Posts Tagged ‘family’

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.

work // past

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

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

memory

When I was little my mother used to play this game with me before bed. Most nights we were left to our own devices, my siblings and I–brush our teeth, put on our pajamas, read one book, turn out the light–but on the occasion that she was available for bedtime I would beg her to play our name game.

I really have no recollection of how frequent or infrequent these evenings were. They all sort of blend together into one singular experience. Me, lying face up under the covers, my mother hovering over me, sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body against mine. It’s dark and I’m cuddling my favorite brown stuffed bear, or was it red?

“Good night, George,” she would say. I would stifle my laughter and shout, “I’m not George!” She would look confused, furrow her brow, lick her lips and look toward the ceiling. “Oh, you’re not? My mistake. Good night Marianne,” she would say. And, once again I would howl with laughter. This would go on for four or five names before she would finally settle on mine. “You are my daughter and I love you, whatever your name is.”

There were only a few moments when I truly felt my mother didn’t know me. They were during these seemingly random episodes of intense anger and fear–when, out of nowhere, she would look around and think that everyone was trying to harm her. She didn’t recognize anyone or anything, she didn’t know where she was or who she was. They wouldn’t last more than half an hour but they were traumatic and frightening events where I often had to elicit help from strangers because she would get so out of control. That marked the end of our outings to parks, restaurants, the movies–it was too risky to be alone with her in the car, impossible for me to restrain and carry her myself if and when she lost her faculties.

During these episodes I would try to soothe her–I would breathe deeply and make eye contact. I would hold her hands and hum and reassure her. I would remind her who I was and that she was safe with me. But her eyes were wild and her nails would dig into the undersides of my wrists, she would kick at me and curse, spit in my face and call me vulgar and nasty names. Words I had never heard come out of her mouth. Then slowly, slowly, she would come back to me. Her features would soften, her grip would release. She would smile and hug me and make jokes, hiding behind her large sun hat and marching around like a clown–as if nothing had happened–she would just come back into herself and any memory of the episode was gone. As if it never happened.

I would often think about our bedtime rituals after these episodes. Was it a game? Was she pretending at not knowing me just as she had done all those years ago? Was there some small part of her, screaming to tell me something, even as another part of her brain took over? Were the words she spoke and the words she thought the same? Did the actions she wanted to take get lost somewhere between her brain and her limbs–get reversed and scrambled and turned violent? Was there thought, was there understanding–or just instinct? Did she think I was someone specific or just someone who wanted to hurt her? If we weren’t in her favorite public garden, where were we? If I wasn’t me, who was I? But, these were never questions she could answer. The episode would pass and she would be docile again. Non-verbal and goofy, smiley and loving. As though her actions could express her every desire and emotion. Except when they couldn’t.

on grief

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

seven things i love about my husband

1. He is the most honest human on the planet. Almost to a fault (not like, ugh, I wish he was a liar but, maybe a teeny white lie wouldn’t hurt…?). He is good and he is ethical (maybe it’s a journalist thing?) and he will always adhere to his moral compass. Even when it is so very tempting to be bad.

2. He is hilarious. And witty. It’s not immediately obvious because he is so well-mannered but he is a total goofball and the most fun person I have ever known.

3. He is up for anything. He is adventurous but practical, which is the best of both worlds because it means he dreams big and plans accordingly. I don’t think I have booked my own flight in ten years. If we get divorced I will be seriously lacking in holiday-planning skills. I will live out my days as a couch potato.

4. He is scary smart. Like, so intelligent that sometimes I get a tiny bit self-conscious about my vocabulary (or lack thereof) and the way I stumble through sentences and forget words or just lose track of what I’m actually trying to say. But, then he tells me that I’m brilliant and I know he really believes it because he is ALWAYS honest, even when you don’t want him to be, and so I feel better.

5.  He is really good at making the people around him feel loved. He tells me every day how much he loves and appreciates me. He calls out all the things I do and doesn’t ever take me for granted.

6. He lets me be me. He loves my idiosyncrasies and never makes me feel bad about the parts of my personality that I see as faults or flaws. He finds it adorable that I don’t know common American phrases. When I say things like, “Happy as a crab,” he cackles. Then listens when I defend my position because, really, crabs DO seem much happier than clams.

7. I love watching him with our daughter because I know that she has the best father in the whole entire world (kind, patient, hard-working, intelligent, hilarious, creative) and I am so grateful that he is the person I chose to create a human with. We are so lucky, she and I.

