goods and heroes

food love

A big box arrived yesterday afternoon. It was from my sister Sylvia and Lyle, my brother-in-law. It was filled with two things: food and love.

This "tradition" of them sending us food for Christmas started about 5 or 6 years ago when Lyle sent us a big jar of his Puttanesca sauce and an equally large jar of French vinaigrette, based on his mother Bettina's family recipe. There were other little gifts in our box that we certainly enjoyed and appreciated.  But Ted and I were simply thrilled to have a little bit of their kitchen--a kitchen we spent a lot of happy times in when Ted and I lived in Colorado--transported to ours. And so slowly, this box has evolved to be a box containing Lyle's Puttanesca (always with a bit of a kick and tons of capers and olives) and Bettina's vinaigrette along with local goat cheese, pork sausage and apple cider. Syl sent a very large wedge of authentic Parmegianno and I knew Ted would be touched since she first gave him a massive piece about a decade ago, right about the time when he was in his fabulous Marcella Hazan cooking frenzy. To this day Ted says that is one of the more thoughtful gifts he's been given.

This year's box also included both Pueblo and Boulder fire-roasted green chiles (hooray, I'm making green chili on Tuesday!) and a very large chub of Syl's favorite salami from a little salumeria in Berkeley, as well as a couple of tubes of cookie dough from a Boulder-based cookie company. And of course, there were other little surprises, like amaretti cookies and soy nut butter cups (Hey, it's Boulder people) and fancy Italian organic pasta. I don't know why but as I was carefully taking out each item of food, I started crying. Not water works crying just tears quietly spilling over eyelids crying. Happy tears of course, maybe a few bittersweet ones as well. Food is a huge connector for my sister and Lyle and me. And so all this amazing food just made my heart fill up but also made me miss them and their bustling kitchen like mad.

I wiped away the tears and smiled at the bounty--that was the only way to describe it. (My sister's unspoken motto is often "More of Everything.")  And right at that moment I decided to bring the flavors of their kitchen right to our table by heating up the sauce and serving it for supper. And so I did.

 

And it was delicious. Almost as good as sitting at the great, big harvest table with Syl & Lyle at the farm. Not the same at all but as close as we could get.

As my sister's note in the great, big box said, food can be a universal language and I so believe that.  I can't tell you how many times I've made a connection with someone, whether it's a Nigerian cab driver or a hard to read co-worker, through food. I mean, we all gotta eat, right? But also want to enjoy it. And so this time all the food said one simple word: love. Wait, no it said two words. Love and family. Hey, yo comprendo! I totally understand and feel it and want to keep having the conversation! So let's do.

to be three

Ben turned three today and we had a near-perfect in every way kind of party with our neighbors last night.

Their youngest daughter Martha is exactly one day older than Ben and is actually how we all met. And so we decided to celebrate our littlest ones' birthdays together. I made a little halfway homemade cake for Ben (yellow cake batter from a box and chocolate frosting from scratch) and Maria did the same for Martha but Maria's choice was strawberry cake batter (also from a box) with vanilla frosting (from scratch).

When the two cakes came out and the lights were out . . . it was twice as beautiful. Of course!

Ben loved the candles ("Turn the candles on again Mom," he said later) but he wasn''t quite sure about the making a wish part. I don't blame him, making a wish is pretty serious business.

But I think Ben was pretty happy with his cake and maybe even his wish. Because tonight, after a second little party with his cousins and aunt and uncle and a second cake, Ben received a Fire Chief Costume.

When I asked Ben what he wanted for his birthday a few weeks ago, he said with all earnestness, "Cake." And Ted and I fell in love with him all over again for that very simple, but to us, powerful comment. Cake. It must be noted that when I asked Ben what he wanted for Christmas a few weeks back he said quietly but very matter of factly, "A present." Can you just hear our hearts melting as he said it? Can you even fathom how refreshing and joyous it is to hear something so honest and innocent? I mean, when's the last time I ever answered in such a Zen-like way? It didn't brush off/blow off the question as I often do, ("Oh, don't worry about me") and it didn't abuse it "(I'd like an X-Wing Fighter Wii Game with a DVD player built into the headrests on the Volvo AND my own robotic arm thingy.) Not that Sam is anything like this, but that's how it sounds in my head when he rattles things off rat-a-tat-tat.

And so Ted and I surprised Ben with this really well made Fire Chief costume. (It's from Melissa & Doug's, I will try to make a link tomorrow.) It comes with a real fabric jacket and a good weight helmet and a badge, fire extinguisher and a bull-horn. He didn't ask for it and wasn't expecting it at all. But I think he was very, very happy.

