Microwave Vacation

The frozen blueberry muffin sat on the counter for 20 minutes before I realized I no longer needed to live this way.  My lengthy, first world hardship was over.  Nearly instant gastronomic gratification was mine again.  After 20 minutes of course, the muffin was just about defrosted.   I ate it standing up in my kitchen, staring at my brand new microwave oven and wondered how many days would go by before I’d start using it.

 

 

On the day the microwave blew up, the boy developed an uncontrollable craving for popcorn. 

Microwave popcorn.

We had none in the house.  We never had it in the house.  4 out of 4 family members preferred ice cream instead of popcorn.  There was plenty of ice cream in the freezer. Suddenly there was no ice cream love to be found. Without a microwave, 4 out of 4 family members now longed for microwave popcorn.

 

The microwave had been misbehaving for quite some time.  Arcing and sparking and randomly scaring the living daylights out of me with its loud, eruptive caterwauling.  Unpredictable and infrequent, this behavior was easily ignored.  Tired of not being taken seriously, the microwave, at last, angrily threw its biggest fit ever-an epic, raging tantrum, spewing forth the most unpleasant smell as a final, emphatic exclamation point.

The normally handy husband briefly feigned interest in fixing the microwave but ultimately announced it permanently disabled.   My normally frugal self refused to allocate funds to replace an item so many people in history had managed to live quite well without.   And so for nearly a year I poured the Beefaroni into a saucepan and placed it on top of the stove. Leftover enchiladas were reheated in a baking dish in the oven.  I set my frozen English muffin out an hour before breakfast to defrost.  I’ve eaten one frozen microwave meal in those long months-it took me 45 minutes to cook in the oven on a cookie sheet.

And nearly once a week, someone mentioned how nice a little microwave popcorn would taste.

 

Santa brought me a microwave this year.  The normally handy husband installed it.  My normally frugal self was pleased Santa found a good sale.  And then it sat.  Unused. I stared at it while I ate my defrosted blueberry muffin and for so many days after that.  Finally, on movie night, the boy suggested we get some microwave popcorn. 

We popped 4 bags of popcorn that night.  My new microwave and I, still unfamiliar with each other, managed to burn two of them to the point that not a single kernel was salvageable. The other two bags we shared.  4 out of 4 family members declared the popcorn “fine”.  There were leftovers.

The next morning I got up and set my frozen English muffin on the counter top to defrost. I told myself this would give me time to drink some coffee. I made oatmeal on the stove top.  I told myself it was almost as fast as the microwave and it was fun to stir.  For lunch I reheated leftover pizza in the oven.  I told myself I liked how the crust didn’t get soggy this way.  For dinner I baked potatoes for over an hour at 400 degrees.  I told myself I’d have plenty of time to prepare the toppings and help the kids with homework while they baked.  

 And that night I heard someone call out, “Hey, do we have any ice cream?”

 

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My new favorite cookbook is How to Cook Everything-the basics by Mark Bittman.  If you only wanted to own one cookbook, this would be a great candidate.  If you want to own more than one cookbook, check out Mark Bittman’s other cookbooks. They are all fantastic.

 

 

5th Generation

The baby girl crawled over to the boy, balanced on her knees and lifted her hands toward him. 

This was not a shy baby. It was immediately clear that ignoring her was not going to be an option for the boy. 

It mattered not that she had just met him.  It mattered not that he looked down at her as if she were an alien species. It mattered not that he preferred appearing aloof, thinking instead of food and video games and how much he wished he were somewhere else.  That baby held her head high, looked him straight in the eye and stood her ground.  She wanted to be picked up and he was the one who was going to do it.

Perhaps it’s unfair to judge the baby by this singular instance.

But, I had seen that look before.  I knew that look.