 

the napping house

You’ve all heard parents talk about that magical time during their day where they get a ton of stuff done, right? You know, they answer emails and cook meals. They do laundry and call friends. Doze by the television…

That magical hour (or two or three! if you’re lucky) is called the daily (or twice/thrice daily) nap.

I have never experienced this nap.

Maybe once or twice. But fewer times than I can count on one hand.

My baby has always napped on me. Only napped on me. On the boob, in my arms, in the carrier. She won’t nap in her crib, won’t nap in the stroller, not even the car. Don’t get me started on the car. She’s a puke machine in the car. It’s a good thing we’re hardly ever in one.

I am not one of those parents who keeps her baby ON her at all times. I co-slept until she was about four months old, she slept in a crib next to me until six months old and then we sleep trained her into her own crib at seven months. That’s another story. A traumatic one.

She has just never been a good sleeper. She is practically perfect in every other way (no bias here) but the sleep thing has never come easily to her. Which means we have been sleep deprived for two years.

There is no explaining the reality of sleep deprivation. There is no way to truly understand it without experiencing it. It makes total sense that it would be used as a torture device. It’s super effective at making you feel completely insane. Loopy, confused, heavy. You start seeing things crawling across the floor and realize there’s nothing there. You’re dizzy and drowsy, you get tunnel vision every time you stand up too fast. If you’re like my husband, you faint on the subway platform and get hauled out by EMT’s and labeled officially “exhausted.”

Since she’s been in daycare she has had almost no trouble at all with naps. While there, just to clarify. While on-site with them. Occasionally she skips those too but more often than not she will nap just fine at daycare and then not at all on the weekends. It’s horrible. It’s stressful and it’s just not fun. You end up planning your entire day around this thing that will likely not even happen. But, you have to try anyways. Because, otherwise, it means a cranky kid who then has to go to bed extra early which throws all your weekend plans into the gutter.

I have spent entire days trying to get this kid to nap. I wish I was kidding.

Well-meaning parents would give us their best advice. Use a sound machine and blackout curtain, let her cry for a few minutes, run her around right before nap time, don’t nurse her beforehand, nurse her a ton beforehand, play music, go outside, put her in the carrier, put her in the swing, swaddle her, let her appendages be free. There was no shortage of miracle nap cures. But, nothing worked for us.

This past weekend she napped on Saturday but not until 3:00. Which meant a super late bedtime since her typical daycare nap is 12:30. It also meant hours and hours of trying before success. Sunday we had no nap. Not for lack of trying but, my husband and I have decided that we will no longer waste half of the day trying to get her to take a nap she’s refusing to take.

So, we try not to let the nap run the house. The nap will happen or it won’t but either way we’ll make our plans and we’ll live our lives. Thank gods the nighttime sleeping is going well. We’ve had to do a lot of re-sleep training but mostly it has been quite a success (minus a few unavoidable detours and speed bumps).

All I can say, is that I cannot wait to be done with the nap thing entirely. And for those of you who have kids who nap. You probably have no idea how good your life is. Appreciate it. For you are truly blessed.

 

truth // past

“Where is she, where is she?” I wondered silently. She was always doing this. “Why can’t anything in my life be normal?” I murmured inaudibly.

It was half past six. Volleyball practice ended at five. Courtney’s mom had offered to wait with me until my mom arrived. This was a reoccurring predicament. I’d stay after school for something — volleyball, cheerleading, theater, track and field, chorus — anything to not be at home, and then I’d wait for two hours to get picked up. “This is what I get for not taking the bus,” I thought.

“Oh, there she is. There’s my mom,” I said, relieved. This was how it happened. Either someone would wait with me until she arrived or I would lie and tell them that she would be there in a few minutes and I’d wait alone. Ducking behind the payphone whenever a set of headlights came by. I could never decide what was worse — waiting there, terrified and alone in the dark, or having an adult wait with me asking too many questions.

“Oh, good,” she said. I recognized her tone — it reeked of disdain and irritation. “And, who’s the lady with her?” she continued, as though she were asking whether I wanted chocolate or caramel on my ice-cream. Sweet. Innocent-like.

“No one. I mean, that’s just a friend. Of my moms,” I lied.

“Right. And…where’s your dad? Does he ever pick you up? I’ve never seen him. What’s his name?”

