A Post for Readers Only

This is a post about books. More specifically, this is a post about reading. The two do not necessarily go together.

So, if you just like books, but don't like to read: Come back another time; I often make literary references and like movies too, so that may appeal to your particular aesthetic.

If you like neither books nor reading, you fall into one of two categories: You are my brother Art and someone in the family guilted you into reading this; Or you felt, since you made it out of high school, there was no need to read anything further than video game reviews; in which case...what are you even doing here?

Even Gulliver has his doubts

I'm told everyone has their version of a literary Waterloo -- the book everyone -- everyone -- loved, said was brilliant, won awards, etc. -- that you could not get through*.

My literary Waterloo is 100 Years of Solitude.

This book is also a landmark in my life. Prior to attempting to get through it, I was adamant about reading one book at a time. 

Many people have several books percolating at one time, but not me. I gave each book the respect of my full attention. I'd finish it -- pause at least an hour to mull its impact -- and then.,.only then...begin my new relationship reading matter.

And then I encountered
100 Years of Solitude.

The fact that the first page of the book is a genealogy chart should have prepared me. All the names were similar. I might insert here that I later found out that this WAS DELIBERATE.

What kind of psychopath author tells you on the first page, "This is going to get really confusing and I did that on purpose...because I hate you?" This was an abusive relationship, plain and simple.

Okay. Perhaps I'm projecting a bit.

The fact is, I began 100 Years of Solitude with the idea that I wouldn't begin another book until I finished it.

Months went by as I hacked my way through the South American jungle; at least I think I did. I say it took me months, but actual reading time was minimal. I'd look at the book, consider the book, contemplate what I'd read of the book, realize I was going to have to reread what I'd already read of the book because I'd fallen asleep, and then turn on the TV.

Meanwhile, other enticing books crossed my path, but I had to wave them along. After all, I'd read that everyone else loved it and it won a Pulitzer, for god's sake. Oprah loved it, so surely the problem was with me. 

I fought on, during which the only thing I remember, having completed over half the book, was an unnaturally-old man chained to a tree in a yard.

I know, I know: Blah, blah, blah, magical realism*, blah, blah, blah, hyperbole, blah, blah, blah, metaphor. Like Water for Chocolate didn't torture me like this.

I got all that literary jargon. It's just that...I had to admit: it made me hate reading. And, to me, reading is like breathing.

So I shelved it. 

That's right. For the past five years, I've been cheating on 100 Years of Solitude.

Only now I no longer practice literary monogomy. Oh no --I've opened my reading experience to include multiple relationships all at once. There is my nighttime while-the-lights-are-on book; my Kindle book for when I'm awake in the middle of the night; my audiobook for the commute to work; my audiobook for my commute from work; my weekend binge book; and my non-fiction required reading over breakfast book.

This is what 100 Years of Solitude has done.

It reminds me of the first time I read William Faulkner. It was incomprehensible to me, but for whatever reason I kept at it. I hated it and loved it at the same time. I fought with it and called myself stupid. I almost gave up and, in fact, stopped reading completely for awhile, figuring my future was in something like banking or dog grooming instead of anything requiring words.

And then, Benjy Compson started calling, "Caddy! Caddy!" in my head and I had to go back. And Benjy led me to the maze and beauty of the rest of the prose. Faulkner is never going to be an "easy read;" but eventually, the words begin to take on a rhythm. I found myself talking to myself in Faulknerian. It was worth every backtrack and rereading it took to complete The Sound and the Fury.

So I joined the ranks of the few who absolutely love William Faulkner's work. And that's how my youngest son wound up with a middle name he hates.

I've been in a between-World-Wars books kind of mood lately, but suddenly that old man chained to the tree started calling me.

"Quitter!" he taunts; and then the coup de gras: "Lazy reader!"

Ouch.

And so I'm heading back to South America, armed only with a printout of the genealogy chart.

But, just between you and me, I'm seeing Stella Gibbons on the side.

*James Joyce's Ulysses is not in this category because no human being enjoys reading it. There are entities who claim to adore it, form clubs around it, quote it excessively, and extol its brilliance to whomever will listen. But these are not humans. They are aliens, as is Joyce. Jung  diagnosed Joyce as being a schizophrenic only because the idea of an alien was...ahem...alien to him. Ahem. 

They Said, "Yes!"

I'm not the sentimental type. 

To me The Hallmark Channel is just lazy storytelling set to forgettable music with wardrobe out of Coldwater Creek or L.L. Bean, depending on the time of year.

You will not find a single romance novel on my shelves or in my Kindle; in fact, if the phrase "smile that made his eyes crinkle" shows up within the first 15 pages, I will physically throw the book away. EYES DON'T FREAKIN' CRINKLE, BRENDA! If they're crinkling, you need to get the dude to an ER, not "feel my heart skip a beat."

The fact is, I've grown into a rather cynical old broad and, quite frankly, after a year of being an "essential employee" (not essential like healthcare professionals, but essential like the pizza delivery guy -- both essential, but one gets praised in Facebook memes and the other gets coughed on by anti-vaxers), I've become downright bitter.

I think the pandemic took the perkiness out of the sunniest dispositions. But, honestly, you only have to spend a few minutes scrolling social media to know the world is filled with discontentment and skepticism.

Then this weekend, this happened:

That's my son Charley getting down on one knee and proposing marriage to Sarah at Longwood Gardens.

I might add that I was not there. I did know he'd planned it, but I didn't know when.

John and me (ca. 1972)

When he told me his plans, I was nostalgically touched; for generations Longwood Gardens has been our place to visit, no matter where we lived. There are photos of my family at the garden dating back over half a century. If there is anything such as "ancestral lands" for my family, Longwood would be it. 

I was envious. When I was 12, I decided I was going to own Longwood Gardens. Not only was I going to own Longwood Gardens, but there was going to be a guy who was damn well going to propose to me there and I was going to make sure he knew where it should happen and how I wanted it done.