And so are we. With him and it. And for turning three simply and allowing it to be full of more magic and less hectic. My unexpected present from Ben was that cake and neighbors are a gift and that a present is best when you didn't even know it was coming. 

My new mantra until I am too old to speak: I would be really happy with a cake for my birthday and a present at Christmas. And to be with the family and friends and neighbors who really want to be with me on both of those occasions.

Thank you, Ben.

Random Chicago Goodness

What a rich and happy week I have enjoyed. Sunday I went to the Julmarknad at the Swedish-American Museum (for the first time in three years) and it was just as charming and breathtaking as ever. As I was about to leave, I could hear the quiet humming of the Santa Lucia song and very slowly and ever so purposefully down the stairs came a row of wide-eyed children, the two in the front had the traditional candle-lit headpieces and the others carried candle-filled jars. Stunning.

Then on Tuesday during my lunch break I ducked over to the Christkindl Market, the German Christmas Market in Daley Plaza. It was quite cold but that didn't stop me from standing in front of the Traditional Bavarian Cuckoo Clock stand for a good ten minutes. Oh, how magical they are! I felt very much like a 6 year-old might standing in front of a window filled with toys.

And then yesterday I had a lovely lunch date with my friend Heather and her little one. We met at Healthy Food, a small family-run restaurant that has been in business since the 30's. The name is funny to me because the four main ingredients in the dishes served here appear to be butter, sour cream, cheese and pork. My kind of a joint! However the impetus for the dining was bittersweet -- Heather chose it for our gathering spot because  the restaurant closes on December 15th, for good.

The down to earth, yet gracious owner Gina (sporting a very sparkly purple boa for the occasion) told us that she wants to move on to the next chapter of her life. "Maybe I'll write a memoir," she joked as we dined on heavenly soup (beet for Heather and creamy beef barley for me) and then plates of pork tenderloin with real mashed potatoes and lots of rich brown gravy appeared before us. When places like these go away, a little piece of my heart just breaks.

But heartbreak, as we all know, can be slightly diminished by eating a very good piece of pie. And that is what we did. It was rhubarb and it was slightly warm and the crust was so shockingly good it made me blush and gush. When I am having an exceptionally crazy good food experience, I revert to this weird California teenager vocabulary situation and it goes something like this: "Oh my god, this is sooooo good. So good. Can you believe it?" Well, believe it. Gina makes these by hand every day. As she has for 30-something years.

These types of experiences, Swedish Holiday Fairs, German Markets and Lithuanian comfort food with a dear friend, these are perfect examples of why I adore this city. Yeah, so the weather is a little rough some days (it is 7 degrees as I type this and I am not looking forward the long walk from the bus stop to our place later this evening when I am told it will be 1 degree. One. Degree.) But I think what we get in terms of awesome places and experiences to stumble upon more than makes up for what we have to endure.

I hope to share a few of my other favorite Chicago Holiday offerings in the next week or so. Until then, I hope you have the flickering of real candles or cuckoo clocks or pie in your life. Or whatever your version of those things are for you and where you live. You know what I mean?  We all have goodness around us. And it can be very specific and even odd. (Like my fondness for Tuna Casserole.)  The key is to find it and enjoy it.

sometimes they do come true

I was at my friend Heather's brand-new place a few months ago, it has this great modern feel to it, lots of light and windows, it overlooks a courtyard, I felt very much like I could be in Berlin. Or at least in the Berlin of my imagination since I have never been to Berlin or Germany for that matter. Anyhow, we were standing in the kitchen and she had one of those over-sized At-a-Glance-type wall calendars hanging on the wall, the kind where you can write in all that needs to be done on each particular day. She was practically wincing as she stood in front of it. "Ugh, it's an eyesore I know, but I really need something this big. I just wish Suzanna and the folks at Binth would make an attractive wall calendar. I would be all over it."

Heather, did you click your heels twice and do some secret eye wink or touch your nose just so? You must have done some sort of magic because I am tickled to inform you that your wish has come true. 

Here it is . . . Binth's first-ever wall calendar.

You can find it here . . .  check out all the different months. So yummy. And check out the screaming deals on the framed prints. (Ted: hint hint.)

