I see my parents today for the first time in a couple months. My family and I are visiting for Christmas, a surprise visit. After the initial small-talk is over (How were the mountain passes? Oh, let’s not talk about my health. We’re so happy you’re here – how long are you staying?), Dad will inevitably launch into a story. This is normal fare. He is one of many in my family who collects stories, creates stories, shares stories. It can be small – his experience with the local utility company. It can be nostalgic – that favorite Christmas of his 25 years ago when almost the entire family came over for the last Christmas his mother was alive. It can be lengthy – a complete recollection of his time as an on-air radio announcer and deejay in the 50s and 60s. Many of them I have heard so often that I joke that they are numbered. “Oh, you’re going to tell me about that time you and your first wife drove Route 66? Isn’t that story #22?” Like family stories, even this tired joke gets a chuckle acknowledging its truth.
In his story-telling, Dad is not unique. Mother has her stories (her exchange with a taxi driver in France when she meant to tell him she was hot but instead told him she was aroused, the wonderful parties her father would have when he was flush with cash and power, and occasionally stories about her time as an orphan). I only tease her about numbering the happy stories – numbering the sad ones would depress her.
All of my many siblings have great stories: the time they dropped rocks down the drain at a then-new hotel in Arizona; when, as children, the family was so broke that they all shared a container of frozen strawberries for our dad’s birthday; or their memories of their home in Cave Creek where I lived until I was barely a month old but they lived their entire childhood. Before she passed some 25 years ago, my 98-year-old grandmother recorded on audio-cassette many of her stories of living through the Great Depression, her immigration to the United States, and the sights of terrible wars before mankind knew to number them.
I don’t really have any stories.
Oh, sure, I have vague memories but I’m not entirely sure they’re mine or if I borrowed them from an episode of a night-time serial my mother used to watch or perhaps a preteen magazine. There’s that time I was almost swept away at a San Diego beach…or was that my little sister? What about that time I was taken to the hospital to have something inappropriately swallowed removed from my stomach? No, that was Curious George. Well, how about when I was locked in the closet for hours by my brother? Er, but wasn’t that actually Edmund and Lucy in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? Fine, then! Remember when I had that horrible fever and I had delusional dreams about flowers burning and time travel? Oh. No. That was Mrs. O’Keefe in A Swiftly Tilting Planet.
I try to remember experiences, try to shape them into some kind of framework that consists of a beginning, middle, and end. But they’re not there. I have impressions, snapshots of raw emotion that I know occurred tied to an event – some good, some sad, some hurtful, some life-changing. But no memories, no context, no stories.
Occasionally, I’ll ask my parents during a story re-telling: When was this? Was I born yet? What did you do with me at this time? From their answers, I can imagine a road-trip to Mississippi as a toddler when my sister ran away with a boy, an exciting trip to Mexico, or a visit to my grandfather’s prison cell near the end of his life. But most of their best stories occurred pre-me. I’m not even a starlet cameo in the movie of their lives.
None of this leaves me feeling unimportant or unloved. It does leave me feeling boring, though, without any tragedies or triumphs of note. I feel groundless, without ties, like dandelion spore released from its head after my sons have loosened it with their breath. (They believe each floating seed becomes a faerie.)
I also feel pressured into a decision, either to acquire more stories from others to pass onto my children or to set about creating our own. And maybe that is what gets to the heart of it: to share others’ stories is risk-free entertainment but to create one’s own involves effort and choices, perhaps even sacrifice. I’m not sure that’s me.
But that’s not a decision that needs to be made this week. We’re home for Christmas and it’s time to listen to my parents’ stories.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Communication Techniques [Random Thoughts]
Among the little ironies of life for which I'm thankful is that I have two children. This is really quite a fortunate happenstance since I hadn't planned on having any. After my first son was born, my father insisted we needed to have a second child. He claimed that, as an only child himself, being an only child was extremely lonely and kept one from building good social skills. "Okay, Dad, thanks for the input," thought I, "but your input isn't really enough for me to go through pregnancy, labor, and recuperation just on your say-so."
But, son of a gun if the old man isn't right. I had siblings, but the age difference was so great that the older ones were never really around much and I couldn't be troubled with the little ones. That's not to say I didn't pick up certain skills. According to my sibs, I dead-floated in the pool scaring them off swimming (true), negotiated the younger children out of their money (true), and punched one in the stomach (totally untrue). These are methods of managing conflict that still serve me today (avoidance, persuasion, and a different kind of persuasion).
When watching my two boys communicate, I realize they're benefiting in much the same way in learning boundaries and appropriateness, as well as how to work with each other.
When to Stop:Recently, Castor learned a lesson that you can only boss someone around so much before they fight back. He walked up to Pollux and, out of the blue and without any good reason, pushed Pollux's shoulder. Pollux, two years younger but considerably stockier, looked up from his cars, got a little glint in his eye, and pushed Castor back in the same manner. Back and forth they shoved until finally Castor said, "I'm older than you, Pollux!" [shove] Pollux's response? [super hard shove, Castor falls backwards, turns teary, and Pollux giggles]
Applying Logic:One of the unanticipated results of enrolling the children in private school is hearing certain fables quoted in daily conversation. Most recently they have used the golden rule and Jesus's claim in Matthew's Gospel that "the last shall be first and the first shall be last." Like fledgling philosophers, the children interpret (and re-interpret) these lessons for their own nefarious purposes. A typical exchange goes like this:
Pollux: [plays with a beloved toy of Castor's]
Castor: [walks behind Castor, shoves him, makes a grab for toy]
Pollux: [pushes Castor, protects toy]
Castor: [hits Pollux, takes toy back]
Me: "Boys! Do not hit each other!"
Castor: "But Mom! Pollux hit me first! And you're supposed to treat people the way they want to be treated so he must have wanted me to hit him!"
Me: "It doesn't matter. We don't hit. Also, Pollux give Castor back his toy - you know to not play with that one."
Pollux: "Fine! The last shall be first and the first shall be last so if I'm last to play with the toy that means I'll be first next time!"
Teamwork:My husband has an iTouch which is apparently the boys' white whale. The boys aren't technically allowed to play with it, although they've managed to spend enough time with it to navigate with acuity. Every night it is put away in a different location in a place difficult to find and reach. And every weekend morning, while we sleep in late, it manages to...disappear.
We always find it, located behind some large piece of furniture coddled protectively by four little hands, a cool screen glow making the boys' eyes shiny. Given the effort we spend in hiding it, we're always surprised they manage to find it - so one morning, we roused ourselves to awareness to figure it out.
It generally works like this: First, Pollux, the younger, cuddlier one runs into our room, crawls in between us and says, "cuddle me, Mommy and Daddy." Naturally we oblige. Within moments, Castor stealthily tip-toes in with a small step stool and some kind of long stick-like toy (lightsaber, hanger, paper towel roll, etc.). He sets up shop in the vicinity of the closet and goes hunting for the iTouch. Occasionally, he peeks out to make sure we're still slumbering and then he goes back to work iTouch foraging.
