Things

In the process of decluttering my house--a Sisyphean task, for sure--I keep encountering things that I've saved because of their stories: where I got them, who gave them to me, the places they remind me of...I know, I know: memories are in your head, and getting rid of the THINGS doesn't rob you of them. But. There's something to be said for being surrounded by your memories and souvenirs. I don't know about anyone else, but I tend to forget things. Sometimes it takes something concrete to cause that memory to bestir itself. A book, a picture, a piece of jewelry--they all are able to kick-start a trip back to wherever they came from. They are a sort of portal to the past, where people and places and experiences come alive again.

A History of Things

Who will know,

when I am gone,

that this hooked rug was the one inside the door

of your great-grandmother’s pantry,

or that this turquoise stone and silver

spiral ring

was the first present your father gave me

on our honeymoon, as we browsed through Santa Fe?

Will anyone see this rug we found in Seville,

or remember buying the rabbit painting in Detroit

when we were killing time before the Farley wedding,

or tell the story of the Dutch “painting” and Windsor rocker

we found in Rancho Santa Fe?

Who will name the faces in the album

and the scenery we captured,

or know how we bought this wooden bowl

at that shop in Lake Louise,

or that I won this red enamel cookware

in a contest on a TV show?

As I walk through

this house of small memories

that built the life I’ve loved,

I can read so many stories:

the places, people, trips, events,

and bits of everyday…

Perhaps I should mark them all

with tiny unobtrusive notes,

for who will remember as they pack my things?

Perhaps not even I.

Cooking 101

I am beginning to figure out that, after 40 years of doing it, I know very little about cooking. This is absolutely inexcusable, particularly considering my scientific background. For forty-odd years, I have been assembling and mixing ingredients and accepting that sometimes things work, and sometimes they don’t. You’d think I might have had just the least smidgen of curiosity about my failures—but…no. I just put those recipes behind me and tried something different. What happened to my spirit of experimentation, my scientific method, the old routine of isolating variables and pinning down the guilty parties in the experiment? I dunno. I guess that I fell prey to the generally-accepted-by-students ‘cookbook’ style of experimentation. I guess there’s a reason for that terminology.

Behind this epiphany is a confluence of two events: first, I watched Alton Brown’s program on the Food Network. The guy is a nutcase, but he has an engaging way of actively researching a recipe and figuring out what makes it tick. The episode I caught was his quest for the perfect cupcake, which took him from today’s obsession with designer cupcakes back through the history of cupcakes, and finally, to what makes the perfect cupcake. The historical and cultural trivia reeled me in, and his cupcake analysis taught me a number of lessons that I’m itching to put into practice the next time I’m called upon to produce cupcakes. Which may be never.

Second, I picked up a magazine: American Classics, put out by Cook’s Illustrated. Okay. I admit it. One of the things I NEVER make is fried chicken. I am incapable of producing decent fried chicken. And, while I know it’s not good for us, I would like occasionally to be able to serve it. Where better to find a foolproof (and I mean that literally) recipe than in a magazine purporting to deal with American Classics? I got more than I bargained for.

As I paged through the magazine, I found recipes for all sorts of items, but…in addition to the recipes, I found serious articles explaining the characteristics most prized in the dish and how to obtain them. This was serious research and experimentation, analysis of methods and ingredients and procedures. These food scientists were actually cooking, evaluating, discarding and re-working recipes until they got the desired results. After all these years, someone was doing the science!

Naturally, I was stunned by this approach. One would have thought that I’d have embraced it long ago—but the fact is that cooking is too labor-intensive and time-dependent for me to work at a recipe till I got it right. Far easier to try, fail, blame the recipe and find one that works better. Far easier to forsake experimentation (where one’s family might tire of the search for the perfect corn muffin) and move on. Which is what I have done for lo, these many years.

In any case, I read the background on key lime bars, and followed the trail of the intrepid food scientist who was tracking the perfect crust, the perfect filling, the perfect garnish. Along the way, I learned why she did what she did. I followed her procedure, and produced the best key lime bars I’ve ever tasted. Man, there is something TO this science thing!

Who knew that key lime juice and fresh Persian lime juice could be used interchangeably? That the bottled variety of either produced a trace of bitterness in the filling? Why do you use condensed milk in this stuff? Who knew that a little cream cheese helped the consistency of the filling—or that an egg yolk improved it, but a whole egg didn’t?

What makes this all even more interesting is that I now see why certain recipes have specific directions—and I can guiltily remember taking shortcuts and being disappointed with my results. Telling me authoritatively to do something encourages me to rebel; telling me WHY to do something in a particular way gives me the option to take the shortcut, but lets me know why it might not be the best idea.

I am now ready to plunk down my money for a subscription to Cook’s Illustrated, and cancel my ladies’ magazines. (Well, I might have to keep Southern Living and Sunset: they have test kitchens…) I am far more interested in their analyses—and recommendations!-- of ingredients and tools than I am in what Julia Roberts has to say about being a mom, or whether Brad Pitt changes diapers in the Brangelina household. This is science I can use.

I’m a tolerable cook now, but with the strength of science behind me, I might become an amazing cook. I might even learn how to produce that American classic—fried chicken.

...And another poem...

Hack

I have a cough…

or the cough has me:

a tickle, a prickle, a reflex:

undeniable, unavoidable,

muffled and smothered

for a moment

but exploding without warning

of its own accord.

in its own sweet time and place.

It clears the airways

of amorphous obstructions

in repeated blasts--

making way for welcome clarity

which never lasts for long.

It is a painful experience.

It can be faked—if all you want is attention—

(Ahem!)

but the best kind is productive

and comes from deep within,

irrepressible,

in the dark of night or the light of day,

deep and natural,

assertive

and meaningful.