Oh and if you are in Chicago this Saturday, don't forget the the always amazing Sarah has masterminded a super fabulous holiday craft fair. It will take place at the Irving Park Lutheran Church Gym at 4057 N. Harding, 10 am until 5 pm.  There are dozens of artists participating and Sarah will have her Scrappies for sale (plus I think she might be debuting a totally new line of dolls). Binth will be there too . . . so save the shipping charges and get your own dreamy calendar. Come say hi to me too, follow your nose to the peppermint smell and if you're good you can make a peppermint bubble bag with me or maybe even decorate a rock. Yes, I do think it will be a rocking good time. Cheers!

gravy, part 2

We celebrated Thanksgiving on Thursday  . . .  and on Friday . . . we celebrated it again! This time we joined my friend Suzanna at her home in Oak Park. She had a friend visiting from Germany who wanted to experience an "authentic" American Thanksgiving. (!!!) There were to be about 10 of us total and when we arrived the bird was pretty much done as was the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and the cranberry relish. Suzanna's friend Brad made the bird, he pulled it out of the oven and I can say without histrionics that it was the most gorgeous cooked turkey I have ever seen. He had tucked sage leaves under the skin and it was caramel-colored and smelled like heaven.

A few of us were standing there, slightly in awe of its beauty when Suzanna came into the kitchen, took one look at me and said, "So, you're making the gravy, right?" And I did one of those look-over-your-shoulder-for-the-person-that's-not-there moves. "Me?" I said, almost squeaking. "Yes, you. You're always talking about your mother's gravy and how kick-ass it is." (It's true, I even mentioned my mother's gravy when I spoke at her memorial service.) "But that was my mother's gravy. It's not, like, genetic, you know," I said a teentsy bit defensively. "Well, I am sure you and Brad will figure something out," she said grinning in the way she does, as she walked out of the kitchen. And so I smiled at this Brad person, who I'd just met like 17 minutes prior, who seemed really nice and obviously knew his way around a turkey. "You good at gravy?" I asked. "It's been a few years," he said quietly. Oh jeez, I thought to myself, I will just do this. I can do this. I mean, how many years can you watch people over their shoulders and not do it? So I did it. I couldn't make the gravy directly in the pan that the bird had been roasted in (which was always the Sally method) but that didn't thwart me too much. I channeled my mom, remembered Ira's steps the night before and melted a knob of butter in the pan. Once it was frizzly I sprinkled on the flour. I then browned the flour and scraped it around the pan. Then Brad gave me a pot full of pan drippings that were so aromatic and rich tasting, I knew I wouldn't need to use salt or even chicken broth. I poured in the drippings, cranked up the heat and just stirred my little heart out. The gravy started to darken and thicken. I then added some chopped giblets.

It was beginning to look, smell and even taste like gravy. Suzanna came back in. "Is that gravy done, girlfriend? I'm starving." I got a wink but I knew I needed to finish it off. I let it thicken a bit more, gave it a sprinkle of pepper and then Suzanna helped me finish it off with just a lacing of milk. (She's good for these kind of final and light touches, whether it be with food or design.)  It wasn't as thick as I would have liked, but it wasn't watery either. I guess my frame of reference is for really thick gravy. But not everyone likes it that way. And also, I had just whipped up this pan of gravy in something like thirteen minutes. You get what you get with a thirteen minute gravy.

It was good, it truly was so flavorful because the pan drippings had been so amazing. (And the turkey wasn't just good looks, it was rocking and moist and fabuloso.) But I did it. I made a pan of gravy on the fly and without any kind of recipe or measurements or instructions from any friend or higher power. I just went with my gut. And now I know I can do it. And if Ira decides to go to Costa Rica for Thanksgiving next year, or I actually want to cook my own turkey one day (gasp!) I know that I can step up and make a decent maybe even delicious pan of gravy. And for that, I am thankful.

gravy, part 1

I hope you had a festive and happy Thanksgiving.  We celebrated with Grandma and Grandpa (and all the Chicago cousins and Aunts and Uncles) in Hyde Park on Thursday. Over the years this has evolved into a such a happy and easygoing gathering. Franny makes the turkey and the guests bring all the sides. I woke up on Thursday, skipped the parades on TV and made my bread, sausage and water chestnut stuffing. I just love the simplicity of bringing one pot to the celebration and adding it to all the others on the table (Larry's bread, Carole's sweet potatoes, Rachel's cranberry sauce, Allison's salad). It sounds corny as all get out, but I think this communal approach is very much in the spirit of the original Thanksgiving gathering, no? Only, I don't think the Pilgrim's stuffing (if they even ate it way back then) came to the supper in a much loved Le Creuset after rattling around the back of an old Volvo wagon . . .