Once Castor finds the elusive electronic treasure, he normally mutters a breathy "Yes!", puts the iTouch in his pajamas pocket, and takes his tools of the trade out of the room with him. He then runs back, lightly climbs on the bed, taps on Pollux's shoulder who clambers out of the covers after Castor. They close the bedroom door and then count on us sleeping while they amuse themselves with their ill-gotten gains.
What have I learned from this? Yes, my dad was right. Also, they'll learn much from each other and sibling relationships are great preparation for interacting with others, with a few years of refinement, of course.
But, son of a gun if the old man isn't right. I had siblings, but the age difference was so great that the older ones were never really around much and I couldn't be troubled with the little ones. That's not to say I didn't pick up certain skills. According to my sibs, I dead-floated in the pool scaring them off swimming (true), negotiated the younger children out of their money (true), and punched one in the stomach (totally untrue). These are methods of managing conflict that still serve me today (avoidance, persuasion, and a different kind of persuasion).
When watching my two boys communicate, I realize they're benefiting in much the same way in learning boundaries and appropriateness, as well as how to work with each other.
When to Stop:Recently, Castor learned a lesson that you can only boss someone around so much before they fight back. He walked up to Pollux and, out of the blue and without any good reason, pushed Pollux's shoulder. Pollux, two years younger but considerably stockier, looked up from his cars, got a little glint in his eye, and pushed Castor back in the same manner. Back and forth they shoved until finally Castor said, "I'm older than you, Pollux!" [shove] Pollux's response? [super hard shove, Castor falls backwards, turns teary, and Pollux giggles]
Applying Logic:One of the unanticipated results of enrolling the children in private school is hearing certain fables quoted in daily conversation. Most recently they have used the golden rule and Jesus's claim in Matthew's Gospel that "the last shall be first and the first shall be last." Like fledgling philosophers, the children interpret (and re-interpret) these lessons for their own nefarious purposes. A typical exchange goes like this:
Pollux: [plays with a beloved toy of Castor's]
Castor: [walks behind Castor, shoves him, makes a grab for toy]
Pollux: [pushes Castor, protects toy]
Castor: [hits Pollux, takes toy back]
Me: "Boys! Do not hit each other!"
Castor: "But Mom! Pollux hit me first! And you're supposed to treat people the way they want to be treated so he must have wanted me to hit him!"
Me: "It doesn't matter. We don't hit. Also, Pollux give Castor back his toy - you know to not play with that one."
Pollux: "Fine! The last shall be first and the first shall be last so if I'm last to play with the toy that means I'll be first next time!"
Teamwork:My husband has an iTouch which is apparently the boys' white whale. The boys aren't technically allowed to play with it, although they've managed to spend enough time with it to navigate with acuity. Every night it is put away in a different location in a place difficult to find and reach. And every weekend morning, while we sleep in late, it manages to...disappear.
We always find it, located behind some large piece of furniture coddled protectively by four little hands, a cool screen glow making the boys' eyes shiny. Given the effort we spend in hiding it, we're always surprised they manage to find it - so one morning, we roused ourselves to awareness to figure it out.
It generally works like this: First, Pollux, the younger, cuddlier one runs into our room, crawls in between us and says, "cuddle me, Mommy and Daddy." Naturally we oblige. Within moments, Castor stealthily tip-toes in with a small step stool and some kind of long stick-like toy (lightsaber, hanger, paper towel roll, etc.). He sets up shop in the vicinity of the closet and goes hunting for the iTouch. Occasionally, he peeks out to make sure we're still slumbering and then he goes back to work iTouch foraging.
Once Castor finds the elusive electronic treasure, he normally mutters a breathy "Yes!", puts the iTouch in his pajamas pocket, and takes his tools of the trade out of the room with him. He then runs back, lightly climbs on the bed, taps on Pollux's shoulder who clambers out of the covers after Castor. They close the bedroom door and then count on us sleeping while they amuse themselves with their ill-gotten gains.
What have I learned from this? Yes, my dad was right. Also, they'll learn much from each other and sibling relationships are great preparation for interacting with others, with a few years of refinement, of course.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Seeking the Short Answer [Thoughts]
A friend and I chatted it up recently about answering questions: do people normally want the short answer or the long answer to any given question? We agreed that most (all?) want the short answer. Sometimes I do too. (Mentally, I ruthlessly redline my co-workers' e-mails to remove unnecessary verbiage or break down concepts into bullets.) Yet I am often incapable of forming a short answer myself.
For some, the short answer is no problem to give or accept. A question like, "why is the sky blue?" elicits an answer of "because it's a reflection of the ocean" and most are satisfied. But I'm not. This answer would lead me to other questions followed by a few online keyword searches and maybe a book purchase or two. Within a few weeks, I'll have amassed enough layman's trivia about the atmosphere, planetary physics, and light scattering to bore even the least socially inclined person at that next cocktail party. If you're lucky, I may even throw in a little analysis of the philosophical question, "what is 'sky'?" (And if you were wondering, I don't get invited to a lot of cocktail parties...at least not a second time.)
The fact is, I never grew out of my toddler stage. You know, the one every parent dreads: the stage of the endless "but why?" questions. It didn't help that my parents were often able to answer all of them, or at least try. Their careers include landlord, chicken farm owner, real estate sales, bartender, accounting, restaurateur, deejay, media sales, photographer, chemistry/forestry professor, parent, and more. Add to that life experience and the hobbies of home schooling, animal husbandry, gardening, meteorology, sewing, target shooting, military history, singing, and affiliations, by turns, with the Catholic, Mormon, Christian Science, Jewish faiths and you have parents who can pretty much answer any question a child can ask.
I'm doomed to not only normally wanting the long answer but expecting to receive it.
Some people make a living out of the long answer: Michael Pollan, Simon Winchester, Bill Bryson, Mary Roach, C.S. Lewis, Henry Petroski. These are people who probably got the short answer many times but kept on asking...and then wrote a book about it. They have written on the coevolution of humans and corn, the history of the OED, the evolution of the entryway and its etymology, the scientific dissection of the sensation of orgasm, the differences between the human and canine soul, and the design of the paperclip (respectively). If these authors are present in my library, do I even have a prayer of ever composing the short answer?
The short answer cheats us. Whatever gains in time we receive by accepting the short answer, we lose in richness of understanding. You mean you don't want to fully understand the differences between the frequently confused concepts of the virgin birth and immaculate conception as it relates to Jesus and Mary? Gah! Listening to the long answer would result in probably most Catholics realizing they're actually Protestants (if a Christian at all). You don't want to know why cheese or sugar often isn't vegetarian or how a specific virus both fueled and destroyed tulip mania and the Dutch economy in the 1600s and is occasionally considered the first speculative bubble by economists? Tsk tsk. However will you win at Trivial Pursuit?
This extends to a personal level, too. So often I have learned more about others because I just kept asking, "why?" or "tell me more." I cherish those experiences because they are the closest I've ever felt like I achieved a true human connection with another. It's exciting, it's intimate, and it's lasting.
