memories

For the Love of Food

Aug

I was just thinking about a series of texts between Tall Skinny Girl and myself. Um, I’m beginning to notice that when I’m texting, I’m complaining. Just an observation. Anyway, we were kvetching about summer meal time planning and grocery shopping. Which lead to the mention of BLTs, which I declared an official food of my parents. TSG agreed, saying it always makes her home sick when she eats them. I replied, “I can’t eat an egg salad sandwich without thinking of your mom.” And I kind of got misty eyed.

I’m not kidding.

The powerful food memories had begun. Why egg salad? I lived with TSG the last half of my senior year. Her mom not only let me stay with them (my family moved to Texas), but she packed me a lunch every day. Egg salad was my favorite. TSG and I both had half days our senior year and we went to work at our respective jobs after lunch. We would sit in the Bronco and eat and make plans. Power 102. Boys. Graduation. Downtown Anchorage. The triangle sandwich squished together. The feel of the vinyl and upholstery of the front bench of the bronco. All of these things are instantly in my mind when egg salad is present. Egg salad is love where you don’t expect it.

Most of the time the memories are the first time I ate something. I have this hazy memory of eating a bagel for the first time. Like in 1980 probably. We drove all the way up from the peninsula into Anchorage and I remember getting out of the car and walking into the bagel sandwich shop, which for 1980 Anchorage was extremely exotic. It was probably the first time I felt “cultured.” Yes, it was that big of a deal. Mom, is this even a real memory?

I have an entire repertoire of brownie stories that involve Tall Skinny Girl. Floating a pan in a hot tub, smashing one into someone’s carpet, and a dancing brownie. Brownies are the language of my life, the truest expression of familiarity.

Nutella? Awkwaphobia. She’s there in the back of my mind, dancing, and eating it by the spoonful. I also can’t get her out of my mind if there are beans and corn tortillas present. That was the happiest college meal. Our tiny basement apartment, Dave Matthews band, baseball hats, flannel and ripped jeans. Nutella means good times and good friends.

I have this amazingly saccharine picture in my mind of my family in Singapore. We’re all little kids and we can’t leave the giant lazy susan alone in the middle of our table. We’re sweaty and the smells are unfamiliar, as are the languages and sounds. Chopsticks and soup spoons and soy sauce, and the best pork buns I’ve ever had in my life.

Chinese food, isn’t it about time?

I don’t know why I find these all so comforting. There are more, so many more. Don’t even get me started on my Thailand food nostalgia. Even though it’s not exactly healthy for food and emotions to run so close, I kind of don’t care. It makes me wonder what my kids will deem “mom food” in 20 years. I’m pretty sure it will be tied up with sugar, butter, and flour. Pretzels. Fries.

It’s my carb laden legacy.

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Mad Dad Airlines

Sep

I’m Angry Baker, and I’m an aggressive driver.

I didn’t really plan to be this way. It just kind of happened.

See, when I was a kid, my brothers and I used to joke about flying Mad Dad Airlines. (We joked to hide our terror.) My dad was frequently maniacal behind the wheel. He would wave his angry hands, call people names, speed up next to the offender, and work tirelessly to teach the other guy a lesson. You get the idea. I hated this as a kid. It made me nervous and quite scared on occasion. I swore I would never let driving a car get the best of me.

Do you like how I am decisively placing blame? Me too.

Well, 25 years later, guess who flies the Angry Baker Skies? I like to think that I’m not as intense as my dad was, but every once in a while, MB will mutter something like, Bad Mad Schmairlines, or something. (Don’t worry Dad, you’ll always be my favorite pilot.)

And there was the one time he outright told me I had to stop freaking out in the car – for the sake of the children (my poor sheltered little souls). I don’t know that I would call it freaking out, it’s more like being assertive. So, I drive a little too fast. I gesture frequently. I indicate where people have come from – or perhaps where I’d like them to go. Sometimes I give them pet names. I just know where I’m going and someone is almost always in my way. My kids (the poor sheltered ones) think that “idiot” means another fellow driver.

“Look at all these idiots mom!”

“That’s right kiddos, they’re allllllll idiots,”

Don’t even get me started on people that don’t know how to park. (Which reminds me, exactly when are we going to get our hovercrafts? We children of the 80s grew up knowing we would have flying cars. Somebody get on that.)

This is where I sigh and slump my shoulders. Another tally for Angry Baker’s bad side.

Cookies, anyone?

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The Professional

Jul

I like hanging out on the front porch. So that’s where I found myself the other day. On the porch, hanging out with the girls. It was so hot and muggy that we could barely move. I think I was just forcing official summer time on us all. But anyway, I digress, the heat has nothing to do with this.