No matter, do you know what my very favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal is? It's the gravy. Ah, the gravy. I believe strongly that the gravy can make or ruin a turkey gathering. A so-so turkey, most people are willing to overlook and happily douse some gravy over the top. Ditto for dry stuffing or too lumpy mashed potatoes. But if you have bad or (gasp!) no gravy, well it just doesn't seem like Thanksgiving to me. Of course, I am biased and sentimental since my mom made a righteously good gravy and it was the very last thing that was set on the table. When the gravy appeared, we had the green light to start passing all the other platters.

But the last five or so years we have celebrated Thanksgiving here in Chicago and we have looked to Ira, a second cousin of Ted's (by marriage)  to make the gravy at Thanksgiving. And every year, he totally delivers. He melts the butter and then makes a roux with flour and then adds the pan drippings and stirs and stirs and lets it reduce. I am usually standing around, watching, talking, being somewhere between a busy-body and a truly interested witness. As I am typing this, it is dawning on me that I almost always hung very close to my mom as she did the final phases of the gravy, so I bet I like to be by Ira and his gravy making because it is where I was always was as a kid. But to be totally honest, in those first years of the Ira-graving-making, I stood close guard because I wanted to make sure he was doing it "right." Not that I am any whiz at gravy-making, that's for certain. But I am an obsessive observer of how proper gravy is made. That seems to be an annoying culinary skill of mine, I can tell you how it's supposed to be done, even if I haven't made it or haven't stepped forward to make the thing itself.

But back to Ira and the gravy. It's not as rich as my mom's, and it's actually lighter in color, but I also think it has half the fat, which isn't necessarily a bad thing at all. But it is thick and full of the flavor of the bird and so, so good. Plus, Ira is able to make the gravy and entertain the ever changing throngs who zip, bump and waddle through the kitchen, ranging from pets, toddlers and guests who want to chat and even a certain pesky cousin-in-law who insists on peeking at her stuffing in the oven.

Just as you know, things often don't go as planned, especially around the holidays and when you are in the heat of gravy making in a kitchen that isn't yours. And so Ira had his gravy done and was ladling it into the two gravy boats. As he was ladling the gravy in, something happened, I still don't know what, but I came in and the pan was upended and there was a glorious rich, thick wall of golden gravy flowing over the top of the stove (think Niagara Falls) and onto the kitchen floor. Ira was standing there, with his wooden spoon in his hand, sort of frozen and gasping and chewing back words that would make a sailor blush. It really did feel like slow motion the minute I saw it. But then a spoon was grabbed and a wide bowl came into play and we managed to sort of squeegee all the gravy floating on the stove top into the second gravy boat. The gravy on the floor was lost, lapped up by the dogs and an assortment of wet rags. 

Ira was blue for a short spell and I so understood why . . . after stirring and making this liquid gold, this humble but beautiful concoction, he had to watch more than half of it literally be washed away. Onto the the floor. But after a little time to breathe and a Zen-like moment to be reminded that we had two very full boats of gravy, his spirits were up and he was ready to enjoy the gathering and the array of dishes. And so we went and piled up our plates with amazing food and yes, poured the wonderful gravy on the parts where we wanted it. Every last drop of gravy from those two boats was devoured. Scoured out in happy gleaning.

That was grace under fire, for Ira and that was good gravy.  I am so thankful for that.

wellness

It's a tricky term, "wellness" . . . sort of smacks of New Age action and health-care spin. But there is one thing I do believe about wellness -- it can be whatever it is you want it to be. I'll give you an example. When I was living in Boulder, CO (certainly a contender for the wellness capital of the US if there were to be such a distinction) and working for my sister at the Fresh Ideas Group, the employees were given a monthly "wellness" stipend. At first I was flummoxed. I am not big on fitness classes or fancy gyms and hadn't even tried yoga yet, I was basically dreading having to sign up for some sort of organized exercise class. But then my sister reminded us all that wellness can mean whatever we want it to. It can mean renting a kayak or taking a cooking class to learn how to make green curry or even buying fancy red leather cowboy boots. They simply wanted to support us to be happy and relaxed and to feel well. I can't remember all that I did with my monthly fun money but I think I bought a new tent and maybe some tickets to see a concert and I think I also used it to get my hair lightened. (I definitely feel better about myself and the world in general when I don't have scary dark roots on my scalp.)

Anyhow, long gone are the days of having a monthly stipend to feel well, but happily a lot of different versions of wellness happened in my life this week. Some of them even pertaining to (gasp!)  . . . fitness!