I had seen it in her mother.  I had seen it in her aunt and cousins.  I had seen it in her grandmother and her sisters.  I had seen it in her great-grandmother.  And without a doubt, I had seen it many, many times in her great-great-grandmother.   This baby girl came from a long line of self assured, confident women who were not afraid to speak up--women who made things happen. When I saw that baby girl reach up to the boy with such expectation, I saw five generations of women flash before my eyes.  It was clear to me that the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

And this baby was quickly growing impatient with the almost 13 year old boy who had yet to pick her up. He stared bewildered, looking down at the baby and then pleaded in my direction with raised eyebrows, big eyes and reluctant face.

 I let him flounder alone under the uncomfortable, resolute, piercing regard of the baby.

The boy did pick up the baby with the grace you would expect of a young one from the male species who has never done such a thing before.  He plopped her unceremoniously down upon the sofa.

Because I am a dues paying member of the Always Looking One Step Ahead Paranoid Mother’s Club I knew that baby was in immediate danger.  She was facing the wrong way and she was going to lean backwards and fall off the sofa.

I yelped out to the boy, “Ahhhh…watch her!  You can’t leave her like that!”

He answered quickly and firmly. “MOM!   I’ve GOT this.   Chill….”

 

And that baby sat content, swaying and tilting and patting the boy’s knee, defying all the natural laws of babies in danger because they are placed backwards on the edge of the sofa.  She looked up at the boy and he grinned at her.  She rewarded him with a new tooth smile and reached her arms up again.  The boy picked her up and sat her in his lap.  The baby played with the boy’s face and they twirled each other’s fingers. She leaned in and he held her tight.

“See Mom?  You worry too much.  It’s all good.”

 

As his mother, I refused to consider the future ramifications of how quickly the preteen boy had been swayed by a cute girl with a pretty smile.  It was hard not to acknowledge, however, how completely he had come under this baby girl’s charming spell and quiet determination. Five minutes earlier he was a dismayed boy intent on avoiding all contact with the unfamiliar, drooling baby.  Yet, now I heard him speak baby talk.  I watched him play peek-a-boo.  I saw him love that baby.

Yes, there was something about that baby girl.  I had seen that personality. I had seen that resolve.  I had seen that girl power.

Yes, I had seen the same look that determined baby girl had.  In fact, I had been seeing it for the last five generations of women who knew how to make things happen.   

And I shook my reserved and jealous head and laughed to myself, “Watch out world.  Here comes another one.”

 

 Check This Out!

This photo of that wonderful baby girl and her grandma, my cousin, was taken by Chantelle from Memories by Chantelle.   Her philosophy Live! Love! Laugh! Photograph! is one that we all should embrace. Every one of you should check out her Facebook page  and if you live near me then you should definitely consider hiring her.  My teenager is a senior this year and Chantelle is my first choice to take her senior pictures. She is truly, without a doubt, a gifted photographer and you would be so lucky to have her photograph you and your family.  I mean, really, tell me that priceless picture below doesn't make you smile....

 

 

Not So Different

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was stunning.


She entered the courtroom in absolute possession of determination, self-assurance and flair. The fabric of her African dress swished and flowed as she marched to the front of the room. She flung her brightly colored wrap around her shoulders before she raised her right hand. As she took her seat, she adjusted her perfectly matched head wrap.

I suppose you could call her an imposing figure-her height, her confidence and the abundance of deep purple, magenta and orange fabric she was wrapped in all demanded your attention. Yet, it was the intensity and pinpoint focus of her eyes that caught my attention.



We couldn’t have been more different.

She owned the room while I shifted awkwardly in my chair. She was tall, black and elegantly African. I was short, white and wearing comfortable Nike shoes and mom jeans. Her oversized orange hoop earrings hung from her ears. I fingered my ears and tried to remember where my stud pearls were. We were not just different physically. Geographically, politically, economically and philosophically we were born into opposite ends of the worldwide spectrum.

Yet here we sat, 20 feet from each other--her fate was in my hands.