Turns out Longwood wasn't for sale so there went that plan.

Gazebo where -- admit it
 -- if you went to Longwood,
you were adamant that jerk Rolf
was going to dance with you in.

I have to admit, I shuddered for Charley when he told me his plans. Longwood is so crowded in the summer. I envisioned him trying to get the proposal out as a six-year-old streaks by and some old lady wanders cluelessly between them. 

But I also know that, while this seemed like the biggest event now, there are so many landmark moments before him, a bungled proposal would become no more than an amusing anecdote around the after dinner table for the two of them. But, still -- a mother worries.

Charley called me the Sunday evening after he proposed and said he was sending pictures.

I asked if he had thought to bring a friend along to document the moment.

"This proposal is well documented," he assured me.

The photo above -- taken by a bystander. The documentation Charley spoke of was all from complete strangers.

Wait.

What?

That's right. Complete strangers stopped to watch and document an occasion that occurs every day, millions of times, over and over, since forever. These angry, divided, disheartened humans stopped their personal experience of the day to watch two people they didn't even know, decide to commit to each other.

Seriously -- was no one going to shout out, "Just trying to pay less taxes by filing jointly" or "Marriage is a device of the patriarchy?"

Nope.

For a moment...for just that moment...life was the simplest thing in the world: two people in love taking their first scary, shaky steps together into their future.

And for a moment...for just that moment...an entire conservatory full of disparate individuals came together, dropped their jaundiced view of the world, and recognized the purity and poignancy of the moment.

A couple couldn't ask for a greater mitzvah, if I may respectfully borrow a term.

That was enough to make this bitter old lady do something she's never done in her entire life -- I happy cried.

And I couldn't stop. 

I see the photos and I start right back up again. Especially when I remember that the guy in this photo:

Is the same boy in this photo:

BUT I AM IN NO WAY SENTIMENTAL, do you hear me!

Toy Cars

File this under the category of Phrases that Make Me Cringe:

Under a photo of a car or truck: “Here’s my new toy!” 

Now, I get that when Baby Boomers began to realize that they were aging, it suddenly became A Thing to be perceived as a Child at Heart. Subsequent generations have followed suit and now we have a culture that really could benefit from the direction of a straight-laced nanny. There is a lot to be said for using your “indoor voice,” particularly when in public on your cell phone discussing your digestion problems with your healthcare provider.

However, I have come to accept that in order to convince ourselves we’re never going to die (I’M certainly NOT), we must do whatever it takes to deny the aging process. (Though, I must pass on to my fellow Women of a Certain Age – no one is fooled by those SnapChat filters. The Good Ship Ingénue has sailed and good riddance!)

So, honestly, I have no problem if adults spend their spare time playing with doll houses, racing remote control cars or running their model trains on a tighter schedule than a subway in Tokyo while wearing a railroad engineer’s hat and blowing a wooden whistle (you know who you are). I, personally, have my gnomes and talking dogs.

If you want to embrace your inner eight-year-old, have at it. But here’s the thing – eight-year-olds break toys. They ram them into walls, leave them on stairways, or throw their sister’s Ken doll out a second storey window dressed in Barbie’s tutu. No big deal because they’re toys.

Two-and-a-half tons of steel and flammable liquid: not a toy. Not even remotely a toy. Leave your heart of an eight-year-old…12-year-old…hell – teenager…home. (It is my opinion that teenagers should only be able to drive 20-year-old Cavaliers with a blown-out transmission and a cassette player that doesn’t work*.)

When I encounter a 6,000 lb. Silverado on the Beltway, I want to know it’s being driven by a 40-something with a kid still in college, a mortgage and a sense of his or her own mortality. (It would also be nice if you could be driving a 3-ton truck because you actually need one, what with it being almost November and I’m still sleeping with the windows open and the fan running – but that’s another issue.)

I commute 10 hours a week at a minimum and I am constantly dodging drivers who grew up watching everything from Smokey and the Bandit to The Fast and the Furious, all – I assume – at a time in their young lives where they were unable to separate fact from fiction. Because it’s really not speed that is the issue; believe me, in that respect my driving habits would probably surprise…well, no, they probably wouldn’t surprise anyone who’s had to commute. Honestly, on a two mile-long straightaway on Va-231, when I’m late for work and no one is in front of me…I WOULD TOTALLY OBEY THE 55 MPH SPEED LIMIT, OFFICER.

Take that same straightaway, place in it a loaded 18-wheeler followed by a leaf-peeper in absolutely no hurry, a farm-use truck whose tailpipe emits noxious fumes every time he hits 40, a priest, a minister, and a rabbi…and me – and in my rear-view mirror I see a black Escalade, closing in fast. In the opposite lane are oncoming headlights. The Escalade pulls out and passes us all in one go and only makes it because the rest of us immediately brake. Though this would be an ideal opportunity to protect the gene pool in one fiery crash, no one wants Finster Baby to take the poor guy in the opposite lane with him. Besides, an accident would make us late.

But even Finster Baby showed good judgement when compared to the perfect storm of idiocy I witnessed last week. In a construction zone in the pouring rain, with two lanes merging into one, I could see an ambulance was trying to make its way through traffic behind me. Most of us pulled over onto the shoulder, except for a farm tractor traveling 15 mph and a huge black truck that was behind me, but passed me when I pulled over to make way for the emergency vehicle. The ambulance was forced to pull into the opposite lane, where those kind souls actually were on the shoulder. Behind me, an SUV pulled out of the line of those who pulled over and passed everyone, only to encounter the black truck, which was now stuck behind the farm vehicle, still putt-putting away like he was in the middle of a barren hay field. With a screech, the SUV pulled over the double line in the wake of the ambulance, passed the black truck (who was now honking his horn at everything) and the farm vehicle. Not to be outdone, the black truck gunned into the oncoming lane, missing by inches the oncoming cars pulling back onto the road.

