Random Thoughts

Losing My Cookies

This time last year, I swore I would never again spend hours in the kitchen — time I will never get back — baking cookies. But I found myself doing it this week  Why?  Because.

Because I feel like if I don’t give I should not receive!

I know!  I‘ve been told I need to get over it. I know this is the season of giving, and if someone wants to give to me, then damn it, I should let them give. But we've all experienced that awkwardness, that moment you sincerely thank the gift giver while simultaneously beating yourself up for not having foreseen and prepared for this moment.

So once I again, I returned to the kitchen to spend the last several nights adorned in flour or batter, keeping the Christmas cookie mill moving like a well-oiled machine.  Could my counter be any more full of clutter?  I've got two flours, three types of sugar, baking powder and baking soda (I still don’t know the difference), chips, dyes, extracts, pans, spoons, scrappers, a rolling pin and a bottle of red.  Wine, that is.  The only thing that helps me get through this.

The night before last, after my first batch of chocolate chip cookies was completed, rather than feeling accomplishment I felt slight disgust with my progress. I only filled one large cookie tin! This project was going to take hours! Days!

Not only was this taking longer than I would have predicted, but my family was not helping me in my mission to produce dozens of cookies for the inevitable exchanges. A short time into the baking, my two kids and hubby became interested in what was happening in the kitchen. Must have been the unusual cookie scents wafting through the house that got their attention.

Suddenly it became a game to them to poach spoonfuls of batter every time I turned my back. My warnings did nothing to slow them down. They ducked wooden spoons hurled at them and laughed off my threats to hurt someone.  The hubby thought he was adorable as he made off with a hijacked handful of fresh baked cookies. You'd think someone might pitch in to help. But no. They felt no shame in adding to my time served here, toiling to get my cookie numbers up.

So I doubled the recipe for the next batch. Focused only on my cookie count, I thought I was being slick. But when I added in all the dry ingredients and turned on the mixer, I realized  there was nothing sly about it. Unable to accommodate this larger volume, the flour mixture powdered the immediate area in a sudden explosion. Now I was a frustrated cookie baker that resembled a snow woman!

Things only got worse when in my impatient state I made no adjustments, but continued beating. Once the flour combined with the wet ingredients, the mixer began to arbitrarily flick batter into the air.  To where?  I’ll find it! Eventually.  When I go to use that coffee mug sitting in the corner, for example, now caked with dried cookie dough.  I wore some too.  But surprisingly, no one in the house was trying to get at me with a spoon.

A fresh glass of wine? Don't mind if I do!

Sometime in the midst of baking my third or fourth dozen, I made the tragic error of leaving the kitchen for a bathroom break and to throw on a load of clothes. Of course, having left the room I was feeling enslaved in, I got distracted (the wine didn’t help).  When it hit me that I hadn’t heard the timer, I dropped the TV remote to sprint through the house to the kitchen. No surprise that I ran into a cookie thief taking advantage of my absence.

With potholders in hand, I made my plea to the oven:  Please, PLEASE let them be spared!  I couldn’t bear to be set back!  I pulled open the oven door to assess the forgotten batch, with a glimpse over my shoulder at the time.  Ten minutes late coming out, and yep, my two trays of cookies were toast.  Forty-eight cookies, all charred, all inedible.  I scraped off the cookie carcasses, took ten minutes to clean the pans and started over.  With a fresh glass of vino.

Mulligan!

Last night, my final night of this gig, I dusted off the cookie cutters  (it's an expression - relax!) to make Christmas-y sugar cookies.  Whatever.  This time, wine first, then batter.  When it came time to press the cookies, I ditched the angel cutter. Not in the mood to bake celestial-being cookies. But I was feeling it with the gingerbread men. Until I realized I had made another error. I was about to add a tray of newly baked Christmas trees and stockings to the cooling rack when I noticed that all of my gingerbread dudes had taken the shape of the rack. As they cooled, their body parts sank into the rack spaces!

I could have chucked the whole project all at this point. But I didn’t. Instead I picked up a warped man and ate him. One less ugly cookie. I dumped the others in the tin reserved for my family. Don't judge. I'm not enduring this domestic form of torture for them. I will gladly cook for them, but bake? Not happening.  Misfit cookies for them. Back to the drawing board for me.

Last year, I was an equally large baking fool. For two weeks, I was dedicated to my mission. I beat dough, rolled it, cut it, baked it, cleaned up and then tried, unsuccessfully, to hide cookies from my family.  And for what?  To receive what I gave?  (And here, I have to say it’s amazing how so many people can make ONE chocolate chip recipe so differently!) When will I learn?