So what's wrong with the short answer? Nothing. But let's say Don Williams is correct in saying that life is about the journey, not the destination. The short answer is a shortcut to easy fulfillment - it takes you immediately to your destination. But within the long answer is the journey of understanding and that's where one fineds all the true rewards.
For some, the short answer is no problem to give or accept. A question like, "why is the sky blue?" elicits an answer of "because it's a reflection of the ocean" and most are satisfied. But I'm not. This answer would lead me to other questions followed by a few online keyword searches and maybe a book purchase or two. Within a few weeks, I'll have amassed enough layman's trivia about the atmosphere, planetary physics, and light scattering to bore even the least socially inclined person at that next cocktail party. If you're lucky, I may even throw in a little analysis of the philosophical question, "what is 'sky'?" (And if you were wondering, I don't get invited to a lot of cocktail parties...at least not a second time.)
The fact is, I never grew out of my toddler stage. You know, the one every parent dreads: the stage of the endless "but why?" questions. It didn't help that my parents were often able to answer all of them, or at least try. Their careers include landlord, chicken farm owner, real estate sales, bartender, accounting, restaurateur, deejay, media sales, photographer, chemistry/forestry professor, parent, and more. Add to that life experience and the hobbies of home schooling, animal husbandry, gardening, meteorology, sewing, target shooting, military history, singing, and affiliations, by turns, with the Catholic, Mormon, Christian Science, Jewish faiths and you have parents who can pretty much answer any question a child can ask.
I'm doomed to not only normally wanting the long answer but expecting to receive it.
Some people make a living out of the long answer: Michael Pollan, Simon Winchester, Bill Bryson, Mary Roach, C.S. Lewis, Henry Petroski. These are people who probably got the short answer many times but kept on asking...and then wrote a book about it. They have written on the coevolution of humans and corn, the history of the OED, the evolution of the entryway and its etymology, the scientific dissection of the sensation of orgasm, the differences between the human and canine soul, and the design of the paperclip (respectively). If these authors are present in my library, do I even have a prayer of ever composing the short answer?
The short answer cheats us. Whatever gains in time we receive by accepting the short answer, we lose in richness of understanding. You mean you don't want to fully understand the differences between the frequently confused concepts of the virgin birth and immaculate conception as it relates to Jesus and Mary? Gah! Listening to the long answer would result in probably most Catholics realizing they're actually Protestants (if a Christian at all). You don't want to know why cheese or sugar often isn't vegetarian or how a specific virus both fueled and destroyed tulip mania and the Dutch economy in the 1600s and is occasionally considered the first speculative bubble by economists? Tsk tsk. However will you win at Trivial Pursuit?
This extends to a personal level, too. So often I have learned more about others because I just kept asking, "why?" or "tell me more." I cherish those experiences because they are the closest I've ever felt like I achieved a true human connection with another. It's exciting, it's intimate, and it's lasting.
So what's wrong with the short answer? Nothing. But let's say Don Williams is correct in saying that life is about the journey, not the destination. The short answer is a shortcut to easy fulfillment - it takes you immediately to your destination. But within the long answer is the journey of understanding and that's where one fineds all the true rewards.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
No, It's Not Just Me...
There are people out there who find my sense of humor to be, well...quirky. I admit, there are times when I manage to egotistically delight myself with my own wit and the humor of my surroundings and observations. Occasionally I dispair that no one "gets" me, but then I'm consoled with (again, egotistical) belief that if others don't get me, it's because their sense of humor isn't as "developed" as mine.
Fortunately, I'm lucky in that there are a smattering of people who, on any number of levels, can find humor in the same things I do. Examples: A former colleague has as his e-mail footer, "There are only 10 types of people in the world: One who gets digital and one who does not." A friend of mine from a once-attended parish knows saying "Father Hormone" cracks me up, and my sister and husband know why I find, "You're treading on thin ice" to be so chuckle-worthy. Another former (Jewish) colleague shares my laughter about when I gave her a Jesus action figure for Christmas. My brother and I snicker whenever we see the Disneyland Parade of Stars with the mushrooms dancing; we also bond over the not-as-frequently visited sections of Craigslist and find the "a-frayed knot!" joke pretty funny. Finally, my best friend knows why "rum raisin" and "you two must be twins!" induces such hilarity.
Then, there's my dear ol' pa and a recent e-mail he sent me. To help prepare you, Dad is also the one who introduces me as "my daughter, named after her dad, George." The brief story behind this is that dear ol' ma found an antique teak (say that 10 times fast, "antique teak antique teak", and you may sound like a woodpecker) elephant children's rocking toy that she wanted to send my way. Before going through the effort to do so, I asked that they take a picture of it. Dad, ever gracious and willing to oblige, did so. The picture is below with his e-mail. I find this pretty darn funny. At first, I wasn't going to share this but I'm pretty sure at least 6 other people (all of whom related to me) will find it equally giggle-worthy.
---BEGIN E-MAIL FROM DAD---
The Lincoln Division of the Ford Motor Company triumphs again with this newest innovation in custom, unique styling. Under design for a number of years, Lincoln today unveiled, accompanied by the oo's and ah's of a select previewing public, what will become the symbol of American automotive ingenuity. Toyota...BEWARE!
Fortunately, I'm lucky in that there are a smattering of people who, on any number of levels, can find humor in the same things I do. Examples: A former colleague has as his e-mail footer, "There are only 10 types of people in the world: One who gets digital and one who does not." A friend of mine from a once-attended parish knows saying "Father Hormone" cracks me up, and my sister and husband know why I find, "You're treading on thin ice" to be so chuckle-worthy. Another former (Jewish) colleague shares my laughter about when I gave her a Jesus action figure for Christmas. My brother and I snicker whenever we see the Disneyland Parade of Stars with the mushrooms dancing; we also bond over the not-as-frequently visited sections of Craigslist and find the "a-frayed knot!" joke pretty funny. Finally, my best friend knows why "rum raisin" and "you two must be twins!" induces such hilarity.
Then, there's my dear ol' pa and a recent e-mail he sent me. To help prepare you, Dad is also the one who introduces me as "my daughter, named after her dad, George." The brief story behind this is that dear ol' ma found an antique teak (say that 10 times fast, "antique teak antique teak", and you may sound like a woodpecker) elephant children's rocking toy that she wanted to send my way. Before going through the effort to do so, I asked that they take a picture of it. Dad, ever gracious and willing to oblige, did so. The picture is below with his e-mail. I find this pretty darn funny. At first, I wasn't going to share this but I'm pretty sure at least 6 other people (all of whom related to me) will find it equally giggle-worthy.
---BEGIN E-MAIL FROM DAD---
The Lincoln Division of the Ford Motor Company triumphs again with this newest innovation in custom, unique styling. Under design for a number of years, Lincoln today unveiled, accompanied by the oo's and ah's of a select previewing public, what will become the symbol of American automotive ingenuity. Toyota...BEWARE!