To what can we attribute such a perfect storm of assholery in one place? Immaturity.

Eight-year-olds live in their own world and everything that goes on around them is seen through the lens of their ego. It is age-appropriate and precisely the mindset you need when you’re very small, vulnerable and totally ignorant of the ways of the world. When it seeps into adulthood, the results are thinking that everything, including who get through traffic first, is a competition you need to win to feed that ego, now grown huge and hungry.

So, no, you do not have a “toy.” You don’t take out loans to buy PlayDough. No one is making a living fixing Cabbage Patch Dolls. When a piece of Monopoly is missing, you just need a dime or a thumbtack.

And when a pedal car tips over, no one gets hurt.

Unless, of course, it meets up with a black Escalade. In his world, we’re all just pedal cars on the VA-231 of life.

*

Yes, he still has this car. Good luck in December, Heir 2!

Boneless Pork FrankenloinorHow to make so many substitutions to a recipe it no longer resembles the recipe you started with

So I had this portion of a pork loin sitting in my freezer; this hunk of meat that I had to commit ahead of time to make because one doesn't defrost a loin of pork and then put off roasting it because one got home late and only had the energy to make a martini OR make dinner and, the way things have been going lately, the martini always wins so long as the Tanqueray holds out.

This particular pork loin was a cute little end piece I surreptitiously snipped off the end of a larger roast I'd made earlier this summer for the family at large. It was the perfect size for two people to have dinner and a few pork sandwiches.1

A boneless pork loin is basically a big hunk of solid meat, a sort of blank canvas for flavor and, paired with a morning spent watching Food Network, it was destined for a more creative treatment than my usual rub-n-roast.

At first I thought I'd cut it into individual boneless chops, butterfly the chops and stuff them. But, in seeking inspiration from the internet, I happened upon a video of stuffing a pork loin roast.

Now here's the thing about recipes off the internet: they're written by people who actually make meal plans; people who go grocery shopping on a regular basis -- people who have money to go grocery shopping on a regular basis. Here in Linguiniland, grocery shopping is done as a last resort -- when even the ramen is gone and you can see straight through the top shelf to the bottom of the crisper drawer.

The guy on the video had thought out his meal so far ahead that he had figs on hand for the stuffing and time to hunt down something with the unfortunate name of "fat caul.2" He was so organized, he had butcher's twine and so wealthy, he had a Le Creuset roaster.

So, basically, this is the same recipe, in so much as there is a pork loin that it's stuffed, but all similarities end there. My stuffing is significantly more humble: the only bread on hand was stale hot dog buns in the freezer and from that I just threw together the standard stuffing I use at Thanksgiving in a much smaller quantity.

I substituted the "fat caul" with bacon because I figure you can substitute just about anything with bacon. (Couldn't they come up with a better name than "fat caul?")

My butcher's twine is the end of a skein of cotton yarn I used to knit dishcloths. Just call me the MacGyver of the kitchen.

I did have to learn to butterfly a pork loin, not easy when it's a teeny tiny pork loin end. But, just as you can use bacon as a substitute for everything, you can also use bacon to camouflage ugly knife skills. And it doesn't have a depressing name like "smoked pig stomach lining."

I roasted the whole thing on a bed of onions and made a sort of jus/gravy (I like jus, Dirtman likes to drown things in gravy -- so I compromise).

The recipe was a success, but will work infinitely better with a full roast. Next time, I'll plan ahead and put apples and pecans in the stuffing.

The bacon could barely contain the stuffing in my tiny butterflied roast and I doubt that...Thing That Shall Not Be Named... would do much better. I'm sticking with the bacon anyway; the flavor was out of this world! I doubt anything called "caul" could do much better.

...And then I don't have to explain to anyone that I wrapped their dinner in a caul.

1. The perfect size for a couple that never hears from their sons for whom they sacrificed and slaved, obtaining gray hair and probably an ulcer, yet are never bitter or expectant of any gratitude for the 70 hours of labor she put into bringing said sons to life or the ENDLESS MONTHS OF HOMESCHOOLING SHE SPENT EXPLAINING THE DIFFERENCE AMONG "TO, TOO AND TWO" AND "THERE, THEIR AND THEY'RE;" but a couple that does not want to confine their pork loin consumption to times when said ingrates deign to drop by expecting to be fed.

2. The only other reference I can think of to a "caul" is in the book David Copperfield -- apparently David is born with a "caul," which is eventually sold because people were evidently less squeamish and more superstitious. Since a "caul" is, basically, the afterbirth over the head of a baby that hadn't been pierced in the birth process, it hardly conjures culinary visions in my brain but, instead, sort makes me throw up a little in my mouth.

"Got Your Glasses? Got Your Teeth"orWhat Goes Around Comes Around

I heard it whenever my mother or my aunts went anywhere with my grandmother. We'd all be ready to head out the door and, just before we stepped outside one of them would ask her, "You got your glasses? You got your teeth?"

It was as common a phrase to me as "see ya later" or "drive carefully" and part of the ritual of traveling with Gramma. She would put on her black and white tweed coat then drop a clean handkerchief into her purse, which would snap shut with a waft of violet (the only gum she ever chewed) while one of her daughters would wait patiently by the door. And then, "Got your glasses? Got your teeth?"

It's not like Gramma needed either one of those all the time. The glasses were reading glasses and the teeth were only a bridge that fit way in the back of her mouth that no one could readily tell whether it was in there or not.

When I was very small I wondered what cataclysm had occurred that this was the ultimate question prior to leaving. Not, "Got your driver's license?" "Got enough money to get where you are going and back?" What horrible thing happened in the past that remembering glasses and teeth prevented?