I’ve been planting seeds with the kids about me working and/or going back to school, so while we were lazing about, I decided I should engage Maxine in my thought process.

“So, Maxine, I’m thinking I’m going back to school – to college – to get another degree or something. I’m trying to think about what kind of job I would like. What do you think I would be good at?” I avoid my desire to parse it out more, graduate degrees, certifications, standardized tests, careers, etc.

“Oh I know! You should be a doctor so I can have all of my check ups at home and I never have to go to the office to get shots.” She is thrilled with her own brilliance.

“But, one big problem: I don’t want to be a doctor. I don’t like blood and guts stuff. And doctors keep dealing with poop and I’ve had enough of that.” It’s best to always include a bowl movement reference when talking to Maxine. It helps her focus.

“Okay. Well, you should be a vet!” Because I don’t know what a vet does, she starts acting like neighborhood animals. [click to continue…]

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Real Simple

Jul

I kinda hate that mag because it’s not very simple at all, is it? It makes me feel behind, unorganized, and it makes me wonder for far too long what 20 different things I could do with a clothespin.

But this was simple. 10 seconds simple.

We’ve had a few plastic bins of sea shells (from our beach trip) lying around that I couldn’t bear to throw away. They were picked so carefully. I feel calm when I look at them. I brainstormed and thought maybe I could strand them on some string and make garland, but really, I don’t live in a beach cottage.

Lightbulb: I need a soap dish. I grabbed the biggest one yesterday and threw it in the shower. TA-DA! Works like a charm. Not ingenious, creative, or new, but it made me happy. And it seems so at home in a place of water, and it makes me smile to look at it and remember this beachy moment: [click to continue…]

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Sunday Threads: Anniversary Edition

Apr

It’s Sunday and it’s Easter. It’s also the 12th anniversary of my marriage to Marijuana Boy. Did you forget that’s what MB stands for? I’ll tell you what, when you’re as neurotic as me you need some narcotic to take the edge off. We’re a good pair. [click to continue…]

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Let’s Bury the Hatchett Baby

Mar

You want to know something kind of embarrassing? Of course you do.

A couple of nights ago MB and I were having one of our darkness talks (we go to bed, can’t sleep and then we chat for a while). We must have been talking about the marriage class, because I remembered “the fight.”

Mb and I don’t fight. Many of you know this. We are luh-vers. No seriously, we don’t fight. We don’t always agree and we have many differences of opinion. But we’ve had ONE fight. THE fight. Back when we were first married. I think it might have only been a couple of weeks since tying the knot, actually. We’ve never talked about it. Not that I can remember. I think it just washed itself away into non-memory land over the years.

So, I say to MB, “Do you remember that time…we did have a…”

“Yes,” MB replies so quickly I don’t think he knows what I’m talking about. But he does. It always freaks me out when he reads my mind.

So we hashed it out. 11.7 years later, we had the talk about what happened and why we were mad. Mb doesn’t remember how it started. I do.

Here’s what started it: Reading his journal. [click to continue…]

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Mellon Collie & The Infinite Sadness

Jan

Sore throat. Pounding head. Restless sleep.

Right before I went to sleep last night I realized my 20 year high school reunion is in 2 years. Totally weird. I’m blaming that thought for the subsequent dream about my high school boyfriend. I’m not going to get into that right now – suffice it to say that “jerk” is the nicest way to describe him. I hate it when he ruins my day after all of these years. I always wake up with an alternate sense of reality and I can’t shake the creepy vibes.

We interrupt this post with the sound of overflowing water from downstairs. Now that you have unclogged the toilet and cleaned up the watery mess, you may return to your regularly scheduled program.

No MB, so zombie mom tries to get the kids fed and dressed and out the door. I (stupidly) do not put boots on the baby, thinking carrying her will work okay. Maybe next time I have that thought it will be followed by a smart thought like, “it’s winter and there is snow and ice all over the sidewalk you idiot.” We stand at the bus stop in the wind and snow, Maxine works on the perfect blend of crying and whining. She is cold. Her life is horrible. She hates school. Dutch’s body gets heavier and my fingers go numb. Just give it another minute….I know we didn’t miss it. 25 minutes is all I can stand. I give up, point the kids back up the hill and begin the pathetic march back to the house. 30 seconds later, whoosh, the bus zooms by without glancing to see if we’re on the street. Typical.