Friday, January 1, 2010
Resistance Is Not Futile
Although October 1 isn't an official holiday (that I know), for me it marks the unofficial start of what I call 'the baking season.' It's when even the most pedestrian of cooks grabs their boxes of Betty Crocker or buy-in-the-dairy-section cookie dough and the more daring light a candle to their favorite celebrity patron baking saint on Food Network and begin combing obscure baking blogs for recipes they can "whip up" and share.
The season continues at least through the end of the year, although has been known to persist through February with its flourless chocolate dome cakes and caramel ganache. The flow of carbohydrates and calories is never-ending, merely shape-shifting -- whether that shape-shifting be from Halloween caramel-covered apples to Thanksgiving Dutch apple pies or the less-desirable shape-sifting from a size 6 to a size 10.
As a mildly capable cook and baker myself, I understand the desire to bake, as well as the need to share the wealth (one four-person home can only consume so much sugary goodness). But I also realize that stretchy pants should only be worn a certain number of times in a week. Once that threshold is exceeded, it's time to stop eating.
But how to stop eating when you are beseiged on every front with temptations? Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Tiger Woods at a Barbie-lookalike convention. (Ooh, was that too soon?) No doubt about it, whether going to the local shipping depot, the family holiday party, or the workplace, the calories flow abundantly. It requires one to be on their most vigilant guard.
When I try to resist treats, I find it helpful to understand the (sometimes underhanded or subconscious) motivation of the person who brought them in. This helps me identify the appropriate avoidance technique.
Don't get me wrong - I am not above any of these motivations myself. It is through using them, though, that I am able to better understand it in others and navigate the battlefield of balance versus indulgence.
The season continues at least through the end of the year, although has been known to persist through February with its flourless chocolate dome cakes and caramel ganache. The flow of carbohydrates and calories is never-ending, merely shape-shifting -- whether that shape-shifting be from Halloween caramel-covered apples to Thanksgiving Dutch apple pies or the less-desirable shape-sifting from a size 6 to a size 10.
As a mildly capable cook and baker myself, I understand the desire to bake, as well as the need to share the wealth (one four-person home can only consume so much sugary goodness). But I also realize that stretchy pants should only be worn a certain number of times in a week. Once that threshold is exceeded, it's time to stop eating.
But how to stop eating when you are beseiged on every front with temptations? Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Tiger Woods at a Barbie-lookalike convention. (Ooh, was that too soon?) No doubt about it, whether going to the local shipping depot, the family holiday party, or the workplace, the calories flow abundantly. It requires one to be on their most vigilant guard.
When I try to resist treats, I find it helpful to understand the (sometimes underhanded or subconscious) motivation of the person who brought them in. This helps me identify the appropriate avoidance technique.
Baker's Motivation: “I really enjoy baking but my family can’t possibly eat everything I make so I’m sharing some of the bounty with you. Please enjoy.”
Avoidance Technique: Righteous indignation. (Think: "I AM NOT A GARBAGE DISPOSAL!")
Baker's Motivation: “My weight loss efforts have been unsuccessful so by making you gain weight through the treats I bring in, I feel less bad and more successful/validated.”
Avoidance Technique: Competitive zeal! (Think: “You’re not going to use me! And I’m going to feel so good being thinner than you!”)
Baker's Motivation: “I received these treats from a good-intentioned parent/sibling/distant relative and I can’t deal with the guilt of throwing them away myself. Please enjoy them so I don’t feel guilty.”
Avoidance Technique: Compassion. (Think: “Here, let me help you put them in the garbage.”)
Baker's Motivation: “I rely on your public pronouncement that you enjoy these homemade treats for my own self-worth. If you don’t try them, I’ll feel like I’m not a good enough cook and possibly be deeply insulted. Please enjoy.”
Avoidance Technique: Craftiness. (Think: “These look to. Die. For. Delicious! But I’m allergic to gluten/dairy/air and am on a strict medically-enforced abstinence diet from my doctor.”)
Don't get me wrong - I am not above any of these motivations myself. It is through using them, though, that I am able to better understand it in others and navigate the battlefield of balance versus indulgence.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Voyages with the Hyper-Sensitive
My son, Castor, and I share many bonds. Our eyes are the same color and shape. He also has my nose (although it looks better on him). We both adore reading and music. Although my tastes are a bit more mature, we both enjoy a good literary romp with Dr. Seuss or a tune with Julie Andrews. As early as nine months old, Castor was plotting to steal my beloved iced tea and he’s recently taken to absconding with my chai tea lattes. We both are in a quest for fairness, although my hope is more for global compassion for one’s fellow human and animal whereas Castor’s is seeking train-sharing equity. Castor would like to marry a good bowl of Aunt Scully’s popcorn and have its babies, if he could. Hopefully, popcorn is into non-exclusive relationships because I have designs on it as well. He is my first-born - coincidentally, I’m also his first mother. Castor is one of his dad’s biggest fans, but at this point in his life, he’s still my Mini Me.
We also share allergies, although he’s worse off. Whereas I exist with the knowledge that the pollen Mafia has a seasonal hit out on me, Castor’s little body is in perpetual war with almost all nuts and sesame seed. If I drug myself heavily and live like a Morlock for four or five months, I might survive the year in minimal agony. But Castor (and us as his parents) have a year-round struggle against nuts and seeds of all kinds.
To be honest, we have it pretty easy relative to other families whose children have dietary allergies. Whereas some children would disintegrate into a non-breathing, swollen pile of goo at the merest inhalation of peanut dust, Castor needs to actually ingest it. In our home, we have a bottle of sesame oil and peanut butter on our highest kitchen shelf. I’ve been known to have a little sesame vinaigrette dressing on my cucumbers with Castor sitting next to me, and nothing terrible has occurred. In fact, we do some of this intentionally. Based on what we’ve read, it doesn’t seem like putting a child in a hypo-allergenic bubble reduces his or her sensitivity, but there is some evidence that extremely limited exposure (generally under medical supervision) can at least ensure a child will build up a modest immunity to small amounts of their respective Kryptonite. While we’re not participating in any of those clinical trials underway, we practice this a little at home – not by allowing Castor to eat any of the foods, but by allowing the occasional chocolate covered pistachio in the house or letting him eat Honey Nut Cheerios (made with almond meal, and almond being the only nut to which he is not allergic).
This is actually how we learned of his allergy. One night, I was tossing back a few chocolate-covered pistachios for dessert when I gave Castor one to see if he’d like it. Within minutes, he was vomiting and a half hour later, his stomach resembled the scaly underbelly of a Gila monster. Even after a dose of children’s Benadryl, Castor resembled a victim of the mumps. A later allergy test confirmed what we’d observed: anaphylaxis to nuts. When six months later, he had a bite of his dad’s noodle dish and grew lips that would make Angelina Jolie envious, we had him retested and added another item to the list: sesame seed and its oil.