It is a sleep thief--

at its worst early and late--

is loud and disruptive,

aching, exhausting,

and can be contagious.

(Writing is a cough.)

Lucky

I think it's time to buy a lottery ticket. I've had an extraordinary run of fortunate occurrences in the past week--perhaps to make up for the miserable coughing bug I have been harboring since the end of July, though I never expect things to be evened out quite that neatly. In all sorts of minor ways, good things have been happening. Recipes have been turning out well, plants have cooperated by blooming when they were supposed to, normally arduous appointments have turned out to be less so. Stoplights wink green when they see my car approaching, rain confines itself to when I am indoors, my cleaning lady returned from vacation a week earlier than I expected..and parking spaces amazingly appear when I need them. Funny.

I'm beginning to suspect, however, that it may not be luck that is following me, but--more likely--an attitude adjustment. Like the proverbial 'half-empty, half-full' argument, so much depends on our point of view. Who knows but that, as my ceaseless coughing dials back, I'm more optimistic and am seeing more of the good side of things? It also may be the eternal optimism of September, when everything revs up once more, and we are all convinced that this year will be different. It may be the relief from the oppressive heat and humidity of August, when nothing seems easy or worth pursuing. Whatever it is, though, I am glad of it.

Happy birthday

This week is my daughter's birthday. Once again, she is too far away for me to share a birthday lunch or dinner with her, or for me to bake her an angel food cake and buy her favorite ice cream and watch her face as she blows out candles and laughs with her friends and family. I am too far away to make this day as special for her as she made it for me and her dad 34 years ago. She is a grown woman with a daughter of her own--and this, in some ways, makes me think that she will understand how I feel on her birthday: as if I can't give her a present big enough or important enough to match what she has given me and her dad through the 34 years of her life.

What does a child give a parent? It's easy to enumerate the bad things: sleepless nights, the worry, the frustrations, the money drain, the uncertainties, the late nights, that first day at school when she boards the bus alone, and--it seems like the next day-- the anxiety over handing the car keys to that inexperienced driver, the late night phone calls, the missed curfews, the cuts and bruises and trips to the ER... But beyond helping me find my inner nag (and my frightening connections to my own parents) our daughters have brought us so much more.

They gave us responsibility. What mother does not remember a moment when she looked at that tiny bundle of sweetly sleeping baby and thought--or said--that nothing was ever going to harm that child as long as she was around? Who hasn't flung an arm across a car seat to protect a child in a sudden stop? Or turned themselves into a "no-no" machine when their toddler started exploring things like stairs and stoves and bathroom cupboards? We were responsible for their lives and safety. And they trusted us with the trust that only a child can have--and only a mother or dad could accept.

They gave us pride. Pride in things over which they had no control ("Oh, isn't she CUTE??") and things that we taught them and things they came up with, all on their own. Pride in the young women they turned out to be--intelligent, beautiful, talented, and--above all, kind and thoughtful and considerate and funny women who we're proud to call friends as well as daughters.

They gave us purpose. Not that we didn't have things to do and places to go and mountains of our own to climb..but they gave it all more meaning. We had to be someone they could look up to, for whatever reason. We had to be worthy of them. We wanted them to be proud of us, as we were proud of them.

Graduations, jobs, independence...all of these were gifts, too: affirmations that we didn't screw up too badly as parents. One of the greatest gifts we have received is our daughters' willingness to introduce us to their friends, and their acceptance of us as more than just parents. We've often said that our goal in raising our children was to raise adults whom we would like to hang out with, not because we HAD to, but because they were good to be around. We have succeeded in that.

So, Kay--and Sarah!--thank you. Thank you for the laughter and the learning, the adventures and the discoveries. Thank you for stories and the memories and the big moments and the small ones. Thank you for the drawings on the refrigerator and the cards and the phone calls, for the celebrations and the sad times, because all of them combine to make you what you are and always have been: the light of our lives and the best gifts any parents could have. Happy birthday to you--and for us.

And just in case you think writing was one of those things that fell by the wayside...

Afternoon Tea

I have spent too long

in a world of coffee mugs;

I am ready to return

to teacups:

delicate china teacups,

light as whispers,

fragile as our secret dreams;

cups filled with music,

the song of silver spoons.

Coffee mugs swagger

and speak in boastful tones

of deals made and checklists scored,

of long dark nights

of cigarettes and crumpled papers.

Give me instead

a vellum sheet of poetry,

a thimble of sherry,

a tiered plate of artful sandwiches

and

a perfect strawberry,

clothed in chocolate,

a cup of amber tea.

Learn to love the process...maybe.

And here it is: August! Somehow the summer has drifted away, along with all my good intentions. The poetry book is still unfinished, the third floor is still the same old mess, as is the storage facility, and my closets and dressers and cabinets. I think my problem is that I like the CONCEPT of organization, but not the process. If only organization depended only on having all the required tools!

And so, despite my instinctive aversion to (and general disregard for) To Do lists (I DO make them, but usually when I'm on the verge of melt-down and need to really see where I stand vis-a-vis deadlines) the time has come to draw a line in the sand (or dust, if we're talking about my house) and decide what really has to be accomplished.

Automate the watering system in the garden.

Plant the planters that flank the door.

Figure out a storage solution for the patio.

Finish the damned poetry book and send it off for publication.

Get rid of the tons of clothes, books, paper, junk that inhabits all the nooks and crannies of this house.

Streamline the kitchen.

Find chairs for the TV room.

Clear storage area of all the stuff we will never use. Or the girls will never claim.

Get rid of the upstairs PC and get the network printer attached to the network.

Take the classes on the Mac that I've been meaning to take since December.

There. That should keep me busy for the next millenium. :)