Next year will be different, I swear! I will approach this differently.

My good friend has the right idea.  She is capable of accepting, without guilt, a cookie tin or gift bag from a neighbor without giving something back in return.

And when she bakes, it involves a cookie roll and a knife. Wine is always optional.

Random Thoughts

A Recipe for a Good Day

This workweek couldn't be over soon enough. In the chaos of each day this short week, I keep my eye on the prize -- a four-day weekend! I knew at the end, I would get to return home to start making the feast.

Now some would say that finding joy in cooking sounds a bit twisted. You might wonder why anyone would subject themselves, willingly, to hours of stuffing, peeling, grating, dicing, mixing, basting? You get the picture. Aren't the more evolved hosts picking their meal up from Raley's?

It's hard to explain how creating a dish from scratch, even one I've made a hundred times over, is comforting. Maybe it's because I'm sure of what I'll get at the finish for the effort. I also know for the time in, we'll have leftovers for days that will warm the body and the heart. Comfort food at its best.

Today as I prepare my bird, I'm enjoying the solitude while the family slumbers and the beginning of the day at my leisure. Only the dogs have padded into the kitchen to watch me wash my bird while the onions are sauteing. I don't mind being up at the crack of dawn for this task, since I don't have to do it, I choose to do it. A hot mug of coffee is my reward as I work.

I relish in each task, get a little lost in the repetition. The routine soothes me. My hands know how to carry out each task so well, that I can allow my mind to drift off. Allowing me to reflect. To remember past holidays, gatherings, phone calls, conversations. Those special memories I like to revisit.

Then there are the new memories I'll hope to make, if I can just convince the kids to join me. And not to get the cooking done faster, but to have them with me. When my son or daughter can be coaxed to help chop the salad fixings or stir the pudding for pie, I'm secretly ecstatic. The phones get put aside and the outside distractions are temporarily forgotten. And we share a piece of the day together, working side by side, talking, laughing, singing.

Of course, I'm reminded of time spent in the kitchen with my Mom. Which triggers memories of moments in the kitchen with my grandmothers. My aunts and my cousins. As much as I loathed KP at the close of each holiday feast, I have to confess I wish with all my heart we could do it again, all of us, one more time, impossible as it is since time has taken some of our family members from us. The time spent teasing and yelling over each other as we worked is priceless.

Funny how a chore can be turned into something treasured when you share it with people you love. That can be said for a meal or anything shared, for that matter. I guess it's being present in the moment and appreciating the company of those who matter so much.

While the sink is filling up with peelings and soiled dishes, and the scent of turkey begins to waft through the house, I'm happy to have the time to reflect on what has been, and I look forward to what will be.

Land of the Free

My daughter and I went on the road again, the final "away" tournament with her travel softball team. This time, we were headed north to Redding, right on the heels of last weekend's San Diego trip. As I closed the trunk of our car, ready to hit the road, strangely my thoughts were not about the events that lay immediately ahead of us. I was acknowledging how lucky we are to be women in this country.

I should have been wound up at the thought of leaving on a long drive with my favorite girl and a collection of good music. We could join our the team anytime that night, which meant we could stop when we wanted, where we wanted along the way for a meal or whatever. Nothing but a stretch of time and highway in front of us.

Maybe it was that slight feeling of liberation from the daily grind that made me pause. I stopped for a brief second to recognize that unlike women in other places of the world, I was free to do what I pleased. In that moment and in others throughout the weekend, instead of taking my personal liberty for granted, I appreciated my good fortune.

I think it was the goodbyes that did it. I had to wonder. If we weren't living right here, in this time, would my husband so nonchalantly send off his only daughter and wife with a kiss? Would I be allowed to back our family car out of the driveway to the open roads for two days?

In other places of the world, this simple act would not be possible for a multitude of women. In too many countries, especially south and east of us, women are devalued and abused simply because of their gender. These women can only imagine what it would be like to enjoy the rights we consider basic, such as feeling respected and safe in our own homes.

Had I lived in Yemen today, I would have had to ask my husband for permission to leave the house.

Had I lived in Saudi Arabia, I would no have a driver's license, because they're not granted to women, even the highly educated.