Her history brought her to the United States, where, many years later, she found herself fighting to prove her innocence. As the lawyers presented their sides, it was clear the case was quite complicated on many levels. The testimony required interpreters for the French and Arabic languages as well as a few unique African dialects. The difference in cultural nuances and traditions often clouded the facts and made testimony quite unclear and certainly more complex. Even the simple definition of “friend” was never quite nailed down. Each day I found myself in a whirlpool of African immigrant history, tradition and culture mixing with the spirit, routine and resolve present in their current, very American lives. It was my job to filter it all through the American judicial system.







Later, I would find out she lived not far from me-just a few miles. I wondered if we shopped at the same stores. I wondered if she was being a good mother to her kids.

Later, I would find out the incident took place half a block from where my daughter was considering going to college. I drove past the door they said she stormed out of. I recognized the very place they said she became guilty. I saw the very place she became bloodied.

Later, I would look up news reports of the incident. Later, I would be shocked at how much information was ruled inadmissible in court. Later, I would wonder if it would have made a difference in the outcome.







But sitting in my jury chair, I knew the only possible answer was “NOT GUILTY”. Was it possible she was guilty? Maybe. Was it proven? Not at all.

When I left that courthouse I went home to cook dinner for my husband and children. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Most of all I wondered: Did she leave that courthouse and go home to cook dinner for her husband and children, too? Was it possible that we really weren’t that different after all?





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I’m currently in an “at-one-time-messed-up-rock star/actor” biography reading stage. Somewhere near all of these books on the shelf at the library I found this little gem of a book. Why is My Mother Getting a Tattoo? And Other Questions I Wish I Never Had to Ask by Jancee Dunn. Dunn, many years a rock journalist, is pretty darn amusing in this book of essays. I can’t imagine anyone not finding a bit of humor in her takes on life, her parents, and her siblings and how they all mesh together now that she might be called, by some, middle aged. It’s a quick read and was well worth my time—you should check it out!

Empty Your Pockets

Considering the public nature of the echoing rotunda, I thought his bellowing was a bit too dramatic. “For GOD’S sake! You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”, he yelled to the ceiling. His eyeballs rolled. He huffed.

Given the inherent tension of the situation, I found his hollering was a bit too alarmist. “Did one of you ACTUALLY put TWO Advil…and ONLY two Advil… into this pink plastic bin, send it through THEEE x-ray machine at THISSS courthouse?” He held the pink bin up high, for all to see, and shook his head, in disgust, from side to side.

And seeing a lack of any real threat from my apparent faux pas, I felt his vocal drama was just plain gratuitous. “Is this supposed to be FUNNY? Some sort of attempt at-----humor?” He narrowed his now frowning eyes as he glared at each of us in line.

It was clear the man in the security uniform was annoyed.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, though. I was trying to get to jury duty on time.


I had rushed through the courthouse doors carrying my reusable grocery bag. It had appealing pictures of fruit on the outside and was full to the brim with my lunch, a Regis Philbin biography, some yarn and a crochet hook.

I saw the dour warning signs the minute I entered the building. “STOP! EMPTY EVERYTHING FROM YOUR POCKETS! Place items in plastic bin and proceed to x-ray machine. ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING MUST BE EMPTIED FROM YOUR POCKETS!”

I fingered the two Advil in my jeans pocket. Hmmmm….it was just two Advil.

"YES! WE REALLY DO MEAN EVERYTHING!" the next sign said

The Advil quickly went into a pink plastic bin. I threw my purse into my fruit bag and waited in the slow moving security line. I had plenty of time to read the list of courthouse prohibited items. Striving to be a model juror, I had left my guns and knives at home. Also, thank goodness, I had not packed my skateboard, expandable baton, darts, syringes, corkscrew, stink bombs or fashionable metallic belt into my fruit bag. The last item on the prohibited list, however, caught my eye.

Knitting needles. They were not allowed.

I thought of my crochet hook hidden in the bottom of my fruit bag. I thought of all the trouble I could cause with my crochet hook that would most definitely be frowned upon.

I approached the x-ray machine and mindlessly sent my pink bin and two Advil through the x-ray machine. I anxiously put my fruit bag on the conveyor belt. I turned to the lady watching the camera and immediately confessed my guilt. “I’ve got a crochet hook in there.”