When I got older, though, I was embarrassed for my grandmother. It wasn't like she was senile or even forgetful. She was sharp as a tack and quite feisty. In fact, I can't figure out why she allowed the indignity of the questions in the first place. Usually anyone questioning her got a, "don't tell me..." Think: an Italian Miss Daisy.

So, to this day, I really don't get what started the two questions and why they were allowed to become part of our lexicon.

Fast forward to present day.

Personally, all my teeth are my own and, unless I'm sleeping, my glasses are always on my face. For the record.

Dirtman, however, has a cap on one of his front teeth and recently that cap has succumbed to a particularly nasty habit he has of chewing tobacco. He will argue this point and say the cap coming off has nothing to do with the Skoal but, let's face it -- it can't help. And I will use any excuse to scold him for this particular habit. The fact is, the cap fell out and we don't have dental insurance or the money to fix it. So he uses denture fixative to keep the tooth in (and prevent us from making fun of him).

On top of this, since only one of the lenses in Dirtman's glasses is of any use (he is blind in one eye), he has taken to not wearing his glasses a whole lot when he is working at home. Since I do most of our driving (you're welcome), he can go days without having to put his glasses on.

And so it happened. The Heirs came for a visit and, since I had some free coupons, we decided to go to one of our local vineyards and do a wine tasting.

I must admit, my goal whenever I leave the house is only that I'm somewhat tidy and don't smell. But when we visit places like a winery, I do tend to succumb to cultural pressures and try to look a little less like a homeless person and more like a middle class person who can actually afford a bottle of the wines she is tasting -- in other words, I put a scarf around my neck because that seems to be the thing.

Dirtman has no such aspirations. In fact, Dirtman enjoys testing the limits of what society will allow. He is true counterculuralist -- an individual; a nonconformist. He would never be caught dead wearing a scarf around his neck. Or combing his hair. Or...

Okay, I'll say it: we have to check on Dirtman before he walks out the door. As a public service.

And that is why, as Heir 1 turned the knob to leave for the winery I said to Dirtman, "Got your glasses? Got your teeth?"

Glasses AND Teeth

The Heirs looked at me as I must have looked at my mother and my aunts.

I almost wish it was still the custom to bury people in family crypts. Because that is what I would have carved in the lintel over the door.

The Last Days of the Mom Dress

I think every mom has one of these. It's the go-to warm weather outfit when the last thing you want to think about is what to wear. It's comfortable, practical, durable and timeless. It works in heat or cold and you can, in a pinch, wear it in public.

And one sad day, when you are old and your kids are grown and gone, you take it out of the dryer and have to admit: It needs to be thrown out.

My own mother had one of these that got it's start during what I call her Doris Day period. It had a full skirt and was white with yellow, orange and gray flocking and came with it's own thin yellow belt. The gray may have at one time been black, but I don't remember back that far. She had plenty of full-skirted dresses in those days, but that was the one that stuck.  When I think of my mother, she is wearing that dress. I remember sitting on her lap in the car and falling asleep while picking the flocking out of the fabric.

The white flocked dress even soldiered on through her Jackie Kennedy period, which consisted mainly of a black pill box hat and a classic navy blue and black fitted sheath dress and, for casual occasions, a kerchief and sunglasses. It was hopelessly out of fashion, but still showed up on hot Saturday mornings for a run to the grocery store or summer Sundays after church.

I was at least a teenager when one day when looking for a dust rag I pulled out a white piece of cloth with yellow, orange and gray flocking (with some blank spot where the flocking had...um...disappeared...). And there were more of them in the rag bag, all neatly cut into 12-inch squares.

I was horrified! Why wasn't I consulted? It was as if my mother had taken my favorite stuffed toy, Saffie, and decided to scrub the kitchen floor with him. Ma was mildly amused at my outrage and, now that I'm a mother of grown children myself, I know she probably throught it typical that I hadn't noticed the deterioration of the dress prior to this. No one really looks at a Mom, do they? I mean, you just know what she looks like. She's just supposed to be always there on the periphery, waiting to serve. Wearing that dress.

My own Mom Dress first appeared on the scene shortly after I had my first son. My mother-in-law bought it for me after the birth of Heir 1 so I would have something new to wear on my post-pregnancy body after having endured maternity clothes for so long. It is made of a cotton knit that is cool in the summer and has a skirt heavy and full enough that it didn't require a slip. And the print on the fabric was so dense, it never showed a stain.

I took it out of the official wardrobe rotation a few years ago, but it remained something to wear around the house when no one but family was around. But now, I have to admit -- draping yarn around my neck would be just a effective as putting on this dress.

I don't want my boys, without proper warning, to encounter the Mom Dress in its forthcoming disreputable state as, say, the rag with which I ask them to wipe up dog vomit*. So, Heirs, I'm just letting you know:

It's going in the rag bag

*Go ahead, Charley...say it: "Wiping up dog vomit is a fitting end to that dress."

Aggressive Holiday Decorating(with illustrations)

It seems the Linguinis have a holiday tradition I've only just noticed. I don't know how I missed this, but the Heirs have determined (when they think I can't hear them) that I'm becoming a senile old bat who can't remember from one year to the next.

I enter the holiday season crankily complaining about too much Christmas too soon. I gripe about having to muster the amount of enthusiasm equal to the maniacal blinking lights, screaming commercials and nauseating made-for-HallmarkTV movies. I go out of my way to avoid those crazed tinsel-bedecked maniacs who have their shopping done by the first week of December and spend the days up to Christmas announcing what cookie they baked or what craft they manifested in front of their fireplace each day.

I assuage the depth of my angst by writing blog posts that try to either temper some of the excesses of the season or encourage others like me to just say, "heck with it" and spend December snorking down cans of Redi-Whip and reading Jane Austen (not that I...ever...did...DON'T JUDGE ME!).

That's only half of the tradition. The other half is that a week into December, Heir 1 comes along and drags me, kicking and screaming, into the holiday season.