Fast forward to today: We have four Epipens available at all times (1 for home/backup, 1 for car/travel, 1 at school, 1 at after-care). We’ve yet to use one and every year we need a fresh set of four. Health care system abuse watchdogs? Meet the Willowbottom family, wasters of four Epipens a year. But, what is the alternative? Based on everything we’ve read and learned from the experiences of others, there will someday come a time when Benadryl won’t cover it and that adrenaline shot will be what makes the difference.
There’s a lot to be said for preventative care. Ideally, neither Epipen nor Benadryl will never be used because a child’s exposure will be eliminated. That’s a happy thought, but impossible in reality unless you live in the bubble that (in my opinion) parents ought to strive to avoid. So we do the best we can: we keep those verboten products on the top shelf, we let Castor go to school with other children realizing there is risk, and we go out to eat occasionally.
It’s actually that last activity that prompted this post. During a recent road trip, we stopped at a restaurant for a quick bite on the long trip home. I ordered the easy dishes first (husband’s and mine, no alterations needed). Then, I ordered both kids’ dishes. Even though Pollux doesn’t have any identified food allergies, we realize the boys often share cutlery and food so we try to keep them both allergen-free.
Alrighty then. So I complete our order, the meals, kids, and husband come to the table and we dive in. About 10 minutes into it, Castor complains of his throat being “spicy” (translation: tingly and itchy). A tummy inspection shows clean skin but his eyes are a little bloodshot. Fatigue or exposure? Tough to tell. We wait a couple minutes until it’s clear that it’s definitely exposure. An Epipen is always our last resort and only if there’s clear evidence of breathing difficulties. Swollen eyes and lips, splotchy skin, whining not related to brotherly torment, and that’s cause for Benadryl.
Within moments, it’s obvious that Castor has ingested something to which he’s allergic. Husband goes to the car to hunt for the Benadryl and I go up to cross-examine the cashier. She had previously assured me no nuts, seeds, or their byproducts were in their food so this episode could be evidence of a previously unknown food allergy.
[Author’s comment: While it was delightful to watch their 20-something pubescent flirting, I had a son being carried to the car who more closely resembled a blow fish than a child.]
The final rub? When we did the U-turn, we saw the back side of the restaurant’s marquee which proclaimed in bold black letters: “We don’t use nuts or seeds in any of our dishes!”
We also share allergies, although he’s worse off. Whereas I exist with the knowledge that the pollen Mafia has a seasonal hit out on me, Castor’s little body is in perpetual war with almost all nuts and sesame seed. If I drug myself heavily and live like a Morlock for four or five months, I might survive the year in minimal agony. But Castor (and us as his parents) have a year-round struggle against nuts and seeds of all kinds.
To be honest, we have it pretty easy relative to other families whose children have dietary allergies. Whereas some children would disintegrate into a non-breathing, swollen pile of goo at the merest inhalation of peanut dust, Castor needs to actually ingest it. In our home, we have a bottle of sesame oil and peanut butter on our highest kitchen shelf. I’ve been known to have a little sesame vinaigrette dressing on my cucumbers with Castor sitting next to me, and nothing terrible has occurred. In fact, we do some of this intentionally. Based on what we’ve read, it doesn’t seem like putting a child in a hypo-allergenic bubble reduces his or her sensitivity, but there is some evidence that extremely limited exposure (generally under medical supervision) can at least ensure a child will build up a modest immunity to small amounts of their respective Kryptonite. While we’re not participating in any of those clinical trials underway, we practice this a little at home – not by allowing Castor to eat any of the foods, but by allowing the occasional chocolate covered pistachio in the house or letting him eat Honey Nut Cheerios (made with almond meal, and almond being the only nut to which he is not allergic).
This is actually how we learned of his allergy. One night, I was tossing back a few chocolate-covered pistachios for dessert when I gave Castor one to see if he’d like it. Within minutes, he was vomiting and a half hour later, his stomach resembled the scaly underbelly of a Gila monster. Even after a dose of children’s Benadryl, Castor resembled a victim of the mumps. A later allergy test confirmed what we’d observed: anaphylaxis to nuts. When six months later, he had a bite of his dad’s noodle dish and grew lips that would make Angelina Jolie envious, we had him retested and added another item to the list: sesame seed and its oil.
Fast forward to today: We have four Epipens available at all times (1 for home/backup, 1 for car/travel, 1 at school, 1 at after-care). We’ve yet to use one and every year we need a fresh set of four. Health care system abuse watchdogs? Meet the Willowbottom family, wasters of four Epipens a year. But, what is the alternative? Based on everything we’ve read and learned from the experiences of others, there will someday come a time when Benadryl won’t cover it and that adrenaline shot will be what makes the difference.
There’s a lot to be said for preventative care. Ideally, neither Epipen nor Benadryl will never be used because a child’s exposure will be eliminated. That’s a happy thought, but impossible in reality unless you live in the bubble that (in my opinion) parents ought to strive to avoid. So we do the best we can: we keep those verboten products on the top shelf, we let Castor go to school with other children realizing there is risk, and we go out to eat occasionally.
It’s actually that last activity that prompted this post. During a recent road trip, we stopped at a restaurant for a quick bite on the long trip home. I ordered the easy dishes first (husband’s and mine, no alterations needed). Then, I ordered both kids’ dishes. Even though Pollux doesn’t have any identified food allergies, we realize the boys often share cutlery and food so we try to keep them both allergen-free.
Me to cashier: “Is there any nut or seed product in any component of the kids’
rice/noodle bowls?”
Cashier: “No, just noodles, rice, tofu, and vegetables.”
Me: “What about the oil used to cook it? Any seed or nut oils?”
Cashier: “No, we normally use a spicy oil with a bit of pepper in it but no nuts or seeds.”
Me: “Is the oil derived from nuts/seeds or is it like a soy or canola oil?”
Cashier: “It doesn’t come from nuts or seeds.”
Alrighty then. So I complete our order, the meals, kids, and husband come to the table and we dive in. About 10 minutes into it, Castor complains of his throat being “spicy” (translation: tingly and itchy). A tummy inspection shows clean skin but his eyes are a little bloodshot. Fatigue or exposure? Tough to tell. We wait a couple minutes until it’s clear that it’s definitely exposure. An Epipen is always our last resort and only if there’s clear evidence of breathing difficulties. Swollen eyes and lips, splotchy skin, whining not related to brotherly torment, and that’s cause for Benadryl.
Within moments, it’s obvious that Castor has ingested something to which he’s allergic. Husband goes to the car to hunt for the Benadryl and I go up to cross-examine the cashier. She had previously assured me no nuts, seeds, or their byproducts were in their food so this episode could be evidence of a previously unknown food allergy.
Me to cashier: “Hi, remember when I asked you about the nuts and seeds and
nut/seed oils? Can you tell me what else is in those dishes?”
Cashier: “I can’t tell you everything that’s in them because it’s our proprietary
recipe.”
Me: “Well, I don’t plan on selling your recipe or making this dish at home. My son has had an allergic reaction to something and I need to figure out what was in that dish.”