I waited to be apprehended.

She smiled at me. “That’s ok, honey. As long as you don’t have knitting needles you’re good to go.” Shocked, I shouted “REALLY??” inside my own head. I proceeded through the metal detector, a bit disturbed how easily I had conjured up crochet hook mayhem and a bit disturbed that they would have let me have a go at it.


I passed through security with a sense of relief and freedom, grabbing my cleared fruit bag. My bubble of relief was quickly burst by his bellowing. My stomach turned when I realized my security battle was not over. The crowd watched as I began negotiations to free my Advil hostages.

“Well, I’ll be! 23 years on this job and I thought I’d seen it all. Lady! What were you thinking?”

“But…well….the sign…it said EVERYTHING. So I emptied everything…”

“Lady! Do you have any idea the stuff that gets put in these bins every day? You’d better wash those off before you take them.”

I nervously chuckled and promised I would wash my Advil, which I was now in great need of. I walked away, toward the stairs, as quickly as would still seem normal. Unfortunately, he was not done.

“Hey, Advil lady!” he called out. “On second thought, I wouldn’t take those Advil at all. You really wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff I see come through in those bins. Bad stuff…..very bad stuff.” he said sternly. “We’ve got some really crazy people coming through this courthouse every day…..I’m just sayin’.”

And then he turned toward his security partner and said louder than I hope he had intended, “How nuts was that? I’ve seen some crazy stuff, but I never thought I’d see someone do that…….”



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 I recently read the thought provoking book, The Submission: A Novel, by Amy Waldman. A work of fiction, The Submission deals with a contest to design the 9/11 memorial in New York City. A jury judges the entries that were submitted, blindly, without knowing the architects’ identities. The winning design is ultimately revealed to have been created by a Muslim. While I did find the book slow in a few places and I wasn’t sure I liked the ending, I did find it incredibly interesting and timely. It tackled what is a very complicated topic quite well. Where would you stand? Are you sure?

Flat Tire

The freeway shoulder we were trapped on was no wider than the width of our small car. Wedged against the low concrete barrier, the boy and I peered out of the car windows to the river and train tracks far below the bridge we were on. The boy appeared unfazed by our precarious predicament and went back to playing his hand held video game. I was very much fazed by this predicament and began one of those secret silent internal prayers.


The trees were flying by at 60 miles an hour when the husband and I knew the tire was flat. Aided by my loud, reactionary recommendation to, “Do something!” the driving husband managed to limp our car from the far left lane of the freeway to the shoulder on the right hand side of the freeway. The car was rolling on the rim and was not making pleasant noises. We could see that the upcoming exit was quite long, shoulderless, downhill and one big curvy blind spot. Aided by my loud, spur of the moment conclusion that “Oh this isn’t good –ALL the stopping spots are bad!” the husband decided the skinny shoulder was at it’s widest just before the exit. This is where he would have to change the flat tire. He expertly eased the car to within a few inches of the side of the bridge we were on, aided of course, by my loud helpful screams of, “Ahhhhh…YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THE CONCRETE WALL!”

The husband waited for a break in traffic, got out of the car and ran like a track star back to the trunk. As he began unloading the jack and the mini-spare tire, a semi truck exited the freeway, covering the husband in freeway dust, vibrating fear right through me and leaving the boy completely unfazed. The dusty husband, jack and mini-spare in hand, waited again for a break in traffic and then ran up to the flat front left tire. For the next half hour, the husband kept one eye on the speeding traffic and one eye on his tire changing duties. He alternated 20 second intervals of tire changing with running, in calculated self preservation, for the marginally safer shoulder. And each time he ran, he was aided by my muffled, involuntary, inside the car sputterings of, “Oh, I don’t like this one bit!” and “Holy crap! That was a close one!”

In a somewhat incoherent panic, I turned to the unfazed, video game playing boy in the back seat. “This …it’s..bad…really, really……… not…good.”