And so, having read my post of last week where I extoled the virtue of moderation in holiday decor, Heir 1 showed up recently to not only to spew holiday cheer all over us, but to make sure that when he did, it was as tacky and unrelentingly tasteless as he could possible conjure out of a quarter-century's worth of accumulated Yuletide debris.

Heir 1: (pulling a mouse-eaten ribbon out of a box) Oh, yeah!

Me: Just throw it out.

Heir 1: Oh...It's going up!

An hour later, Heir 1 calls me in to observe his handiwork.

Me: It looks like Santa Claus threw up all over the bannister.

Heir 1: That's what you get for keeping every piece of red and green crap Joe and I ever threw together. I mean, seriously...

Holds up this:

Heir 1: You will literally hang onto anything.

Heir 1 suddenly gets a bright idea and picks the empty tea candle containers out of two votive cups.

Heir 1: (a minute or so later) Here! I made this! Now you have to hang it up!

Me: I think there is a statute of limitations on how long you have to hang up your kids' creations.

 We stand and observe the overall effect of Heir 1's artistry.

Me: People are going to think it's just tacky decorating. I'm not sure my friends will see the irony.

Heir 1: (patting my on the shoulder) Mom...oh, Mom... (I think he is about to lecture me on intellectual snobbishness) You know you don't have any friends.

Making memories......whether you want to or not

I think I've finally mastered the skill of not making an all-out assault on a major holiday.

It has taken quite awhile, considering I've been responsible in some way or another for family holidays since I was in my 20s. I admit that the weight of that responsibility is all my own. Back in the day, I had a soul-sucking habit of attributing too much sentimentality and piling too much food into one single day. This resulted in an entire week of a misery that, I was convinced, was never fully appreciated by those who benefitted from my martyrdom. By the evening of Thanksgiving, I'd be cross, cranky and ready for bed by 5 o'clock.

I had come by my holiday obsessions honestly. There was no such thing as a "quiet Thanksgiving" for my mother. Like every good Italian, it was required that there be approximately 50 percent more food than necessary for the number of people invited -- and the number of people invited was always inflated  because my mother invited anybody and everybody and, unless they told her "no" in so uncertain terms, they were counted as a definite. My mother, though, had both my grandmother and me helping out.

So the bar was set and every year I would frantically try to incorporate any and all traditions and even concocted some of my own. I would cram my kids with so much rich food and heartwarming ritual they would feel positively miserable if they had to spend the holiday anywhere other than with their perfect mother.

The first clue I had that I was missing the mark in the building memories department was the year that I made homemade cinnamon buns for Thanksgiving day breakfast. I got up at 6 a.m. to make sure they had enough time to rise and that they'd be hot and ready when everyone got up. They were absolutely wonderful and I couldn't help puffing up at my domestic derring-do...until one of the Heirs sighed, "But I sure miss those ones you used to make that popped out of the can."

Goodness knows, I tried to deliver the homey holiday Hallmark is convinced we're all supposed to have. I've tried the tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we're thankful for -- this dissolves into chaos pretty quickly when participants list "not having a gaping head wound" or "tequila." I had to hold up the Official Lighting of the Creche so the Bethlehem stable could be festooned with prayerfully and properly respectful, but anachronistic, action figures. I only tried a sing-a-long once -- it's amazing how quickly my family can come up with alternative lyrics...and I'm not talking about the kids, either. I gave up trying to inject tradition into holidays two decades ago.

Let me tell you something about traditions, particularly ones you concoct yourself -- they're never the ones your kids remember anyway. They pick their own favorites, thankyouverymuch, and the more embarrassing they are to you, the better.

Toppergetdown

For instance, we now have a tradition of guessing what dish I made that I forgot to put out. It's usually salad, but one year I woke up Friday morning to find the tiny nubs of brussels sprouts drying in the oven. Another favorite is guessing what time it will be when I'm finally so distracted by cooking that I forget to push food far enough back so our Australian Shepherd can't countersurf the cheese.

Heir 2 began a tradition of seeing how many times he could program the stereo to play "What's New Pussycat?" before it pisses someone off (he'll usually stick in one "It's Not Unusual," just to hear someone say, "Thank goodness!" to a song like "It's Not Unusual" -- which is then followed again by more "What's New Pussycat?").

And, once again, I will dig out the basket of nuts for Heir 1. So he can look at them and know they are there. (Do not eat any of the nuts in the basket, should you visit us during the holidays. The boys weren't even in high school when I bought those nuts. But it just isn't the holiday season without the basket of nuts.)

So, I've learned to let go of the control of the holidays. I no longer wear myself out cooking a huge, complicated menu. Wonder of wonders: no one cares. Do I still fuss and cook on Thursday? You bet I do! Well, until it gets tedious. Then I stop, have a martini and enjoy myself. No one ever left my house hungry.

So Martha Stewart would probably cringe at the haphazard delivery of turkey right off the cutting board and self-serve dessert, not to mention my lumpy mashed potatoes. The wine is probably wrong and I never remember to put on my "nice clothes" after doing all the cooking.

And Topper will probably eat all the leftover Doritos out of the bowl someone leaves on the coffee table. Just like he did last year. And the year before that.

Apparently, it's tradition.

"We do but turn another page..."

If there is one way to put a strain on a relationship, it's asking someone to help you move. Do that more than once in a five-year period and you're lucky anyone answers your phone calls.

Luckily, we've produced a few of our own handy-dandy vessels of muscle and stamina and are related to more, all of whom are vulnerable to my guilt-inducing powers...plus I've sworn an oath that I will never consider another move unless I can afford to hire professionals.

That's right - it made the cut AGAIN

Our biggest hurdle has actually been the remnants of the last move, made a little over a year ago and for which I was unavailable. At the time, I was putting in 15 hours a day, seven days a week at the cafe. The move was performed by Dirtman, John Boy and Heir 1 over the course of a week. Needless to say, organization took a back seat to speed.