If I had lived in Afghanistan, I may not be alive. There's a good chance I wouldn't have survived childbirth, since the c-sections that saved my babies, and me, here, may not have been allowed or attempted there. The majority of the population doesn't have the money, means or time to get to a hospital, or believe in medical professionals. In the poorest rural areas, most husbands prefer to pray through the birthing process, and because being pregnant is proof they've had sex with their husbands, the more conservative mothers choice to hide in the privacy of their homes.

In many of the same countries where education is a right offered to women, rape is the number one crime against women. Imagine having to choose between getting an education or remaining safely at home, since leaving the house might mean exposing yourself to rape and/or kidnapping. 

Equally disturbing is the violence some women face in their own homes. They may be subjected to genital mutilation or forced into early-aged marriage. For a simple display of independence or non-compliance, the punishment may be severe. For example, if a woman refuses to cover her hair, wait on male family members, dresses “too western,” or seeks a divorce, depending on the culture, she may be restricted, shunned or murdered. Honor killings are not viewed as murder but a means to restore honor to the family. Even worse is these killings are usually barbaric and involve other family members, such as a mother or cousin holding down the offending female while she is strangled, set afire or stabbed.  

Back home, our tournament weekend ended on such a high note, with the championship taken cleanly away from the second seeded team. And I had the pleasure of hanging with my daughter, of being startled awake by her sleep talk, of splitting Monsters with her and sharing the driving. I felt so fortunate to enjoy these simple pleasures. 

To those I can add a list of personal rights I enjoy every day, like the right to health care, to work and earn money, and do so safely. It's hard enough to imagine a time when these rights weren't in place for American women, but it seems ludicrous that today, in this year, these rights are not universal.

The explanation for our good fortune is simply that we were born in the right place at the right time. Only dumb luck separates us from the oppression felt elsewhere in the world.

Because of our U.S. address, we could travel this weekend without a male escort, with money I earned, in a vehicle registered to me. Allowed to check into a hotel with my own ID, and not questioned because I arrived without a male guardian. I was able to safely stop for gas miles from home without being detained, threatened or sexually assaulted because of my gender. And upon my return home, I was not beaten by my husband for having left him and my son to fend for themselves.

So today, just following Veteran's Day, I can't help but feel enormous gratitude to all who have dedicated themselves to the service of our country. For making our homeland a place of hope and abundant freedom, and for protecting our rights as Americans and human beings. I'm so proud and humbled to be living in a country where human life is valued. There are those who may make a case that we don't truly live in the land of the free, but if this is as close to freedom as we get, I'll take it.

The Podium

Dedicated to petrified souls everywhere. You know who you are.


Heart pounding, palms sweating
Why is it so hot?
Is the audience staring
Or Intently watching?
I'm uncomfortably on the spot

Wrong slide, wrong line
Right idea to be afraid
Faking my way
Through a part
I never wanted to play

I scan the room for a friendly face
But stony features reveal nothing
I picture them there
In their underwear - STOP
Now I find myself blushing

The pressure grips me
My terror trips me
Pretty certain I'm coming off manic
Can't hold on to my confidence
And I can't shake off the panic

They assured me
I could do this
Get through my part without fail
But in this state I only hear white noise
Why didn't I think to bail?

I could jumble words, bumble them
Or lose my  place
The list of how I might err is long
Even if I get my lines just right
A clever question can turn it wrong

Wait, I'm turning the final page
And at long last
Regain my breath
Yes, this fear is of my making
No less frightening than death

It's almost time
To quit the stage
With my ineptness still concealed
I impart my final thoughts to the room
As an expert in my field

'Til next time around
My relief abounds
Ecstatic to be through it!
But six months from now--
What awful luck --
I'll be back here again to redo it!

RJ 10/2014

I don't write poetry, or at least I haven't since I was a kid. This sentiment materialized when I sat down to make fun of myself for feeling angst over a presentation I was expected to give this week. I wasn't alone. Many others I work with had to put on a brave face and push through it. 

For some it was a pleasure to have the floor, to shine, but I'm pretty sure they are the exceptional few. The majority loathed the looming date of their presentation. I heard chatter about their preparation (inside and outside of their heads), loss of sleep, outright  dread and pure fear over all the things that could go wrong in the minutes they stood in front of their audience of 30 plus. I probably fall somewhere in the middle, but I certainly don't discount the full-on horror some feel for public speaking.

Despite the ghastliness of it all, I'm happy to report everyone survived. What doesn't kill us...

Apart

Yesterday I glimpsed a moment from my future.  

