Lean Pocket Love

We couldn’t have been more unlike each other. I, the well fed and harried suburban mother, rushing through the grocery store, pushing a cart full of suddenly necessary impulse purchases, my thoughts centered 3 hours ahead, the incomplete list in my head having been abandoned 5 aisles before. Him, the seemingly delicate but deliberate Asian man, plainly focused in the moment, grasping his well thought out list written on the yellow lined paper, as he spoke quite intentionally into his phone in a language I had no hope of deciphering.

I pretended to look at the frozen pizza while he stood in front of the Lean Pockets, the door fogging up as he held it open. It seemed as if he intended to inspect every variety of Lean Pockets and the neighboring Hot Pockets, all of which were on sale this week.

I was in a bit of a hurry and needed those Lean Pockets for the boy. He hadn’t been eating his lunch. He didn’t always like the lunches I made him nor did he like the lunches the school served. He was also in a hurry to get out to recess. He was coming home hungry. I was worried about the boy. When the boy was born, my visions of his future certainly did not include feeding him Lean Pockets. But here I found myself, 10 years later, hoping the man in front of me did not take all of the Ham and Cheddar kind, because that was the boy’s favorite flavor. I knew that if the boy had a Ham and Cheddar Lean Pocket in his lunch, he wouldn’t, yet again, come home hungry. The Lean Pocket was my last hope.

The man in front of me continued to speak into his phone, repeatedly grabbing and then putting back numerous boxes of both Lean Pockets and Hot Pockets. I spent quite some time pretending to look at the pizza before the man finally moved to the right and let the fogged up door slam shut. I casually moved over, opened the door and scooped up a couple of cheap boxes of Philly, Cheeseburger and Ham and Cheddar Lean Pockets.

As I started to walk away I saw the man eyeing the Lean Pockets in my cart. With hesitant English he asked me, “Is the Lean Pocket better than the Hot Pocket?”

“My wife and I are so worried about our daughter,” he continued, pointing to his phone that was now in his shirt pocket. “She is so big now. She sits in her chair and watches TV and eats the candy and the chips all day long. I don’t want her to be so big. I want her to eat something better than the candy but she won’t eat anything else. She won’t eat the fruit and the carrots my wife gives her for lunch. I am hoping that she will eat this Lean Pocket, though. If she has the Lean Pocket in her lunch then maybe she won’t be hungry for the candy. My wife thinks the Lean Pocket is our last hope.”

I was worried about the boy. The man was worried about his daughter. My initial impression was wrong. The man and I couldn’t have been more alike. It would be the Lean Pocket that would save us both.



Check This Out!

The Urban Cookbook, Creative Recipes for the Graffiti Generation, by King Adz is a most unique cookbook centered on the creative work of 25 super talented young urban dwellers from 5 hip cities all around the world. From advertising to art, from film to music, from toy design to fashion design, this book is chock full of cutting edge ideas and unbelievable creativity. Almost, seemingly, an afterthought, there are also 50 global recipes such as Lahmacun, Frikandel and Chicken Bicken included. I wouldn’t necessarily go buy this most untraditional book, but it was fun to see something different. It's worth a quick look at your local library if you think you'd enjoy the unique art and if you want to find out what the heck a Trinchada is.

Some of the Slightly Exaggerated family enjoyed this Middle East and North African inspired couscous dish on page 100 of The Urban Cookbook. Fry one chopped onion in oil for 5 minutes. Add 4 chicken pieces (we used thighs) and fry for another 5 minutes. Add 2 tsp ground cumin, 3 tsp ground allspice, 3 pieces of cinnamon stick and 4 cloves of garlic (chopped). Cook on low for 5-10 minutes. Add 2 ¼ cups chicken stock, 1 can whole tomatoes, 1 can chickpeas, juice of 1 lemon, 20 green beans, 4 stalks celery (chopped) and 2 carrots (chopped). Simmer for one hour, adding more stock if necessary. Make at least 6 oz of couscous according to package directions. Serve chicken on top of a bed of couscous and finish with chopped cilantro sprinkled on top.

