Posts Tagged ‘community’

don’t forget the rice crispy treats

My mom was not talented in the culinary arts. It’s a miracle I can boil water, really. Aside from her being a terrible chef, my father refused to cook and I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to do any experimenting on my own.

There were three staple items my mom could get on the table if push came to shove: grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup; scrambled eggs with cream cheese; mashed potato pancakes with melted parmesan. The cheese theme is clear, right? I’m starting to see where my dairy obsession comes from. The sandwich was always burnt, always. The sound of her running a butter knife over the crispy bits and the ping of the charred toast hitting the tin sink, along with that acidic, dark musty smell of burnt bread and butter on the cast iron pan–smells like home. She would make the tomato soup with milk and it would get that skin on top–you know the way that happens when you overheat milk or let it sit too long? The potato pancakes were her leftover creation. We always had steamed veggies and baked potatoes in the fridge. So, she’d cut up the veggies, mash the potatoes and grate some cheese over the flattened balls, throw them in the oven and it was heavenly. My brothers would smother them in ketchup but I liked them plain or with a little sour cream.

Yes, we ate very well in our household.

For a while I was trying to eat gluten-free, upon my doctor’s recommendation (I will never do that again–I was absolutely miserable for a month) and in an effort to make myself some gluten and sugar-free desserts I experimented with rice crispies (or, rather the health food version of those). Which I don’t recommend.

Anyhow, I tried adding peanut butter and unsweetened chocolate and honey and coconut oil and all sorts of shit. And, really all I wanted was rice crispy treats. Nothing compares, let’s be honest.

Turns out they are the most ridiculously simple dessert to make. Like, hilariously easy. How had I forgotten the 3 steps? Melt butter and marshies in pot, pour cereal in, empty pot onto greased pan. Voila! A miracle dessert. Really, I’ll be making these every week from now on.

Rice crispy treats were the one thing my mom could “bake.” Every bakesale, every holiday event, anytime there was a mandatory contribution in school or at a sporting event, or for the community theater or my sister’s dance troupe, we brought rice crispy treats. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might appear as some sort of cop out. Kind of a slap in the face to the moms who brought handmade, “chocolate, peanut butter, caramel crunch bars.” Or, that it might have been a source of embarrassment for my mother. A kind of admission of maternal failure to be unable to do the most basic of motherly duties: bake. Nowadays moms, dads, parentals, can show up to a bake sale and say, “I suck at baking. I’ll help with the cleanup.” And, I don’t think anyone would bat an eye. There might even be some sympathetic nods and confessions of having used the pre-boxed mix for brownies. But, back then and in our small little section of the world, it was not done. Every mom baked. Not every parent. Every mom. Oh yeah, it was nice and gendered back then. Who are we kidding? It mostly still is.

So, we made a lot of rice crispy treats. And, my mom showed up with our plastic-wrapped desserts and proudly placed them on the bake sale table, handing over our one aluminum pan to the downcast eyes of some volunteer, PTA, supermom. She’d give us a half-smile and place them amongst the m&m, chocolate chip cookies, and the perfect chocolate, pecan fudge squares, the beautiful coconut-cream layer cakes and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. They always looked so sad next to everything else. But, those suckers sold. I tell you what, we always went home with an empty pan–much to my chagrin.

And, every time my mom would look down proudly at that empty tin and say, “We did it.” As if she’d just discovered the Higgs boson.

I didn’t know that this could, or should, have been a source of embarrassment for me. In fact, it was one of the only things I felt confident my mother could actually participate in–like a normal mom. Her ability to show up every time with a handmade dessert, to participate, to contribute–that felt so normal to me. It made me feel like we were actually part of something. One of them. You know, one of the normals–not outsiders, for once. We’d all crowd into the minivan, screaming and pushing, calling dibs on the front seat and then fighting over it anyway and one of us would call out, “Mom, don’t forget the rice crispy treats!” and off we would ride. Believing that the minivan and the slogan t-shirts, the hand-me-down sneakers and thrifted jeans, and most importantly the rice crispy treats, were some symbol of normalcy. Believing that we might actually be fitting in.

gratitude

I am thankful for…more things than I can possibly list. Here are a few from today:

  • husbandhead–who continues to love me even when i’m a total nightmare
  • my brilliant and hilarious kid–i don’t know where you came from but i’m so glad you’re mine
  • my sisters–i could not be in this world without them
  • my totally rad in-laws–lucked out there
  • my ridiculously, incredible, loving, supportive friends–the family i chose
  • great food
  • red wine and whiskey
  • pecan pie
  • candlelight
  • my (mostly) good health
  • fall
  • a great cheese platter
  • warm and loving people who make me feel warm and loved
  • perspective

i don’t believe

In most things, really. Just, like, in general I’m not a big believer. I don’t believe that vitamins do anything except make your pee smell funny. I don’t believe that cleanses cleanse anything, least of all your colon. I definitely do not believe that fat-free anything is real or is in any way shape or form healthy for one to consume. I don’t believe it when people say that their lives are perfect. I don’t believe conspiracy theorists when they tell me things about the world–any things about the world–or that anyone is actually capable of looking as flawless as the cover of a magazine. I don’t believe in any gods to speak of, nor do I believe in curses or bad luck or jinxes.