My daughter and her team had just lost the semi-final game of their softball tournament, and before we started out for the one-hour drive home, she and I stopped for a cold drink. I had to smile as her 5-foot-1-inch frame disappeared through the doors of the convenience store, sweaty and covered with dirt from a stolen base.

While I waited for her I killed time reading texts, checking voicemail, previewing the weather, cleaning out my bag.  Still no Sam. I watched as three people exited, feeling disappointment each time I didn’t see her. I was anxious to get on the road. And then it hit me.

My daughter and I are on the cusp of something completely foreign to us and to what we know as a family. 

For just shy of eighteen years, any separation we’ve experienced has not been for more than a couple of days. And when we are apart, she is a stone’s throw away. Any long distance trips we have made by car or plane have been together, and now more so in this moment that any other, I was grateful for never having to learn to deal with true separation.

But the reality of the future came crashing in on me as I pictured where we might be in just a few months, post graduation. Perched upright now in the driver’s seat, eyes peeled on the front door, I played a game with myself.  I pretended I hadn’t seen her for weeks. I imagined a variety of scenarios that could likely happen in the next chapter of our lives.  Most painful, I envisioned she was returning for a visit from college or coming home from boot camp, and I was waiting for her to walk through those doors to come home to me.  The idea of either scenario thrilled me as I simultaneously broke into a cold sweat.

The thought that someday this was what the future held for me, for us, took my breath away. It’s inevitability causes my heart to ache with its bitter-sweetness. The sweet being her future, wide open and loaded with possibilities.  Knowing who she is and what she’s capable of feeds my prediction that good things are about to happen for her. But the bitter is knowing that our time together, as we know it as mother and child, is almost at its end.

When I saw her finally come through those glass doors with her drink, I felt it. I practiced feeling what I will feel to see her after an absence for the rest of my life once she leaves me. When her need for me in my current role comes to its natural end and becomes something else. I practiced seeing her as if she were returning to me, and in this fantasy I conjured, the mere sight of her filled my heart to the bursting point with such intense love and lightness.

I wonder how I will not come apart when we’re apart?  Apart. What an ugly word.

But I didn’t want to dwell on that thought, so I chastised myself with a swift reminder that I gave birth to her to give her life, a future. I raised her to go out into the world, to be happy and successful.  Or at least I hope I have.

And the inevitable hasn’t happened yet. I have time to enjoy her almost constant company a little longer. She probably doesn’t think so, but I still have so many things to teach her.

I have months with her until she leaves me, or doesn’t after all. The date of our separation will be determined when her plans are set. And when it’s needed, I’ll help her cope with the goodbyes.

I know about goodbyes.  Sixteen years ago this very week, my husband and I packed up our belongings and daughter for a new start, the second time I left home for new adventures.  And my entire family and I now experience being truly apart. Twenty-three hundred miles across the country may as well be twenty-three million.  It’s meant learning to stay connected despite distance and appreciating every precious moment we do have together.

My daughter’s day to pack may be sooner than I’d like to acknowledge. But with a little luck and a lot of love, we’ll never feel apart, but “a part” of each others lives. Always.

Back to School Blues

The title of this article caught my eye When 'Super Mom' is super sad: Pressures haunt new parents, because I have been feeling like a poor imitation of a parent this week. Super-mom is not a title I’ve ever earned, but then again, I’ve never really aspired to be anything other than a good mom, which is lofty in itself.

School has been back in session for only four days, and I’m feeling defeated. And may I say, THANK YOU Facebook (and you too other social media that I refuse to participate in for now, ‘cause I know it’s more of the same), for never failing to make me feel inadequate.  Most recently, is the back to school debacle.  How have I failed thee?  Let me count the ways:

TAKING BACK TO SCHOOL PICS – I have none!  I took time off work to drop the kids off at school, and have nothing to show for it.  Isn’t that the point of being present?  To get the shot?  Where is my picture, my proof that my kids went back to school.  For my daughter the senior, I’m pretty sure she could care less and took care of it herself with a selfie.  But my son’s first day as a Freshman is undocumented!  I was so in the moment, so excited for him, with him, that I forgot to take the friggin picture!  Now by NOT posting on FB, I raise only questions:  Haven’t her kids gone back yet? Or (condescendingly) did she forget to capture this momentous event, one that will never be repeated? Fail.