Without looking up he muttered, “Why?”

My eyes widened to their limit and I shook my bossy finger toward him. I firmly informed him that his father could be hit by a semi truck at any minute. And that would be very bad.

The unfazed, video game playing boy then said, “Oh, it could be much worse than that, mom. A semi truck could hit dad and then hit our car, pushing us up over that small ledge right there. We could be pushed off the bridge and fall all the way down to the railroad tracks. We could then get run over by an oncoming train that just might possibly cause an explosion. That explosion could cause the bridge to collapse and create a crater that we would fall into only to have the bridge pieces fall down to bury us forever. OR…maybe we’d be thrown into the river where we would drown before anyone could get to us."


The husband got back in the car in one dusty, greasy piece. He started to drive away, aided by my new conservative, mini spare driving requirements. The husband turned to me and said, “Well, that was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

 I shrugged my shoulders and non chalantly said, “Oh I don’t know…..seems to me it could have been much worse……”


Check This Out!


My recent Johnny Cash obsession has led to a Highwaymen obsession. Willie, Waylon and Kris along with Johnny performed in the late 1980's and 1990's. Check out live versions of two of my favorites.

The Onion Gave Me Away

It is not my intention to cause alarm. I do, however, feel you should be warned.

The teenagers….they know.

They have found out our secret.

The jig is up.



I first became aware of this issue during a typical suburban carpool. The teenagers in my car were all enrolled in driver’s education classes. They assured me they were all very good drivers. As I approached an intersection, I turned on my signal. I jokingly asked the girls, “So how far before an intersection should you turn on your turn signal?” The girls all yelled out in unison, “100 feet!”

“Really? 100 feet?” I blurted out, surprised and wondering to myself how far 100 feet was.

I was informed that my signal was turned on 50 feet before the intersection. The car full of teenagers pursed their lips and shook their heads in disgust. They told my teenager not to worry. Their parents were all bad drivers too.

I knew those teenagers were wrong. I was a good driver. I had years of experience. Besides, they’re lucky I turned on my signal at all. It’s not like there was anyone behind me.



I sat in the passenger seat while the teenager drove to her driver’s education class the next morning. As we approached the school where her class took place I saw that we were in a long line of cars. Every car obeyed the speed limit. Every car used their turn signal. Every car carefully negotiated turns, avoided tailgating and stayed between the lines. Every car had a “student driver” sign in the rear window and was driven by a teenager.

After dropping off the teenagers, the parents ripped the student driver sign off the rear window and jumped into the driver’s seat, desperate to reclaim the control they had lost. And then they floored it. The gas pedal. And they dialed. Their phones. And they reached for it. Their coffee. And they raced out of the parking lot ignoring their partially airborne car that had just been launched off of the speed bump they had ignored. They turned the corner onto the main road flying right past the strongly suggestive stop sign. And their right tire strayed over the white line as they sped 10 miles over the speed limit down the road 6 feet off the bumper of the car in front of them.

I looked at those speeding drivers in front of me with pursed lips, shaking my head in disgust. And as I reached down to change the radio station button I thought to myself, “Those teenagers were right. Their parents really are bad drivers.



Later that afternoon I called the teenager out of the house to help me unload my newly purchased groceries from the trunk of the car. When the trunk lid was open the teenager and I both stared at the mess before us. The bags were turned over and much of their contents were strewn across the floor of the trunk. I rebagged the groceries. Except the onion. I was too short to reach the stray onion that had lodged itself in the farthest reaches of the trunk. As the taller teenager stretched her arm to reach the onion she looked at me with pursed lips, shaking her head in disgust. “So how fast did you take that last corner, mom?”


My jig was up.

The teenager thought I was a bad driver.

As we both hauled groceries into the house I realized that I had to make some changes. I was ashamed. I mean really? What kind of modern car trunk doesn’t have one of those grocery catching nets installed? I’d have to get me one.




Check This Out!