That said…there really is something to be said for the community that comes with believing. Whether it’s praying to a higher power and joining a flock of fellow-believers, or being a part of an ensemble, a team or a sorority–there really is something incredibly powerful about the bond that is created and the level of support and love that exists in those communities.

Sure, it can turn ugly. Fast. But, when it’s good it’s really fucking good. And, when I see it out there in the world–a group of churchgoers, a meditation class letting out, a choir singing on the street, a barrage of sweaty soccer players after a game–it leaves me feeling a little envious. And, nostalgic for something I never had. How can you be nostalgic for something you’ve never experienced? It’s possible, that’s all I can say.

So, the question is…what do you join when you’re not much of a joiner? How do you create community around nothing? I mean, nothing in the Seinfeld sense of nothing–which is to say everything and not just one single thing.

How do you worship, meditate, relax, unburden yourself without a church, a god, a singular vision? And, how do those meet-ups not end up feeling like work, like an obligation, like something you stare at on your calendar–for which you daydream up excuses?

Weekly craft nights, monthly conversations solamente en español, soccer leagues, zumbathons, even a regular girls’ night can feel like a burden. Not because I don’t want to do these things (they are things I love!) but because I just don’t want to give up the time, or find the babysitter–or pay for the babysitter, or it’s cold out and I can’t motivate, or I’m tired, or my back hurts, or I’m right in the middle of a super sweet Netflix situation. 

It’s like, theoretically, I want to belong. But, in practice, I just want to sit on my couch and binge-watch Gilmore Girls.

alone not loneliness

I went from a commune–a house with anywhere from 20-25 people, where I shared a room with four girls–to a college dorm with a roommate and dozens of women close by, to roommates in a teensy city apartment, to living with my partner.

When my husband is out of town I don’t sleep. I don’t mean I have trouble sleeping, I mean I lose hours and hours of sleep.

On the first night we slept in our current apartment it became clear that we could hear everything from our downstairs neighbors. A cough, a sneeze, the telephone ringing. My husband very nearly cried. He was sure we would have to move immediately. I loved it. Noise. People sounds–all the time. It felt comforting. It felt like home.

The thing I love about New York is that you can feel like you’re in a giant community, surrounded by people–but, still be all alone. If I scream, I will be heard. If I’m in trouble, there will be help. But, I’m also anonymous and invisible. Alone with my thoughts, separate and individual.

The thing I was always so terrified of in the country was that sense of being all alone. Helpless and vulnerable. No one for miles. Just darkness and woods.

In the city, you almost never get that feeling. There is something so comforting about the 4am bar closing. It means people are out and about until the wee hours of the morning. You can ride the subway at 3am and it’s really not as sketchy as you might think. It’s still super crowded at midnight and even 1am can sometimes feel like rush hour heading into the city.

In 2005, we moved to Astoria, a crummy little apartment off of 30th avenue. We thought we were moving to this quaint little “suburb” borough of NYC but as it turns out, Astoria has it’s very own vibrant nightlife. It’s no East Village, in terms of ambience, but I might go so far as to say it’s more raucous and possibly more populated on any given warm, summer evening.

The sidewalk cafe’s turn into bars, the restuaruants all open their windows and spill onto the street–there is a legitimate and bourgeoning “Euro-scene” there. People come from Jersey, Connecticut, Philly and (gasp!) Manhattan even, to hang out in these places that feel a whole lot like the cafes of Europe. There really isn’t a Manhattan equivalent. All the restaurants are Greek or Italian, and let me tell you about the quality of seating you get if you speak neither Greek nor Italian. It’s a real bummer and the hosts have no problem being totally upfront about it. “You speak Greek? No? Okay. You wait.” The food is well worth the hour and a half delay. Especially since they bring trays of wine around to the dozens of loiterers waiting for tables. It’s a brilliant plan. You’ve already started on the wine, you’re tipsy by the time you sit down. You order way more than you can eat and, obviously, you have to have another carafe of the house white!

You can spot the regulars from a  block away. They walk, arm in arm, not a care in the world, strolling down the street. They breeze right in, kiss the waiters, grab glasses of wine, smile and are whisked off to their table. Eating at the Greek restaurants in Astoria is a little like showing up to a family reunion that isn’t your family. “Oops. I think perhaps my kin are in the hotel next door. But, what the hell. You’re food looks way better. I think I’ll stay.”