The Lean Pocket loving Slightly Exaggerated family members were not as fond of the couscous dish as they were of the Spaghetti Pie recipe on page 248 of The Urban Cookbook. This “English variation of an Americanised Italian” recipe took a little time to make but was certainly well worth it. Fry one large onion (chopped). Add 2 1/4 lbs ground beef. When cooked, add 1 large can whole tomatoes, 4 TBL tomato puree, 2 beef stock cubes dissolved in ½ cup water,4 cloves of garlic (chopped) a splash of red wine,4 tsp of Italian herb seasoning, salt and pepper to taste and enough water to cover. Bring to a boil and then simmer for 2 hours, adding some water every 20 minutes or so (keep it wet). Near the end, throw in a handful of chopped fresh basil. In another pot, boil 1 to 1 ½ pounds of spaghetti, leaving it slightly undercooked. Drain. In a third pot, melt a large pat of butter and 2 heaping teaspoons of cornstarch and mix into a thick paste. With heat quite low, add 2 cups of milk, splash by splash, whisking constantly to avoid lumps. Increase heat a bit and add ¾ pound grated cheddar and 2 teaspoons of mustard, stirring continually until thickened. (I also added a dash of nutmeg to this cheese sauce.) In a colander, pour boiling water over a large bunch of fresh spinach. Now assemble! In a large ovenproof dish, place a layer of spaghetti, a layer of meat sauce, 4 slices of Emmental cheese, a layer of spinach, and finally a layer of cheese sauce. Repeat. Sprinkle top with more grated cheddar. Bake at 375 degrees for about 25 minutes.

Press Here For Song

It wasn’t the toy drive the teenager’s teacher had a problem with. It was the door decorating contest that he found unnecessary. Somehow, the decorated classroom doors were supposed to encourage and remind the students to bring toys to the school for children in need. A pizza party would be awarded to the class whose door was judged most worthy by the PTA judges.

When the door judging day arrived, the teenager and her classmates pleaded one last time with the teacher. Could they please have some time to decorate their classroom door? The teacher stood firm in his belief that classroom time should be spent on learning. They accused him of being a Grinch and sucking the joy out of their holiday season.

One boy made a final attempt to change the teacher’s mind. “It doesn’t have to be difficult or time consuming," he said. “I mean, heck, we could even tape ME to the door and at least it would be better than having nothing on the door!”

The teacher grinned, just a little bit, and believing it to be impossible said, “Ha….now that I’d like to see!”

With lightening quick speed, before the teacher could stop them, the students rushed into action. Within minutes the boy was taped to the outside of the door. Someone produced a battery powered miniature plastic Christmas tree with lights and shoved it into the boy’s hand. The boy yelled out, “Grab the red tape! Grab the red tape!” Someone covered the boy’s nose with red tape. Next to the boy’s head a sign was taped on the door. The sign said, “press here for song” and had an arrow drawn on it that pointed to the boy’s red nose.

The PTA judges arrived just as the students finished their masterpiece. The judges had already seen beautifully decorated doors covered with intricate glittered snowflakes, curly ribbons and fancy lights. They had seen real Christmas trees, and 3-D dioramas and pseudo fireplaces with stockings hung and fire glowing.

They arrived at the teenager’s classroom to find a boy taped to the door.

The judges looked at each other and giggled a bit. “Do you think he’ll really sing if we press his nose?” one asked out loud. “Only one way to find out.” said a brave one who stepped forward and pressed the red tape.

The teenage boy, voice cracking, burst out in holiday song. The students inside the classroom went uncharacteristically still and silent. Students and teachers from other classrooms quietly poked their heads out of their rooms to hear the singing. The judges dropped their judging clipboards to their sides and said not a word as they listened to the boy sing.

And when the boy was done, he started to speak, rambling just a bit. “We believe that Christmas should be a very personal time of the year. And what better way to represent Christmas and giving and what the whole season means than with some sort of personification of this special time. And we believe that there’s no better way to personify something than with a real person. That is why we have a real person on our door. Because we believe that people need to remember that Christmas and giving and toy drives are really all about people. Real people.“

One of the judges lifted her clipboard and began to write on it. Another judge asked the boy, “How long did it take you to write that speech?”

“Um…I didn’t prepare it ahead of time…I just kind of said what I think.”

And as the judges turned to walk away the boy heard one of them say, “Christmas…about people…how novel.”



Check This Out!

This is the recipe for the cookies I usually make to give to the neighbors for Christmas.