Cashier: “I really can’t tell you because that is our company’s recipe.”
Me: “If I need to take my son to the hospital, I need to know what he ate. Who can tell me what was in that dish?”
Cashier: “Cooper,” gesturing to the line cook, “come here.”
Cooper: “What d’ya want?”
Cashier: “Just come here.”
Cooper: “Are you going to sexually harass me again?”
Cashier: “You know you like it. Just come here.”
Cooper: “Okay, I’m coming over but only because I like it.”
[Author’s comment: While it was delightful to watch their 20-something pubescent flirting, I had a son being carried to the car who more closely resembled a blow fish than a child.]
Cashier to Cooper: “Can you tell this lady what is in the kids’ noodle and riceWith crystal clarity of thought cradled in a red sea of rage, I clean off the table, collect my other son and things, and go to the car where husband awaits with my puffy-faced son. We stuff him with a double-dose of Benadryl, flip a U-turn, and head back to the highway home to see how far we can get before he begins vomiting (answer: 89.1 miles).
bowls?”
Cooper: “Uh, no. That’s our proprietary recipe and we can’t tell people what’s in it.”
Me: “Look, my son is having an allergic reaction to something that was in that dish. I’m clearly not looking to replicate it. What are the ingredients?”
Cooper: “Well, there’s soy sauce, walnut oil, sesame seed…”
Me to Cashier: “I asked you specifically if there was either nuts or seeds or their oils in their dish and you said no.”
Cashier (smiling): “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”
Me: “I’m sure you are sorry but I asked you an important question and my son is allergic to both nuts and seeds.”
Cashier: “Well you didn’t tell me he had an allergy. If you had, I would’ve asked.”
The final rub? When we did the U-turn, we saw the back side of the restaurant’s marquee which proclaimed in bold black letters: “We don’t use nuts or seeds in any of our dishes!”
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Music Is Made Up of Moments
Certainly, I do not have exclusive province on sardonically wistful observations and insight about music ... but I am more than a bit envious that I didn't write this article. The question the author addresses is "what kind of music do you like?" He notes that for those with eclectic music tastes, it's a very hard question to answer ... especially since it's one that seems intended to cubbyhole the respondent.
The second page of the article is what I like best. He observes that an appreciation of music is not necessarily attached to genre, artist, or composer. Sometimes those moments of passionate delight can be found in just a few moments of a single song.
The second page of the article is what I like best. He observes that an appreciation of music is not necessarily attached to genre, artist, or composer. Sometimes those moments of passionate delight can be found in just a few moments of a single song.
"Me, on Shuffle" by Chuck Klosterman
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Coming of Age
Shortly, I will experience a day dreaded by many women from the day after they turn 21: I will celebrate my 30th birthday.
Because I mastered counting by ones many, many years ago, I've been preparing for 30 for...well...29 years. It's not been a surprise that it's coming up (although I did spend a brief angst-inspired period of my teenage years believing that I'd die before I ever got to be "this" old). But, truth be told, I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this coming of age. Anne Boleyn had already given birth to a future queen, been queen herself, and was instrumental in England adopting the reformed Christian religion by 29. Anne Frank was an proficient diarist by half this age. By their standard, I'm an under-accomplished old husk (although note that I am an alive husk with my head attached).
On the other hand, Harper Lee didn't write her most definitive work until she was 33 and I have approximately 92 years to go before rivalling the supercenetarian record held by Jeanne Calment. Grandma Moses didn't really hit her stride until she was a spry woman of her 70s. Throwing my name in with these great women, it is clear to me that I have plenty of time to carpe that diem.
But it is unavoidable that the prospect of turning 30 has affected to some extent the way I perceive my relationships with others: family, colleagues, my children, women, men.
So this brings me to wonder, what will my 30s hold? If there has been a unifying theme to my 20s, it's just been to get to some place (I don't know where) and to get there as quickly as possible. A friend predicted that in my 30s, I'd derive even more pleasure from my children and find some way to wear Mardi Gras beads and a caftan together with style. Those are noble goals, although I think all I'd need to do is throw in a bad dye job, a hair cap, and some cloth grocery bags, and I could be mistaken for the portly senile lady pushing the shopping cart around down by the river.
Instead, for my 30s, I hope for direction and selfless resolve. I hope that I'll be able to make decisions based on what is best for me and my immediate family, regardless of where that takes us. I hope with that will come the confidence and determination to make any decisions successful ones.
And I hope that all those younger, skinnier, prettier women get fat with terrible acne. Quickly.
Because I mastered counting by ones many, many years ago, I've been preparing for 30 for...well...29 years. It's not been a surprise that it's coming up (although I did spend a brief angst-inspired period of my teenage years believing that I'd die before I ever got to be "this" old). But, truth be told, I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this coming of age. Anne Boleyn had already given birth to a future queen, been queen herself, and was instrumental in England adopting the reformed Christian religion by 29. Anne Frank was an proficient diarist by half this age. By their standard, I'm an under-accomplished old husk (although note that I am an alive husk with my head attached).
On the other hand, Harper Lee didn't write her most definitive work until she was 33 and I have approximately 92 years to go before rivalling the supercenetarian record held by Jeanne Calment. Grandma Moses didn't really hit her stride until she was a spry woman of her 70s. Throwing my name in with these great women, it is clear to me that I have plenty of time to carpe that diem.
But it is unavoidable that the prospect of turning 30 has affected to some extent the way I perceive my relationships with others: family, colleagues, my children, women, men.
Colleagues: As someone who has always been the youngest amongst my peers (going through school young will do that to you), it's a bit of a shock to learn that some of my colleagues are now two or three years younger than I am, and I'm expected to treat them as my equals. (In other words, the respect I expect from those who are older, I shy away from extending to those who are younger. But no where is it said that with age comes consistency!)
Family: By turning 30, I feel a slightly renewed sense of confidence in dealing with my family. No longer am I the irresponsible teenager nor the starting-out-in-life 20-something. I am fully an adult, empowered, unique, and independent (albeit never free) of the self-limiting impressions of childhood.
My Children: As a 20-something mom, it's always felt a little bit like playing house. My children mean much to me, but sometimes when I look at them, I see playthings, like they're really my little brothers or nephews and I'm just babysitting for a bit while the adults are out. With 30 approaching, I know that I am a mom and I now feel like the appropriate age to be one. (Maybe turning 30 and living in middle-class suburbia is just what Britney needs?)
Women: Fortunately, almost all the women I know are at least 2-3 years older. Phew. But there is a growing number of women I know who are, sadly, younger. Yes, there's a sharp twang of competitiveness and jealousy when I see them. But, what's interesting is that I always felt that, except before it was when looking at women who are older and more accomplished. So the difference here is simply perspective. I hope that some day I'll be mature (or resigned) enough to look at the younger, slimmer, prettier women without a twinge of envy or regret that I never looked like that. Until then, at least I know that age is helping me be humble.