Apparently, the method employed at the time was to walk through the house picking up random items and tossing them in a box, then pausing at the garbage can to scoop up a handful of trash and adding that to the box also. The result was 78 boxes containing a mixture of unrelated items and mostly garbage. And, because of the aforementioned hours at the cafe, those 78 boxes have languished for our entire time here.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm NOT COMPLAINING!

But I'm also not moving 78 boxes of unrelated items and garbage a second time. So we're basically repacking everything, minus the garbage and minus a whole lot of those unrelated items.

That's right. I think I can safely get rid of the breast pump and the size 9 shorts (I was a size 9 for exactly two days after my wedding. After two days on my honeymoon, they no longer fit. I should have taken a picture.)

This also means I have to screen any box Dirtman attempts to save because he is totally incapable of throwing anything out. Ski pants (he's never skied), zipper broken, two sizes too small -- keeper; dirty baseball, lining coming off and no memory attached -- keeper; empty box, 4 x 4 inches -- keeper ("Somewhere I think I have the transistor radio that came in it."). This is a man who needs supervision.

Not the Athena - give her a helmet

The good news is that I am finding things I thought were long gone. About 15 leashes have shown up. Knitting needles, grabbed from its mate for any number of purposes for which knitting needles are so convenient and never reunited. A small photo album I'd apparently assembled featuring the Heirs' homeschool projects; specifically, the model of the Parthenon featuring paper towel rolls stuck into styrofoam and a Sculpey Athena head that we subsequently used for all sorts of nefarious purposes after the Parthenon was disassembled. Sadly, the Athena head was nowhere to be found.

The temptation, of course, is to linger over these memories. But moving ahead is the order of the day. To infinity -- and Beyond! (or so said the remnant of the Buzz Lightyear voice box stuck in a Leggs egg in box of washed popsicle sticks and paper doilies).

The Cafe's got talent...

Well...We're good sports, at least...

 I come from a long line of frustrated musicians. Music -- and performing in general -- have always been a huge part of family gatherings for as long as I can remember.

Okay--give me a break about the "mike" thing; I'm very tired and my feet hurt.

Somewhere, probably in John Boy's Basement of Doom, is a reel-to-reel tape of my grandmother on guitar and my uncle on violin performing C' 'na luna mezz'u mare; and one of my earliest recollection is another of The Uncles doing a skit with my cousins that involved Crazy Foam and their Wire Haired Fox Terrier. John Boy's first drum set was my parent's suitcase as a snare drum and a metal trash can over-turned on a mic stand as a cymbal; my cousins were playing something on their guitars -- I don't know what, but I was singing I Should Have Known Better...badly.



Since then, we siblings and cousins have formed and reformed in various musical configurations, some even going professional (meaning some sort of item was given in exchange for the performance -- John Boy grossed $25  one night...) and we've passed this practice on to the next generation. So it was inevitable that, given our own venue, that we provide a showcase for this proclivity for ourselves and others like us.


Hence: The Courthouse Corner Cafe Open Mic Night.

Heir 1 (Charley) on acoustic, Dark Garden on drums, Mike Anderson on bass

Heir 2 (Joe) and Caisee

The Heirs

Trevor and Michael

Ladies and Gentlemen: The Von Trapp Family Singers

The Twinz (Trevor and Lucas) -- I think they're listening to the poem "Crab Boil" by Dark Garden -- hence this expression

...and the crowd went wild...sort of...

...still waiting for the crowd to go wild...

...okay, so me and Annette went wild...sort of...

Annette with some real poetry

I wasn't going to include this photo because it was so busy...until I looked a little closer...Lucas (on drums) has a stalker...

 


I can't say "thank you" enough for the community's support -- to Pastor Roy of Romney First United Methodist Church, who loaned us chairs; to Pastor Jack of Romney First Baptist Church for loaning us a mic stand; to Mike Anderson for helping out throughout this whole process and giving credibility to some of our jam sessions; to Steve and Ruth Martin of Church View Farm for their well wishes and the flowers (those roses smelled incredible!); and to the community members who braved the weather to come out (there were torrential rains and winds, not to mention TORNADOES in the area)!


Our next scheduled Open Mic Night is July 6 and we hope the antics of our inaugural event will convince more people to come in and sign up to perform.

Like People Do

So today we were normal

Some of you may remember back when the Linguinis were always normal. But we haven't been normal for a very long time.

The term "normal," of course, if very subjective. Our seat-of-the-pants existence may have be considered normal in some circles; but I confess -- I'm rather pedantic in what I look for in life. I want a distinct lack of drama, pleasant, uneventful conversation and dinner at dinner time sitting at a table with the fork on the left and the knife and spoon on the right.

So that was today.

Normal.

No baking in a hot kitchen to the point of exhaustion and falling into bed, only to writhe around in pain because I hadn't realized I'd been standing for nine straight hours without a break; no overly-ambitious plans to bake a week's worth of pastries in one Sunday afternoon. I did a modicum of cafe baking, marinated a chicken, threw together a salad and then...

...then...

then...

I sat on my front porch and read.

Oh, yes I did. Even though there were clamberings for orange scones at the cafe, I sat on my porch and read a P.D. James novel and waved to people who drove by.

Then I cooked and dinner and me, Dirtman and Heir 1 sat at a table together and, for the first time in several months, ate a meal together.

And now that Dirtman has put fresh sheets on the bed, I'm going to crawl in and read some more!

That's right. I'm not going to bake or even think about making soup or pricing out the breakfast menu. I'm going to read...and I might even doze off.

Yeah, I know. Since I'm making such a big deal about all this, it's obviously not normal. True that.