Soft Ginger Cookies

Mix 2 ¼ cups flour, 2 tsp ginger, 1 tsp soda, ¾ tsp cinnamon and ½ tsp cloves in a bowl. In another bowl, beat ¾ cup margarine, butter or shortening for 30 seconds. Gradually add in 1 cup sugar. Add one egg and ¼ cup molasses and beat well. Stir in dry ingredients. Mold into balls and roll them in granulated sugar. Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet in a 350 degree oven for 10 minutes. Let stand 2 minutes.

(As usual...I have a hard time following a recipe exactly. With these cookies, I tend to go a bit heavy on the spices and will often throw in a few dashes of nutmeg or mace as well.)

It Was That Easy

Of course, if I had received any advance warning of the impossibility of the arduous undertaking I would soon find myself regretfully immersed in, I would have rapidly abandoned all illusion of parental compassion and concern. I would have just told the teenager that I really didn’t care if her old basketball shoes gave her blisters. I would have turned a blind eye to those slippery soles that caused her to fall down on the hardwood and come home bruised and battered.

But I didn’t have any advanced warning.

So when the teenager announced that she needed new basketball shoes I eagerly agreed to help her shop for them. I was, of course, naive and oblivious, singing along to the radio, when I drove those back roads to the mall that one Saturday morning. I had initially wanted to travel south to the super large sports store. But the teenager pointed out that if that single super large sports store did not have what she was specifically looking for, we were somewhat far away from any other basketball shoe store. So instead, we headed north to the insanity of the big mall and the many accompanying strip malls within close proximity. With this option, we would have 12 stores to choose from.

The teenager found basketball shoes that she liked at the very first store we went to. She did not however, find them in the correct color or the correct size.

We spent the next 4 1/2 hours travelling to the other 11 stores in the area. We looked at many, many different kinds of shoes but didn’t try on a single pair. As a last resort, I convinced the teenager to go back to the first store and again, try on the pair that she had initially liked. I tried to convince her that ½ a size too big wasn’t really THAT big. I tried to convince her that the color didn’t matter one bit. I tried to convince her to, please, put me out of my shopping misery and just pick any darn pair of shoes in that store as soon as she possibly could.

This unsuccessful shoe shopping was making me very cranky.

I was not, apparently, the only ill-natured mother in the store that day.

I heard another mother raise her voice and I turned my head to see a teenage girl shaking her head. I heard her mother bark, “What do you mean ‘white basketball shoes are stupid’? That’s ridiculous. When I was a kid I was grateful to even have a pair of shoes, let alone special basketball shoes. I wouldn’t have dared tell my mother they were the wrong color!”

It wasn’t long before another mother/daughter pair joined in on the shoe shopping discontent. This time it was the daughter who provided the lecture. “Yes. Mother. They are too small. They really, really are. Besides, I wanted the Nike and these are Adidas. Nobody on my team wears Adidas. I’ll look like an idiot if I’m the only one with Adidas shoes.”

As we three mothers began to commiserate with each other, the three daughters huffed a lot, rolled their eyeballs and asked each other what high school they played for. One mother finally announced, with great frustration, that she and her daughter were going to have to brave the mall stores. She was a fair bit testy and patently annoyed when the other mother and I said that our shoe shopping experiences at the mall had produced nothing other than lunch at the Panda Express.



The teenager and I left that store empty handed. As we drove away, the teenager grumbled a request to go to the super large sports store. After a long day of shoe searching, I most definitely did did not want to travel south to that super large sports store. But the teenager pointed out that if anyone would have the shoes she wanted, it would be the super large sports store, of course. And so, like all obedient sports mothers who have come before me, I drove south. I drove another half hour to the very store we had considered starting with many, many hours earlier that day.

The teenager and I arrived at the super large sports store at 3:32 pm. The teenager walked over to the basketball shoe section. She found the shoes she liked. She found the right size. She found the right color. She tried them on. We paid for them. At 3:49 pm we drove out of the parking lot and headed home.

It was that easy.


Check This Out!

The husband and I have been doing a little remodeling. In an effort to get a few ideas for our home projects, I’ve been enjoying the book, The Not So Big House.

From author’s website comes this description,“The Not So Big House books by Sarah Susanka bring to light a new way of thinking about what makes a place feel like home—characteristics that many people desire of their homes and their lives, but haven't known how to verbalize."