“Um, he’s…his name is…I mean, he isn’t here.”

“Oh. I see,” she continued. “And, don’t you have sisters?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Brothers too? How many? Courtney said something about you having a lot of siblings.”

“Um, I don’t know. I mean, sort of.  I gotta go. Bye! Thanks for waiting with me!”

///////

The caravan door slid open, making a high-pitched squeak as it halted half way. I squeezed in, breathless. “Courtney’s mom asked me,” I paused to catch my breath. “about my sisters and brothers again.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just said I didn’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? What kind of an answer is that?”

“I don’t know. I just said, like, ‘no’, but then I said, like, ‘sort of.'”

“You can’t say that! You can’t say anything! What are you thinking, goshdangit.”

“I told you she shouldn’t be allowed to do after-school activities,” my mom’s “friend” chimed in. I glared at her.

“Mom, I, I , no one knows anything. She just said she knew I had brothers. It’s okay. She doesn’t…”

“Gosh darn-it-all. You can’t say that stuff. You can’t,” my mom yelled. She was starting to tap her foot. She always tapped her foot, a little three-part pattern, when she was nervous.

“This is why we homeschool. Public schools are trouble. Too many eyes. Too many ears. He says it could be our downfall. Just because your children want to go to school and play sports shouldn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer. Are you listening?” My mom was listening. But, she knew I needed to be in school. She knew I couldn’t stay home like my brothers and sisters. I couldn’t stand to be there for one night, let alone day after day. I joined everything. Anything. I spent weekends at friends houses. Weeknights even. Lord knows what they thought was going on. “You won’t be the favorite forever,” she murmured under her breath. “Then there’ll be hell to pay.”

“No, please. I didn’t…Mom. I just…I don’t know what to…I’m trying to do what you told me to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please. Please let me stay in school. Please. I won’t say anything.”

“If they found out we would all be in big trouble. Do you want that? Your dad would go to jail and we would have nowhere to live. Do you want that to happen?” my mom asked.

“No.”

“Okay, then. So, you’ll tell her you were confused. Tell her that you have one sister and two brothers and that’s it. The rest of the kids just live with us. We took them in. Single mothers and their children.”

“Ha!” my mom’s friend interjected.

“We run a church. A non-profit” my mother continued.

“A nompromfi? What’s that?” I asked.

“A NON-profit. A non-profit. Say it out loud.”

“A NON-profit.”

“Good. Okay. So, you’ll tell her that when you see her tomorrow. And, Courtney too. Just tell everyone that. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” I whispered. “Okay, mom. I’ll tell them tomorrow.”

actions and reactions // past

If we wanted to go to school we had to catch the bus from the end of our dirt road. Half a mile in each direction. Northern California gets hot. Dry and hot. The grasses are brown before easter and the water holes dry up before it’s warm enough to swim. Ranches are sparse. Lots of open land for livestock. There are huge, beautiful, aging oak trees dripping with mistletoe to provide the occasional respite but the earth is parched and the air is dry.

It was the beginning of June and the last week of school. The end of fourth grade for me and the end of third grade for my brother. The bus skittered across the gravel and came to a stop.

“Bye,” I shouted to my friends. My brother was running up the aisle.

“Don’t jump, goddamnit. I am sick of warning you,” The driver yelled after my brother, who had taken all three steps in one fell swoop and was already out of earshot.

“Stop it-uhhhhh!” I said upon catching up to him. Because that’s what you say to your little brother when you’re tired and cranky and older than him and he is creating a cloud of dust all around you.

“You stop,” he countered.

“I’m not even doing anything. Gawwwwwd,” I said.

With one particularly well-aimed kick, he overturned a large stone. Curled underneath was a baby sharp-tailed snake. Not more than six inches. Red, thin, fast but harmless.

“Watch out,” I screamed, pushing my little brother aside. I stomped once. It was quick and well aimed. The snake was sliced in half, both sections writhing helplessly. The red blood oozed slowly out of it’s body, creating two thick, dark muddy patches in the white dust.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Devastated and embarrassed. I loved snakes. We spent every summer hunting gophers, racers and garters.

He was quiet. We stood there, staring at the dying reptile as tears streamed down my face.

When the snake stopped moving, my brother silently retrieved the round, grey stone and placed it over its still body.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

We walked silently the rest of the way home. No more kicking of rocks, or rolling of eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said when we were finally home. “you didn’t mean to. You were just scared.”