However, I can't help thinking back fondly of the days when the Heirs got home-cooked meals all the time and they complained about not being able to eat fast food like all their friends; or when baking scones was such an infrequent treat, I needed a recipe and they never hung around long enough to have to be stored in Ziplocs (these days, I can't give away the rejects -- we're all so sick of looking at, taste-tesing and smelling fresh-baked scones; you think this time will never come but, believe me, it does...).

I'm not complaining...I am honestly so grateful the cafe is taking off and I absolutely love this work more than anything I've ever done.

I am also grateful, though, that we're finally settling in and finding our rhythm; so much so that on this one warm Sunday afternoon I can take off my cafe hat for a little while and just be a normal schmo relaxing up for the week ahead.

...like people do.

Picnicking with the Linguinis

You must understand this: We Linguinis NEVER take picnics lightly.

Well...until yesterday...

However, you must understand our background of picnicking before you can truly be amazed at yesterday's excursion to Lost River State Park in West Virginia.

Growing up, there were always several picnic excursions throughout the summer and they were always hours away. My father always liked to be traveling in the opposite direction of the traffic; so, though we lived near the shore, with a beautiful state parks 10 to 30 minutes away, we were always heading "against traffic" to the "mountains" of New Jersey (High Point State Park has what New Jerseyans call "mountains"). This required leaving at 6 o'clock in the morning and dragging in at 9 o'clock at night -- but not a single second was spent sitting in traffic (though Pa would look at the line of cars going in the opposite direction and comment on how ridiculous it was to be sitting in traffic like that).

I realize the purpose of a picnic is to eat -- A. Meal.

One. Meal.

Remember, though: We arrive at 8 o'clock in the morning. So breakfast, lunch and dinner all have to be arranged and carted. There were bags of Mrs. Obco's Donuts and thermoses of coffee (my parents had an official coffee thermos bag specifically for this) for breakfast, deli for lunch with a complete selection of cold cuts, rolls, bread, condiments and salads, and then a variety of meats to barbecue for dinner.

On top of this, were the rare treats of junk food -- this was the one time my mother would buy us any sweet crap the television has convinced us was the end-all in desserts. And she wouldn't just buy a package -- she'd buy an entire BOX; boxes of Twinkies, boxes of TastyKake pies, boxes of chocolate grahams, boxes and boxes and boxes of sugar! (We won't discuss the long-range ramifications of this practice; right now I choose to make this a happy memory...in her heart, Ma meant well -- though when I tell this to my kids now, they're really bummed.)

Okay. That was just the food. Now we had to load the car with things to occupy us for 12 hours, both in the car and at the picnic site. John Boy had his maps and pamphlets, Dark Garden had his assortment of recreational equipment (fishing rod, basketball, swim gear), I had a pile of books, my mother had her crossword puzzles, and Pa had his beer (though, in all fairness, he was the one who took DG fishing, swimming and to the playground, not to mention he did all the barbecuing).

Oh...did I mention the assorted relatives? Grandma, aunts, cousins -- sometimes it spilled over into a second vehicle, particularly since a dog or two also had to be accommodated.

Whenever we'd arrive at the park, if it was crowded, my mother used to moan about there being so many people around that it wouldn't be relaxing. It occurs to me that, upon seeing our parade enter the picnic area, most of the other people were thinking the same thing.

Nowadays, my generation is in charge of the picnicking and, while we've streamlined a few things, it is still and event requiring more planning than the Normandy Invasion. Everything is up for discussion, from the venue to the menu.

JB makes lists and, while I've never actually seen his list, it must look like this: beer, bratwurst, bottle opener.

DG brings all the meat, barbecue stuff...and cleaning products; lots and lots of cleaning products. We always have the cleanest picnic site in the park. No roll of paper towels and damp cloth for him -- no! He's got spray disinfectant and cloths and wipes.

I bring the stuff that has to be cooked ahead -- salads, side dishes and...yes...dessert; one dessert. ONE.

Yes, we've pretty much got this picnic thing down, though I will admit, all the advance planning a prep can get stressful until we decide on everything.

Well, until yesterday...

It all came together too easily -- which should have warned me. We immediately agreed on the venue, we each stated what we were bringing (admittedly, we do turn into the Atkins family on picnics) and we generally coordinated a time (cell phones don't work at Lost River).

I have to admit, it was coming together so nicely that all week long I hardly gave it a thought. I did my usual grocery shopping and only threw in a few items that were picnic-related (instead of doing my usual pre-picnic shopping blast I can ill-afford). I did a few prep things the night before, slept in the day of (unprecedented!), and loading the car consisted of one cooler and Zsa Zsa's water bowl and tie-out chain (which we only use if we see park rangers driving around -- I try to spare her the indignity of being in chains when there is no need).

So here is how it went down:

DG was bummed because my nephews both had to work that day and couldn't come. Dirtman was also working, so he wasn't there. Heir2 couldn't make it home from Roanoke for the holiday weekend, so he wasn't there.

No one brought paper plates.

No one brought tongs to barbecue.

No one brought paper towels.

JB blamed it all on the fact that for the first time, he hadn't made a list (he never put these things on his stupid list and, besides, when he makes a list, he always forgets to put something on the list anyway, rendering the list useless).

However (and everyone else may disagree, I'll admit):

I had a wonderful, relaxing time. We had a nice, secluded spot next to a brook. I could sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. It wasn't too hot or too cold.

All the other stuff?

We made do.

Note the dishes made from aluminum foil, the knife doubling as "tongs" and our site-side cleaning system (actually, we only washed our hands in the stream).

The food was great. It was a beautiful day. But, more importantly...

...Zsa Zsa was happy.

Macaroni and...

Every ethnicity has their own version of a fallback meal. I'm sure this is what stir fries are in Asian cuisine and pot pies are in Anglo circles. For us it was the "macaroni and...s."