Full of great ideas for all areas of your home, the initial book The Not So Big House and the many other similar ones that follow it do not focus merely on square footage and the standard builder options all too common in today’s modern houses. Ms. Susanka's books offer creative examples that make a real design impact that is personal, meaningful and most likely, just what you wanted for your home.

Explore more at www.notsobighouse.com and www.susanka.com.

Vodka

I noticed her name because it wasn’t spelled the right way on her nametag. Instead of Jordan, it was spelled Jordynne. She was the grocery store checker for the line I was waiting in. I was next in line when the lady in front of me put a bottle of Merlot on the dull black belt that seemed to move quite randomly. Jordynne quickly picked up the black phone receiver. “Override on check stand 3. Override on check stand 3.” she announced to the entire store as she rolled her eyeballs. The very young looking, gum popping Jordynne wasn’t old enough, apparently, to run a bottle of wine across the magic beeping, barcode reading, scanning machine. I watched as the lady wanting the bottle of Merlot became annoyed at the delay.

A hardly mature looking, but apparently more important woman, who was probably 23 years old, casually appeared from parts unknown. As she ran her special card across the scanning machine, she turned to Jordynne and started joking…or so I thought. “So Jordynne, I see you are trying to drink on the job again!” The young Jordynne huffed and again rolled her eyeballs at the presumably older, special card woman as she wandered back to her hiding place. Jordynne politely took the Merlot lady’s money and told her to have a nice day.


And then it was my turn.

I couldn’t resist having a little chat with Jordynne. As she scanned my garbanzo beans and my orzo and my Smores Goldfish I audaciously asked her outright, “So, been drinking on the job lately, huh?”

Jordynne, thankfully, taking my comments in stride, let out a mini guffaw laugh. “Ha! If I was gonna drink on the job, I can tell you one thing. I wouldn’t be drinkin’ no fancy wine.”

Fascinated by the most exciting grocery store moment I’d had in awhile, I, mostly sarcastically, continued to pester Jordynne. “Really? No wine drinking on the job, huh?”

Jordynne, however, became altogether serious. She was also most forthcoming and educational with her answer. “Oh, hell no! You gotta be smart. Anyone can smell wine on your breath. Wine at work is usually a bad idea.” And then she lowered her voice and turned her head a bit more toward me. “If you’re gonna drink at work it’s gotta be vodka. There’s no other choice. It’s clear, it’s innocent looking and there ain’t no one who can smell vodka.”

Not being a vodka consumer, I found myself captivated by Jordynne the checker and her patent honesty.

I curiously pushed on while Jordynne tried to find the produce code for my fresh ginger. “So, seriously, if you drink vodka, no one can smell it? Has that worked for you before?”

Jordynne stiffened a bit. She slowly looked to the left. She casually put my ginger in the bag and told me I owed her forty seven dollars and eighty three cents. Then she slowly looked to the right.

And then young Jordynne,20 years my junior, looked me straight in the eye and scanned my face, just like her scanning, checking machine did to my produce just moments before.

Jordynne lowered her voice to a whisper and she pointedly said to me, “Well, all I can say... is that….well……it worked in Junior High. “



Check This Out!

I must admit, I think American Idol alum Adam Lambert's recent television actions probably were uncessary. I've listened to his new album. He's good. He's got talent. He doesn't need the drama. Sure...he's trying to make a certain point. But the fact remains, the voice can stand on it's own. I suppose the drama makes for good publicity. In fact, I'll admit...the dramatic publicity got me to listen sooner than I would have. But honestly, it's the great voice that will get me to buy the whole album instead of just his first single. See for yourself at www.adamofficial.com/us./intro where you can sample the entire album.

And in case you're looking for something a bit more traditional, Christmas music, perhaps, I am here to tell you that the wait is over. Heavy Metal fans finally have Christmas and winter music that they can listen to at this special time of year. Rob Halford, of Judas Priest fame, has just released Halford III, Winter Songs. Complete with Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel, We Three Kings and many other Christmas traditionals and originals, this album will fill a void in your collection that has existed for a very long time. I encourage you to go to www. halford music.com and explore his latest.