Men: There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd look at another man and muse to myself, "now, that's a handsome specimen!" only to find out that he was (gasp) in his mid- to late-30s. Ewwww. Mentally calculating, I would quickly deduce that he could, at least in theory, be my dad. (Forget for a moment that my own dad is 40 years older than I and let's assume this other handsome Mr. X could've spawned me at 13-ish). Now, however, when I see interesting gents "of a certain age," I need to stop my recoil and realize that they're really not "that" old. Were I in the dating market (I'm not), they would be well within my range. (That takes me down another path of introspection as I realize that some of the men I notice now are actually older than my dad was when I was born. Again I say....ewwww.)
So this brings me to wonder, what will my 30s hold? If there has been a unifying theme to my 20s, it's just been to get to some place (I don't know where) and to get there as quickly as possible. A friend predicted that in my 30s, I'd derive even more pleasure from my children and find some way to wear Mardi Gras beads and a caftan together with style. Those are noble goals, although I think all I'd need to do is throw in a bad dye job, a hair cap, and some cloth grocery bags, and I could be mistaken for the portly senile lady pushing the shopping cart around down by the river.
Instead, for my 30s, I hope for direction and selfless resolve. I hope that I'll be able to make decisions based on what is best for me and my immediate family, regardless of where that takes us. I hope with that will come the confidence and determination to make any decisions successful ones.
And I hope that all those younger, skinnier, prettier women get fat with terrible acne. Quickly.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Question No One Really Asked Has Now Been Answered
I've seen dozens of pregnancies and have been pregnant myself twice.
Every time, I might've marveled at a woman's size (or lack thereof), her grace (or lack thereof), or her waddle (rarely is there a lack thereof).
Never have I wondered why a pregnant woman doesn't topple like a Weeble-Wobble.
But apparently I'm just not curious enough. Some scientists did ask, and some yahoo at Forbes and the Associated Press felt that the answer was worthy of publication.
Guess what they learned? Disingenuously enough, scientists learned that women are built differently from men and these differences allow women to adjust to a different center of gravity.
Huh. Who would've thunk it?
Read more: http://www.forbes.com/feeds/ap/2007/12/12/ap4433083.html
Every time, I might've marveled at a woman's size (or lack thereof), her grace (or lack thereof), or her waddle (rarely is there a lack thereof).
Never have I wondered why a pregnant woman doesn't topple like a Weeble-Wobble.
But apparently I'm just not curious enough. Some scientists did ask, and some yahoo at Forbes and the Associated Press felt that the answer was worthy of publication.
Guess what they learned? Disingenuously enough, scientists learned that women are built differently from men and these differences allow women to adjust to a different center of gravity.
Huh. Who would've thunk it?
Read more: http://www.forbes.com/feeds/ap/2007/12/12/ap4433083.html
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Associations
A call this morning with my mother started me thinking about associations and the lasting impact they have on our behavior.
When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, around six or seven years old, I found the family-sized box of Nestle Quik powdered chocolate. ("Found," in this context, means that I waited until the adults were not paying attention to me, and I sneakily crept into the kitchen and pulled my pudgy, overweight body onto the kitchen countertop and get the chocolate off the topmost shelf in the highest cupboard.)
Not being a child known for moderate dietary indulgence (I would add 1/2 c. of brown sugar to a glass of whole milk for the pleasure of slurping the brown sugar off the bottom with a straw, just to add more brown sugar when it either dissolved or was eaten), I sat my pink flower-pantied bottom on the countertop with tablespoon in hand and eat spoonful after spoonful of the powdered chocolate ad nauseam (that's a pun, by the way). How I managed to eat half a box of this stuff (not to mention without any kind of lubricating agent like sips of water milk), I do not know...but I did.
An hour or two later, I was in the front seat of my parents' 1976 white Thunderbird, sitting between them. (Anyone who can picture this situation may ask, "where was her seat belt?" To that I would say, Dad ripped out the seat belts and disabled the warning/light bell on every car he had. It was 1980-something and we probably had a metal dashboard in that car; kids were just made tougher back then.) As we made a sharp right turn into the parking lot of a strip mall, by stomach roiled. The car made the little bumpity-bump over the curve, and I experienced all of that chocolate powder a second time, this time in the upward direction, as it temporarily turned brown the white leather seats and stained my favorite yellow/white polka dot dress.
Fast forward about 10-12 years to a college drinking experience when I must've thoroughly abandoned all of the best good sense I ever learned from Grandma or Spock (I mean the logical Star Trek Spock, not the nurturing child psychologist). This 6-hour period began with homemade sushi and champagne (hey, we were cultured college kids!), progressed through beer-and-amaretto Depth Charges, and concluded with shots of tequila and cinnamon-flavored Firewater. About four hours after last call, I took a 15-minute break from vegetarianism and indulged in Chicken McNuggets because I realized I needed food. Perhaps not surprisingly, my body rebelled. Thereafter any gaps in my memory about what I had drank or eaten over the previous 12 hours were answered, in a most physically uncomfortable way.
Since I was 6 or 7, I've barely touched chocolate, eschewing chocolate milk, hot chocolate, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate pudding, chocolate bars, or even chocolate ice cream, or chocolate fudge. I may be one of the few women who disdains gifts of chocolate at Valentine's Day. Since that teen-aged tour of the middle-shelf of the bar, I have barely touched booze, but, more significantly, I have such a strong aversion to tequila and artificial cinnamon that my stomach clenches at the faintest whiff. For multiple reasons, I have never again attempted to acquaint myself with Chicken McNuggets.
So, back to this morning's call with Ma.
I like to cook and bake, something my mother doesn't have much time to do, and my dad likes to eat what I cook and bake. He living nearly 600 miles from me isn't an impediment, as I manage to send travel-tolerant food via carrier pigeon (a.k.a. family members taking road trips between points A and B). Knowing my dad loves cheesecake, and I like making it, caused me to call home this morning to offer to send some cheesecake to him as part of his Christmas package.
Dad was asleep, sleeping off the exhausting effects of life-saving cancer treatment which does everything to destroy quality of life while trying to preserve the quantity of it. So, I asked my mother: Would a nice, high-fat, high-sugar cheesecake entice Dad into eating a little bit more (weight gain being one of his objectives right now)?
Mother: "No, not cheesecake."
Me: "Is he just not eating anything, or do animal-based products just not seem tasty to him right now?"
Mother: "Neither. We just don't want cheesecake in the house."
It was then, in a Hollywood-like rush of flashbacks and instantaneous recollection, that I remembered.
Mother hasn't made cheesecake or had homemade cheesecake in her home for almost 30 years. Whereas she'll occasionally purchase the finest cheesecake CostCo has to offer, it is generally relegated to the extra freezer out-of-sight, and more often meets its end not through someone's enjoyment of every calorie-plumped bite but rather due to freezer burn because it sits there uneaten for so long.
So why the cheesecake prohibition? Clearly, in a home where 1-pound bricks of Jack cheese, tubes of salami, and jugs of whole milk were as plentiful as Starbucks in an urban mall, cheesecake is not verboten due to health concerns.