This is all just to say that I’m all gloom. I want to sleep. I’m listening to sad music and thinking too much about Matt – about letting him down, about what his life would be like if he were still alive. I can’t shake the thought of the teenager I saw walking the other morning. He only wore a thin hoodie, he looked away from passing cars, his face pained. The face of someone trying not to cry, but not succeeding. I’ve been wondering for 3 days about that boy. I am worrying about LegoManiac and his soft soul, torn between being a friend and having friends. He poured his little heart out to me last night. He knows that until he distances himself from The Kid Nobody Likes (TKNL) the other kids will have nothing to do with him. But he knows TKNL needs a friend – that he is the only one. I felt like crying with him. So much of life is aching.

I miss the sun.

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Filter FAIL

Jan

As I was typing out my post yesterday, I had one of my random memories. It sprung from my idea to hang a sign from my body proclaiming my hapless ability to insult people without intention of giving offense. It starts with a piece of age-old wisdom:

If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

It’s a useful adage. I’ve said it to my kids a few times, and I think overall it’s good advice. But the problem you can run into, is that sometimes, a response is required. Saying nothing can make you look like a real jerk. Or in my case, saying something because you know you have to say something can make you look like a real jerk. [click to continue…]

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BEWARE OF MOM

Dec

I’m guessing I was about 7 years old when I learned you shouldn’t bother an animal while it’s eating. The animal in question was a dog. A doberman pinscher, to be exact. His name was Josh and he was Nana’s (my great-grandmother) dog. They (my grandparents and Nana) lived in sunny southern CA and had several dogs and grandkids that visited during summers. The other dogs ran free and got played with as if they were baby dolls or horses. We all lived outside in a pack, wading in the plastic pool and drinking grape soda. Josh, however, was always on a leash tied to a stake. He barked viciously and scared the crap out of all of the kids. I don’t think the adults really liked him either. (I was smart enough not to ask why they kept this dog with all of the little kids running around, though I wondered about it all of the time.)

My interaction with Josh was unintentional – a ball had rolled over to his side of the yard and I went to retrieve it. He was eating from his bowl when I heard the growling a few feet away. I didn’t stick around, I am not brave. In my memory it plays out in slow motion. I’m running away and Josh is on my heels, teeth bared and gleaming. The leash catches just before he reaches me and yanks him back down. I want to say that he actually nicked the back of my leg, but I don’t know if that’s true. Nonetheless, it’s a narrow escape. I can’t believe I didn’t pee my pants. I can’t believe that Nana acts like it’s my fault when I tattle on him. He was eating – clearly I should have waited for a better time.

Before you weigh in on whether or not it was a good idea to let us run around with aforementioned dog, let me say this: I absolutely HATE to be bothered or interrupted while I am eating. I did not know this until the last 6 years. I don’t suppose I have to spell it out for you, but just in case your math is fuzzy: [click to continue…]

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A Perfect Moment

Dec

The daily trudge to and from the bus stop is alternately engaging then burdensome. Winter adds to the burden feeling. Hats, mittens, scarves, shoving Dutch’s boots on her wriggly feet. I never know if she will walk directly down to the bus stop or if she will meander, overjoyed by the squirrels or birds. It’s nice, but on late days it means I have to pick her up and she will kick and grunt all the way down the hill. Then we spot the big yellow bus and the flashing lights and we say their names, point, and wave. I use my excited voice to build the anticipation. Then the four of us make the long journey up the hill, and what should take 3 minutes, generally takes about 10. Sometimes there is whining, sometimes there is excited chatter, sometimes all I hear is the lecture they’ve been saving up all day about the deficiencies of their packed lunch.

Yesterday, Dutch and I made it to the bottom of the hill without too much prodding. She runs a bit ahead of me, moving much like a stuffed penguin, her down jacket keeping her arms aloft at her sides. The pink tassel on her hat bobs along with a few curls peeking out from the nape of her neck. It is perfect timing – the bus is pulling up as we reach the stop and Dutch begins to chatter and clap. I lean down and whisper, “I can’t wait for hugs!” and she darts forward, closing the distance between herself and LegoManiac. A quick hug, LM doesn’t do PDA well. Then coaxing from the straggler, Maxine, “I want a hug too!” Little Dutch thows open her arms and grabs for Maxine. Her purple snow boots lift up and the stubby fleece-clad legs wrap around Maxine’s calves. Maxine laughs in the most natural way – wide mouth, throwing her head back. The two little stay-puffed marshmallow girls waddle to and fro, laughing. Maxine yells, “Mom she loves me so much!” My heart is a puddle at my feet.

Not quite a thousand words, but I do not have a picture to share. A perfect moment. It’s comforting to know they exist. It means there’s always something to look forward to.