Lockdown

While the rapid gunfire, so close to where the teenager and I were sitting, did come as quite a shock, it was the look on the teenager’s pale face that scared me the most. “Those weren’t gun shots, were they, mom?” the teenager asked me with wide eyes, her heart beating much faster than it was just a moment before. In one second, I found myself nervously assuring her that it couldn’t possibly be gunshots. And in the next second, it seemed, we were in lockdown.

The teenager and I had gone to watch a girls’ high school soccer game at a local stadium. Just as we took our seats the shots rang out. It happened just like the shooting victims on the TV news said it would. It was fast forward. And it was slow motion. All at the same time.

As the shots rang out I saw dozens of birds fly off the roof of the building next to where we were sitting. It seemed as if I saw the details of every single bird. I saw both soccer teams running off the field, toward the locker rooms, with escorts yelling at them to run faster. It seemed as if I saw every single girl’s face filled with perplexed fear. I saw the fans in the stands questioning each other. “Did that sound like gunshots to you?” I saw the usher running toward us telling us to get to the safety of the building as quickly as we could. I remember running toward the building beside the teenager. I remember thinking that it was important for me to shield her from the gunshots. I remember wishing that I knew which direction they were coming from so I would know which side of her to run beside.

After an hour and a half in lockdown we were allowed to leave. They said it was gang related. They said they never caught the shooters. It happens all the time, they said. No big deal. The shaken up soccer teams left as well. The game was rescheduled for later that evening at another field.


The husband took the teenager to the rescheduled game that evening. As he left, I handed him the cell phone. “Now, I don’t want any calls about teams being rushed off the field or your life being in danger or anything…..!” I jokingly lectured. We laughed at the absurdity of my overprotective warnings.


The game was to start at 7:00 pm. At 7:01 pm my phone rang. It was the husband. Shocked, I answered the phone and didn’t give him any chance to speak. “Why are you calling me?” I yelled. “Hasn’t the game started yet?”

“No," the husband answered. “We’re having a little situation here. The teams have been rushed off the field into the safety of the locker room. It looks as if it’s going to be awhile before the game can start.”

The husband tried to explain more but I quickly interrupted him with my own rapid paced questioning. “What do you mean ‘rushed off the field’? There are no gangs in that area! It can’t possibly be another gang shooting! That’s ridiculous! Are you and the teenager ok? Are you safe? Seriously! What could possibly stop a game other than ‘SHOTS FIRED’? What could be worse than gang shootings?” I hysterically yelled at the husband as I had flashbacks to my own scary afternoon.

Like a good and wise and experienced husband, he paused to make sure I was done with my unrestrained verbal flailing.

And then he spoke.

“I’ll tell you what can be worse than gangs. It is MOTHER NATURE! We are in a 30 minute lightning delay. We have quite a storm going on here!”

OH. It was a storm.

Gunshots versus lightning-I wasn't quite sure which was worse.


Check This Out!

The older half of the Slightly Exaggerated family recently enjoyed the old Bette Davis and Joan Crawford movie, "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?". While we initially thought this to be a nice, happy movie, we were quickly proven wrong. It's a bit scary and a bit shocking...but all in a nice old movie not too over the top kind of way. We enjoyed this movie while eating our romaine, salmon, red onion and garbanzo bean salads topped with sea salt and black pepper croutons. Add a nice vinaigrette and you can enjoy the perfect movie/salad combination as well.

Destined to Drive

The husband was clearly giddy when he walked through the front door last spring.

“How was the high school information meeting, dad?” the teenager naively queried.

“Oh, it was great!” the husband shouted, barely able to contain himself. “Did you know that you can get your permit when you turn 15 if you are enrolled in driver’s ed? 15!! That’s only a few months away! I have the paperwork right here! HOW. COOL. IS. THAT. Pretty soon, you will be able to drag race with me!” And with that he threw down the driver’s ed pamphlet on the living room table.

There was a family pause as the teenager, the boy and I all processed this shocking information.

The nearly 15 year old teenager finally stood up and announced with emphatic conviction to the family. “I am never, ever driving and YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!!”


The husband was dumbfounded. The boy called the teenager a big crazy chicken. I asked the husband if he had learned anything at this meeting about the benefits of AP Calculus versus AP Statistics. His answer to me was, “What does she mean she never wants to drive? How is that even possible?”