I last saw Grandpa Ted when I was about ankle-high to a grasshopper then so I have only the foggiest memories of him (if, indeed, they're authentic memories). My mother used to make Grandpa Ted a cheesecake every Christmas. He'd turn one 8-inch cheesecake into about 16 slices (making them very thin indeed!) and freeze each one individually. He'd allow himself one slice a week over the next 3 months or so, knowing that on his birthday, he'd get another homemade cheesecake, so his Christmas gift needed to last until then.
Grandpa Ted died some 27 years ago, and Mother hasn't made a single cheesecake that I know of since then. I have no doubt that the possible parallels have struck here: She liked to bake cheesecake for her dad, who died. I like to bake and am offering to bake a cheesecake for my dad, who is suffering through cancer. She is (or at least, can be) a rational woman. Were I to go ahead and send a cheesecake there uninvited, there'd be no Joan Crawford-type dramatics with a cheesecake flying across the room to hit the wall with a slurpy splat. But every time she saw it in the refrigerator, it'd likely trigger her own Hollywood-like rush of flashbacks and make her a little less happy until it was gone.
Her commitment to cheesecake avoidance is so great, my dislike of chocolate, cheap booze, and Chicken McNuggets pales by comparison.
Such is the power of association.
It's okay, though. To be honest, Dad probably wouldn't feel well enough to eat it anyway.
When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, around six or seven years old, I found the family-sized box of Nestle Quik powdered chocolate. ("Found," in this context, means that I waited until the adults were not paying attention to me, and I sneakily crept into the kitchen and pulled my pudgy, overweight body onto the kitchen countertop and get the chocolate off the topmost shelf in the highest cupboard.)
Not being a child known for moderate dietary indulgence (I would add 1/2 c. of brown sugar to a glass of whole milk for the pleasure of slurping the brown sugar off the bottom with a straw, just to add more brown sugar when it either dissolved or was eaten), I sat my pink flower-pantied bottom on the countertop with tablespoon in hand and eat spoonful after spoonful of the powdered chocolate ad nauseam (that's a pun, by the way). How I managed to eat half a box of this stuff (not to mention without any kind of lubricating agent like sips of water milk), I do not know...but I did.
An hour or two later, I was in the front seat of my parents' 1976 white Thunderbird, sitting between them. (Anyone who can picture this situation may ask, "where was her seat belt?" To that I would say, Dad ripped out the seat belts and disabled the warning/light bell on every car he had. It was 1980-something and we probably had a metal dashboard in that car; kids were just made tougher back then.) As we made a sharp right turn into the parking lot of a strip mall, by stomach roiled. The car made the little bumpity-bump over the curve, and I experienced all of that chocolate powder a second time, this time in the upward direction, as it temporarily turned brown the white leather seats and stained my favorite yellow/white polka dot dress.
Fast forward about 10-12 years to a college drinking experience when I must've thoroughly abandoned all of the best good sense I ever learned from Grandma or Spock (I mean the logical Star Trek Spock, not the nurturing child psychologist). This 6-hour period began with homemade sushi and champagne (hey, we were cultured college kids!), progressed through beer-and-amaretto Depth Charges, and concluded with shots of tequila and cinnamon-flavored Firewater. About four hours after last call, I took a 15-minute break from vegetarianism and indulged in Chicken McNuggets because I realized I needed food. Perhaps not surprisingly, my body rebelled. Thereafter any gaps in my memory about what I had drank or eaten over the previous 12 hours were answered, in a most physically uncomfortable way.
Since I was 6 or 7, I've barely touched chocolate, eschewing chocolate milk, hot chocolate, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate pudding, chocolate bars, or even chocolate ice cream, or chocolate fudge. I may be one of the few women who disdains gifts of chocolate at Valentine's Day. Since that teen-aged tour of the middle-shelf of the bar, I have barely touched booze, but, more significantly, I have such a strong aversion to tequila and artificial cinnamon that my stomach clenches at the faintest whiff. For multiple reasons, I have never again attempted to acquaint myself with Chicken McNuggets.
So, back to this morning's call with Ma.
I like to cook and bake, something my mother doesn't have much time to do, and my dad likes to eat what I cook and bake. He living nearly 600 miles from me isn't an impediment, as I manage to send travel-tolerant food via carrier pigeon (a.k.a. family members taking road trips between points A and B). Knowing my dad loves cheesecake, and I like making it, caused me to call home this morning to offer to send some cheesecake to him as part of his Christmas package.
Dad was asleep, sleeping off the exhausting effects of life-saving cancer treatment which does everything to destroy quality of life while trying to preserve the quantity of it. So, I asked my mother: Would a nice, high-fat, high-sugar cheesecake entice Dad into eating a little bit more (weight gain being one of his objectives right now)?
Mother: "No, not cheesecake."
Me: "Is he just not eating anything, or do animal-based products just not seem tasty to him right now?"
Mother: "Neither. We just don't want cheesecake in the house."
It was then, in a Hollywood-like rush of flashbacks and instantaneous recollection, that I remembered.
Mother hasn't made cheesecake or had homemade cheesecake in her home for almost 30 years. Whereas she'll occasionally purchase the finest cheesecake CostCo has to offer, it is generally relegated to the extra freezer out-of-sight, and more often meets its end not through someone's enjoyment of every calorie-plumped bite but rather due to freezer burn because it sits there uneaten for so long.
So why the cheesecake prohibition? Clearly, in a home where 1-pound bricks of Jack cheese, tubes of salami, and jugs of whole milk were as plentiful as Starbucks in an urban mall, cheesecake is not verboten due to health concerns.
I last saw Grandpa Ted when I was about ankle-high to a grasshopper then so I have only the foggiest memories of him (if, indeed, they're authentic memories). My mother used to make Grandpa Ted a cheesecake every Christmas. He'd turn one 8-inch cheesecake into about 16 slices (making them very thin indeed!) and freeze each one individually. He'd allow himself one slice a week over the next 3 months or so, knowing that on his birthday, he'd get another homemade cheesecake, so his Christmas gift needed to last until then.
Grandpa Ted died some 27 years ago, and Mother hasn't made a single cheesecake that I know of since then. I have no doubt that the possible parallels have struck here: She liked to bake cheesecake for her dad, who died. I like to bake and am offering to bake a cheesecake for my dad, who is suffering through cancer. She is (or at least, can be) a rational woman. Were I to go ahead and send a cheesecake there uninvited, there'd be no Joan Crawford-type dramatics with a cheesecake flying across the room to hit the wall with a slurpy splat. But every time she saw it in the refrigerator, it'd likely trigger her own Hollywood-like rush of flashbacks and make her a little less happy until it was gone.
Her commitment to cheesecake avoidance is so great, my dislike of chocolate, cheap booze, and Chicken McNuggets pales by comparison.
Such is the power of association.
It's okay, though. To be honest, Dad probably wouldn't feel well enough to eat it anyway.
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