PICKING UP SCHOOL SUPPLIES – Did we take care of it all?  I’ve asked, I’ve waited for notes, for lists, but besides a panicked request from my son to shop at 9:00 pm the day before he needed a variety of highlighters for first period, I just don’t know.  I’ve asked my girl when she needs to have her medical stuff updated for her internship at the hospital, and I get answers like Whenever or Soon. You know “whenever” will turn into “today” when she gets a good reason to get it done. I feel like a goalie, suited up, in ready stance, tensed for action, anxious for the moment the ball comes my way.  How long will I have to stay in this position, I just don’t know. I’m ready, people. Give me your demands now!  By the way, how do two stores sell out of college width ruled paper?  The second must-have, and I couldn’t deliver.  Fail.

CONNECTING TO THE  PARENT PORTAL – I did manage that for both kids in the end, but the time it took to attempt to connect one of the accounts remotely I’ll never get back.  There I was in Chicago, on-line, plugging in access codes and passwords I got from a live person at the school, and nothing worked!  I tried different combinations, different ways of entry. It wasn’t working. Not my password, not my son’s. When I promised him I was trying, I just got the look that said, Mom, you poor, digitally-challenged individual. You must be doing something wrong. Days later, when we got home, I verified the info. With no change to the process or the passwords, would you believe it worked for me?  It worked!  I should have celebrated.  But I was so pissed that it hadn't worked and I wasted so much time trying, I threw a fit. Mom is definitely menopausal.  Fail.

SIGNING AGREEMENTS TO WORK COLLABORATIVELY – What?  I’ve had to sign two agreements now from my son’s teachers.  Yesterday by signing, I agreed that I’ve read an eleven-page contract, including language about grading, make-ups and chain of command (wtf?).  So why do I feel bad?  Because I haven’t read it, probably never will read it, and yet I signed a document attesting to the fact that I'm a responsible, caring, involved parent who of course is interested to know what to expect from the class and teacher.  Fail.

ACQUIRING INFO ABOUT THE NEW CLASSES, TEACHERS AND CURRICULUM -

I’ll just say Fail right here!  No matter how I ask the question, I get the same response to “How was school?” --  It was fine.  Sometimes it's good.  Yes, mostly good.  Oh, but I did get some info the first day!  With the novelty and excitement, my kids must have forgotten to clam up, and actually shared with me and the hubby.  But the glimpse I got into their scholastic world is all I have to hold onto now.  I wait patiently for more tidbits to be carelessly dropped, so I can snatch them up like a rat. Fail!

This is only the beginning of the year, so it's bound to get worse before it gets better.  The next challenge is to remember the two back-to-school nights.  Maybe I won’t blow those dates... What are they again?

Checking In

I know, I've been absent for a while. Blame it on the kids' ball schedules, proms, a birthday, a graduation, a camping trip to the beach. Did I say ball? Practices, doubleheaders, season wrap-up, tournament of champs and weekend tourneys! Family also visited from out of town, and we managed to squeeze two weeks worth of activities into five days! 

And of course, there were the ten Labrador pups, born to Ms. Molly Marie on April 18^th. 

Whoops, wrong litter pictured here, but you get the idea.

It’s been another wild and extremely special experience for my family, and I thought I would share everything digitally.  Like the birth, the first time they opened their eyes, their first gruel meal, a swim in the baby pool or those action shots that would warm the Grinch's cold heart. But it began to feel too personal, and I decided not to share it all.

We marvel over the fact that eight weeks came and went like the blink of an eye. As quickly as they arrived, the pups left with their new owners.  We're left with our sad yard, dug-up herb garden, torn up lawn furniture, and chewed slippers, shoes, throw rugs, buckets, etc. All worth it to spend  with them their very first eight weeks of life.
 

  

And then there’s Brodie! The Brodmeister is almost three months now, a high-energy, fearless addition to our family. Yep, we broke with the tradition of all black animals when we decided to keep him. Now we’ll have white animal hair all over the house mixed in with the black. What’s a little more hair? More chewed shoes? Double the demand for our attention?

29 days old, before teeth, a deafening bark and alpha attitude!

Brodie "Lights Out" living up to his name???

Apollo still lives with us while his new owners vacation.   Less than two more weeks of his howling, whining, peeing, destroying. He is a handful, but oh so cute! All he has to do is look straight into your eyes, cock his head to the side, and he's forgiven. His new family should fall instantly in love.

Apollo, being his usual adorable self

Must go now. That noise in the kitchen means the boys are either just fighting over a rawhide or they got into the recyclables again. I find myself saying “no” as often as I long to take a catnap!   (Speaking of which, now I know why I've had cats most of my life!)

The pups first swim -- naturals!