The disbelieving and disheartened husband spent the summer trying to convince the teenager that it was her innate destiny to become a driving enthusiast. Yet, when she turned 15 last week, she still had no desire to drive and she finally told us why.

“Well, I don’t want to drive…because…because…well…because I’m afraid that all the drivers on the road will be just like dad.”



“Oh.”

Said the husband.

“I’m afraid,” the teenager continued, “That people like dad will honk at me if I do something stupid.”



The husband was gone a few days later when I took the teenager to an empty parking lot. She was not happy with me when she realized what we were there for. Eventually, however, she sat in the driver’s seat. Eventually she put the car in gear. Eventually she took her foot off the brake. And, eventually, we crept forward.

“Put your foot, gently, on the gas pedal.” I urged her.

And, eventually, she did. She pressed the gas pedal. Just enough. We rolled about 20 feet at 5 miles per hour.

And then she slammed her foot down on the brake. She turned her head toward me and I saw a look of satisfied shock on her face. Her wide, excited eyes and a huge, joyous grin filled up her face.

"OH………I LIKE THAT!” she said. “Now that…THAT was FUN!”

And as she pulled up the parking brake she looked at me again, this time with a look of panic on her face. “Oh, don’t you dare tell dad that I enjoyed that, ok? He can never know!”


The entire family was in the car the next day when the stoplight turned red. We came to a stop in front of a car dealership. The husband, as usual, surveyed the cars on the dealership’s lot. The teenager looked out the window and suddenly spoke up, “Oh, wow! Do you see that red sports car dad? Now that is a cool car! I’d definitely drive that car.”

The husband voiced his approval as a look of utmost contentment spread over his face. He turned to me and whispered, “Now THAT’S my girl. I knew she’d eventually come around to this whole driving thing.”

The husband grinned, looked forward to see that the light had turned green, and then honked his horn at the car in front of us who hadn’t started moving yet.

And from the backseat we could hear the teenager blurt out, “Not that I’m ever driving, however! In fact, I’m never, ever driving and you can’t make me!”



Check This Out!

Take a listen to RiverBend on their MySpace Music page. Mostly rock, a little grunge, a little bit indie--see if you like them. www.myspace.com/riverbendrock

Becoming My Mother

It was when I started reading celebrity biographies that it occurred to me that I just might have…finally… become my mother. She loved those biographies. I had never been a fan of them myself. But, here I was, sitting on my bed, staring at a stack of biographies on the nightstand in front of me. I remember many times when my mother had in front of her, a similar stack, and would try to decide which biography to read first from the many she had picked out at the library. And here I was, so many years later, doing the very same thing.

I was aware that my transition to becoming my mother had started awhile ago. I had, for some time, been warning my family to throw out raw meat that had turned brown in the package. I cautioned them to watch out for falling pallets in warehouse stores. I had started carrying a Kleenex in my pocket and placing the children in front of me in family photos. I found myself becoming irrationally overprotective of my father and brothers. And, without thinking, I began to put extra mayonnaise on my family’s sandwiches.

Increasingly, the signs of my transition had become somewhat undeniable.

Like any independent young woman, I was convinced early on, that my life’s journey would be very different than the one my mother had taken. And for some time, it was. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found my life’s journey coming full circle to a place that would have been very familiar to my mother. Certain personality traits and interests and values that were so uniquely hers, I am now finding myself wholeheartedly embracing as my own. It would have been such a joy to share with her these new things we would have had in common.

But I can’t.

Because on this day, two years ago, my mother died.

I would have dearly loved to have had more time with her. However, at the time she died, I was thankful for and content with the 38 years that we did have together.

But, now that I’ve become my mother, it is quite apparent that 38 years together wasn’t nearly enough time at all. Now that I like celebrity biographies, just like she did, I’m not so content anymore. I want her to recommend some biographies for me. I want to talk to her about the Dean Martin biography I just read. Now that I’ve become my mother, the last 2 years suddenly seems like such a very, very, long time for her to be gone. 2 years seems like a long time not to talk to your mother.

It’s too bad that it took me 40 years to become my mother. It’s too bad she’s no longer here to enjoy our new found similarities. It’s too bad, because I have a feeling she would have liked me a lot.



In Loving Memory of MAMA.

One of the few times she didn't get away with standing behind me in a picture. Taken, my senior year in high school, May 1987, at the Mother's Tea.