The dish usually starts with softening up some onions and/or garlic in olive oil while boiling up a pound of whatever pasta you have around (hence, the generic "macaroni" instead of a specific type). Then you throw in whatever vegetable(s) is(are) handy in the crisper, freezer or can, toss in a little of the pasta water and, usually basil and/or oregano. The cheese and grater are, of course, on the table.

These days, I cut the amount of olive oil and rely on chicken stock along with the pasta water for some of the moisture. And I don't cook the living daylights out of the vegetables and pasta like my mother and grandmother did

The dish above is macaroni and cauliflower, which sounds like it shouldn't go, but actually does (a drained can of diced tomatoes is in there too). I've upgraded it with fresh oregano, only because somehow last year's oregano patch that went to seed survived the winter and now we have more oregano than we know what to do with. When you come to my house, you don't get to leave unless you take oregano with you.

There is also macaroni and peas made the same way, only I confess I like it best with a handful of diced pancetta browned with the onion. I'm the only one who likes macaroni and escarole -- mostly because no one else will even taste it. I'm sure at some point my mother or grandmother made macaroni and kale -- but the main reason I married Dirtman is that he had a equally jaundiced opinion of kale and I knew that I would never be forced to so much as smell that horrid weed ever again.

In this house, our hands down favorite is Macaroni and Beans. This is the only time you will find me opening a can. And it is the only time I will insist on a specific pasta. If you make macaroni and beans (the "beans" being dark, red kidney beans) with medium pasta shells, the beans will slip neatly into the shells like little tiny jackets, offering a perfect bean/pasta ratio. We used to tell the Heirs that I did this little trick by hand, hoping to enhance my Martyr-Mom image -- it worked fine until they turned about four or five and realized their mother didn't have that kind of attention span or patience.

Of course you can go to a restaurant and order just about the same thing for eight or nine dollars. So I plated this in my best Italian ceramic pasta bowls and put that little sprig of fresh oregano there so it would look all professional and we can pretend we're dining out -- well, all except for the 75 cents per plate price tag...and Toppergetdown's chin in my lap.

I remember Mama......'s Day

Long-time Linguini readers know the Mothers' Day drill around here now that the Heirs are older: breakfast out and I get to choose the activity for the day.

We've always had a good time, though, on our Mothers' Day excursions, in spite of the fact that antique malls, thrift stores and garden fairs are at the absolute bottom of the list of places the Heirs want to be. But they make the best of it and enjoy taunting me with descriptions of the nursing home they plan to stow me in at the first sign of senility (thankfully, they haven't been paying much attention lately...).

For this year's Mothers' Day, I had to work. Ironically, where I work had a booth at the very same garden fair I've been dragging the Heirs to for the past few years. So, instead of dragging my own sons through the foliage and flora, I got to observe other mothers dragging their sons through the flora and fauna.

Oh, dear.

Not a pretty sight.

You know how at the end of Fiddler on the Roof they show the line of people leaving Anatevka? Well, that's a Mardi Gras parade compared to the sad, despondent spectacle that marched past our display tent.

I had to hand it to the dads, though. It was rather endearing to watch them simultaneously rally the morale of the troops, all the while assuring Mom that she had nothing to feel guilty about (i.e., the Bataan Death March to which she was subjecting her offspring) and that the kids were HAPPY -- HAPPY, DO YOU HEAR ME? -- to give up their day because they LOVE Mommy; and not because Dad told them (while Mom was in bed choking down the burnt Eggo waffle) that if they didn't act HAPPY, he would force them all to use Tracphones WITH NO TEXTING CAPABILITIES.

I must point out one incident that sort of put the whole day into perspective; because, frankly, I was not at all happy about having to work on both Saturday and Sunday, particularly on Mothers' Day, though I totally recognize the need for making hay while the hay is available to be made.

The thing about promoting your nonprofit in a venue where there are wonderful things for sale is that there really is no reason for anyone to visit you other than guilt. It's just easier for them to give a wide berth or "just happening" to be looking the other way as they pass.

On the other hand, being at such a venue on Mothers' Day worked out particularly well for me, as Volunteer Coordinator at the farm. It was all summed up with one mother who marched up to the booth with a very exhausted-looking husband and two very energetic boys in tow.

"You'll put them to work?" she asked as the two boys pushed at each other to get to the front.

"Oh, there's always plenty to do," I assured her.

She smoothly removed our collection jar from the hands of her youngest. "Plenty of HARD work?"

"Well, we try to gear the task to the volunteer," I said. I don't like people thinking we're treating kids like slaves.

"Oh, they've got enough energy to handle whatever you can dish out," she said, grabbing the older boy back from behind our display.

"They do need to be there with a parent, though." I thought this would surely send her running. I get a lot of parents who think we're going to babysit their kids for four hours.

"Oh, I'll be with them." She glared down the two boys, who cowered back toward their father. "We'll get a lot done."

She signed my volunteer roster, snapped up my card and pushed her men back into the stream of pedestrian traffic. I sort of can't wait to hear from her. She was awesome.

Mostly, though, I remember the little boy whose family was perusing the booth next door. Dad came out of the booth with a baby in a back carrier and a girl toddler holding his hand. He was about to make the Wide Berth Maneuver around our display when the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him toward us saying, "Here. I want to see this."

I could tell Dad was reluctant, but his son was insistent. This is where running one of these displays gets a little touchy, especially when the parents aren't behind the idea. So I told him about growing vegetables for the food banks and explained about nutrition, expecting him to zone out once he found out we weren't  founded to ban homework or make enforced bed times illegal.

Instead he started asking questions. I had purposely left out about needing volunteers or money, but he wanted to know what he could do. His dad seemed as surprised as we were at the level of this kid's enthusiasm and began to take interest too.

Made my day, this kid.

Oh, that...and the fact that the Heir1 made dinner and Heir2 made me a cocktail when we got home and TCM was running Mom movies. So I drifted off to sleep with Irene Dunn assuring me in a Norwegian accent, "Is good -- We do not have to go to da bank."