seemed a little bothered by my questions.
"If they can bring a tire and change it, I guess that's what I need," I surmised. She said she'd check, while my mom and I hunkered down beside three streams of high-speed surge, bobbing in the draft of countless 18-wheelers. Finally, she called with the news.
"The first guy I spoke with said he doesn't do that at all," she said.
"Do what?" I asked.
"He said he can come out and put on a spare, but he can't bring a tire. Besides, your roadside coverage doesn't pay for that," she said to idiot me. "We can have you towed. Do you want to be towed?"
I considered my options. It was 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. We needed to get to Houston - six more hours.
"Just call a wrecker," I said.
"Well, I will have to know exactly where you are," she said.
I am geographically and directionally challenged. It was only by the grace of God that I knew where we were.
"I saw a highway sign about five miles ago that said 'Baton Rouge, 11 miles,' " I said. "So, I'm just east of Baton Rouge."
She hung up, called back.
"The man I talked to said you must be west of Baton Rouge, not east," the gal said.
"No, I'm headed west," I said. "I'm headed to Houston. I haven't got to Baton Rouge yet. That has to mean I am east of Baton Rouge."
"Well, you don't have to yell at me," the woman yelled. "I'm trying to help you, but yelling at me won't help."
I looked at my mom. She checked our bearings, confirming we were headed due west. Neither she nor I had raised our voice.
"I am sitting on Interstate 12, about six miles east of Baton Rouge, headed west," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "If you can direct a wrecker here, that's what we need. If not, please just give me the number of one. I will call them myself." I knew where I was, knew I wasn't yelling, and I had Mom to back me up.
The wrecker had no difficulty finding us. From that point on, we spent an hour or so at the Firestone of Denham Springs, La., where manager Brad Smith demonstrated the true meaning of customer service. He and his team stayed well after hours, replacing all four tires on my van and reassuring two decidedly nerve-wracked women that the ride from there on out should be fine.
As for yelling at the insurance clerk, I did no such thing, although I feel I had a right. My husband and kids say they know that voice - the one that says I mean business. It is the one I will use to politely but firmly cancel our policy with this insurance company since their customer service has obviously headed due south.
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