Speaking of onions, I made a tasty new sauce the other day based on a recipe from Mario Batali’s great cookbook, Molto Italiano-327 Simple Italian Recipes to Cook at Home. It was on page 341. Turkey and pork meatballs made with fresh bread crumbs, rosemary and hot red pepper flakes are baked first and then simmered for an hour in this sauce.

¼ cup olive oil (I used a bit less)
3 red onions, thinly sliced (yes, 3)
6 cloves of garlic thinly sliced (I used 8)
1 TBL hot red pepper flakes
1 cup dry red wine (I used beef broth)
1 sprig rosemary (I threw in some dry…1 tsp?)
2 cups basic tomato sauce (there is a recipe on page 71 of the book…I got lazy and just used canned plain sauce-probably close to 4 cups worth, some thyme and some garlic)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat the olive oil in a large ovenproof skillet or stockpot until almost smoking. Add the onions and garlic and reduce the heat to medium. Cook until well browned, at least 5 minutes. Add the red pepper flakes and wine and rosemary. Bring to a boil and cook until the wine is reduced by half. Add the tomato sauce and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Add the meatballs to the sauce and place the pan in a 350 degree oven for one hour. Season with salt and pepper. Topped with Italian parsley if you wish. (We served ours over linguine.)

Hempfest, Tattoos and a Little Bit Hammered

The man was clearly hammered. Smashed. Plastered.

Certainly, most intoxicated.

And he was standing right in front of the door to the bar.

“Gewwd afternoon ladiessss.” he politely slurred. As the teenager and I approached the entrance to the bar the man’s eyes widened. “Don’t you ladies know it’s only 3 in the afternoooon?”

“Oh, we’re not going to the bar.” I told the man.

He seemed relieved. And then he gestured toward the teenager, “I th-thought she was a little young for a bar.”

The man backed up as the pony tailed teenager and her unassuming forty something mother walked past him, walked past the bar and walked next door to the tattoo parlor. And when that man saw the teenager and I walk into the tattoo parlor, his eyes widened again, he steadied himself against the wall and he started muttering to no one in particular.




I told the owner of the tattoo parlor that he had missed our appointment two nights before. I told him it was the first time I had been to a tattoo parlor at 10:30 on a Saturday night. I was surprised to find his shop closed when I arrived.

Looking a bit sheepish he chuckled awkwardly, “Um…yeah…we were working Hempfest, you know, in the city, and…..well, we just got so busy…...SO busy….and I didn’t get back to the shop until like, midnight or something. I’m sorry, you know, it was….it was…..Hempfest.”

There were quite a few people in the shop that day. All were inked up. All were staring at the teenager and me. All were waiting for my response.

“Well yeah….wow….Hempfest. “ I said. “Never been myself but I bet you do get a lot of business there.”

The shop was completely silent. The really, really tattooed guy in the corner smiled at me. The slightly less tattooed lady next to him smiled at me. The owner smiled at me and finally said, “Hey, let’s get that advertisement taken care of. I was going to write you a check but Joey took the shop checkbook. I can give you cash though. I’ve got Hempfest money from Saturday. Is that ok?”



The teenager and I walked out of the tattoo parlor having successfully sold an advertisement for her high school soccer program. As we walked back to the car, the teenager held a tattoo picture in her hand. I held a wad of Hempfest cash in my hand. The hammered man was still in front of the bar and perked up when he saw us. He swayed a bit and walked toward us. He lifted one shaking hand and pointed at the teenager. “I’ll tell you summmthing. She! She…is tooooo young for a tattoo!”

“Yes, yes she is.” I told the man. I put my arm around the teenager to steer her around the hammered man. I saw the pale, untouched, ink free skin of my arm. And I must say, it looked a little bit naked.



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Guilty pleasures of late: The Johnny Cash movie (and soundtrack) Walk the Line with Reese Witherspoon and Joaquin Phoenix. The Rob Lowe autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends. And toasted pesto, turkey and havarti sandwiches on sourdough bread. I enjoyed all of these things. You should check them out.