When we first moved to Park Slope I was actually kind of freaked out by the neighborhood. I mean, all those babies and dogs?! Well, actually that did kind of freak me out. But, really it was the dark, vacant streets. Seriously, this neighborhood is shut down by 9pm, even on a Saturday. And, unlike a lot of other parts of the city, the residential streets are really separate from the commercial zones so those sidewalks are particularly empty. It took me quite a few months to stop looking behind me every half a block, nervous I was being followed. Now, I laugh out loud thinking about my initial fear of this bourgeois hood.

I guess what I am trying to say is that the thing that a lot of people complain about–cramped living quarters, folks stacked on top of one another, busy streets, crowded sidewalks–those are the things that most endear New York to me. Those are the things that I would miss most. That feeling of closeness and family and belonging amongst strangers. The incredible ability to be both alone but never alone.

real life

It is so easy to focus on the small and insignificant things in life. The things that feel so big and so relevant in the moment.

It’s easy to obsess over a conversation on the playground with some cuckoo parent. Or, to be consumed with anger over the small injustices of the world.

The problem with perspective is that it is not enduring. You get a dose of it. A wake up call. And then, within days, you are back to your old ways.

This is a commonly mocked theme in movies. Hero is schmuck. Hero has near-death experience. Hero realizes the err of his ways. Hero makes amends. Hero goes back to old schmucky ways.

Well, I’m here to say that it is all true. The cliche, the all-too-familiar storyline. It’s real. Or, at least, it comes from something real.

My cousin had a baby. And, he is sick.

And, all I can think is: I am lucky. I am grateful. Life is good. I should be more grateful for what I’ve got. I have this deep, dark, sticky feeling in my gut. This sadness and queasy uneasiness. For him, because he is small and helpless and in pain. And for her because she is four days post-birth and if you have ever pushed a baby out of your body you will understand what that means — physically and emotionally. And, I am filled with terror. And dread. And, fear. And gratitude. And love and respect and hope.

I had been living in New York for under a month when the terrorist attacks on September 11th took place. The city I knew and had already fallen in love with changed in an instant. The city I had dreamed of, had imagined and planned for, transformed overnight.

Those were dark times. Filled with fear and loss and confusion. People were angry and vengeful and wary of one another. Of skin color, of religious beliefs, scared of neighbors and politicians and strangers near and far.

But, also, through it all — there was an amazing sense of camaraderie. Of togetherness. Of community and a shared cause. A unified vision of hope and of support and of love.

It was such a confusing time. A time I still am not sure I can even write about. I was so filled with anger because we were going to war and I felt the lives of all those innocent people were being used as a means to an end. I could hardly acknowledge the sadness over the anger. I was horrified at the act of violence and destruction that had occurred. We all felt vulnerable. New Yorkers and Americans across the country.

But, we all felt unified too.

I tried to volunteer at the World Trade Center and was turned away. All of us from SLC. Because, they had too many volunteers. There was such an influx of support that they couldn’t even manage the numbers of people lining up to offer aid. How beautiful is that? I still can’t think about anything about that attack, that day, that year, that time in our history without crying. My adoration of the firefighters and aid workers and men and women who gave their lives that day will never, ever fade.

Horrible things happen. Horrible, scary, unimaginable things. Every day. Most of us live our lives in a bubble. We wake up and drink our coffee. We go to work and come home. We eat dinner and watch television and kiss our children and go to bed. And, do it all over again. There are details in between that shift from one day to the next. But, mostly, that’s it. There is comfort in that routine. We moan and groan and wish for more vacation days and better bosses and more competent colleagues and less creeps on the subway. But, that’s our lives. Monotonous, mundane, predictable.

And then, in one moment. It all changes.

Your mother is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimers. Your 10-month-old falls down nine concrete stairs. You’re rushed to the hospital for emergency life-altering back surgery.

Life is messy. Mostly it’s not. Mostly it’s kind of boring. But, as the cliche goes — when it rains it pours. And, when life is pouring down on you. Ceaselessly. And when you feel like you will never get back to normal. When you crave that monotony, that boring, tedious job, that humdrum life — you glimpse just for a moment how great it actually is. How lucky you are. And how fragile it all is.

I am grateful to have a husband who is kind and loving and brilliant. A daughter who is gentle and sensitive and hilarious. I am grateful to have people who love me and who let me love them back. I am grateful for family and for friends. For a career that is meaningful and for a body that is, mostly, getting by pretty well in the world.

It is so precious. And, so fleeting. And, I know I will forget this in one week’s time. But, life is good and there is so much to be thankful for.