That's right. On Wednesday I went with a friend to her favorite yoga studio and it was by far, the most athletic and fast-paced class I have ever taken. But the teacher was sassy and supportive and the next thing you know Bonnie Jean Tawse was doing hand stands and head stands and even this crazy backwards bridge against the wall pose. I was terrified for a few seconds (spunky yoga teachers says to me, "Honey, you've got to keep breathing, okay?") but I got over it/breathed and didn't collapse into a heap on the floor. I get so jacked up in the best way when I get pushed to the place of being scared but then doing something difficult and new. I think they call that adrenaline, right? 

And after the class, my friend B. took me to this Chinese Reflexology Foot Massage place. It was supremely simple and beautiful and I want to go back right now. They soaked our feet in hot water, rubbed every inch of them vigorously with scented lotions and even threw in a temple, head and neck massage just to seal the deal. It was $30 for 40 minutes. There was no speaking, just some classical music, the sound of bubbling water and an over-sized chair to melt into. What a glorious treat! My only concern is that we were the only people there and the only ones on the books for the day. Frankly, I want this business to survive (and so do my feet). So if you live in Chicago, check them out at 2512 N. Lincoln Ave, the phone is 773-244-3797.

On Friday night there was a Holiday Party on Millennium Park's Pritzker Stage. I've only been on the stage once before, and that was years ago, before I even worked for MP. So to be standing there, looking out into the night with the Modern Wing beyond, with a fancy-pants Peartini thing in my hand, a little make-up on for a change and my co-workers laughing around me, well, that was certainly good for me and my spirits.

 
And lastly, wellness came to me last night in the form of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. (You knew there was going to be food involved at some point, right?) We had a send-off party for my boss who is moving to Portland, Oregon. And while it was certainly a bittersweet affair, I was very much honored that she chose my place as the location where she wanted to say good-bye. I made homemade tomato soup and two different gussied up versions of grilled cheese: one with Gouda and sliced pear and the other with carmelised onions and blue cheese. There were about 20 of us packed into the kitchen and the dining room, the room smelled like hot apple cider and people were talking plants and pancakes and about what makes a place great and I was flipping grilled cheese sandwiches and making comforting food for people in my tiny kitchen. It felt good, it made me feel like I was even spreading a little wellness and cheer. And when you get to share it, it feels even better.

I hope you have some happy moments of wellness, in whatever form works for you, as we veer right into the holiday season. If you want to join me for a foot massage, do let me know!

weekend

Here are a few images from this weekend . . .

 

 

 

We managed to to hit the MCA, enjoy a cool little park, do lots of our own art at home and then ended the weekend with a cookie caper party over at Binth (with great goody boxes to boot!) and then green chile burritos with an old friend. Art, sand and leaves, butter, burritos and friends? Not bad. Not bad at all.

dia de los muertos, part 2

We had ourselves a little Day of the Dead fiesta here last night. I figured it was time for me to get together with friends and honor my mom in an upbeat, colorful and communal way. (It was her birthday on Friday and so it made twice as much sense to celebrate.)

Both Sam and I really enjoyed the art activities they had at the Mexican Fine Art Museum when we went last week. So we set up a table for the kids where you could decorate a skull and make a couple of ofrendas. Over at Secret Agent Josephine's blog I found this whimsical ofrenda download, so I printed some of those up. 

I went to the Dulcelandia store to get some cajeta lollipops and I noticed they had blank sugar skulls for sale. Blank as in you get to decorate them yourself. I was so excited when I saw them I let out a little yelp. I bought a box of 20 and the lollipops and smiled all the way home. For the party I made a super basic royal icing, dyed it different colors and set everything out.

It was messy going with the skulls but the kids dug it. I mean, come on--hyper-bright sugary icing stuck to your fingers which you have to lick off? Not such a bad deal. Plus, I put out these tiny gum drops which the kids used as little fetching hats and then popped a few in their mouths. 

 
Oh and we ate, how we ate! I made sopa de tortilla and picked up a couple dozen tamales down in Pilsen. My neighbor Beth brought an enormous bowl of guacamole, my friend Sarah brought a gorgeous bowl of brothy beans and my other neighbor Maria brought dozens of delicious chicken and green chile burritos (made with chiles we brought back from Colorado) and a wonderful bowl of Mexican red rice. It felt like an old fashioned neighborly pot luck, in the best way. We had good conversation, the kids were tearing around the house, we went back for seconds and we just got to hang out with each other. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. Exactly. 

 

dia de los muertos

I've been kind of stuck on what to post, what to say, really. I don't want this blog to be this morose, sad place and yet I don't think I am ready to totally switch gears and my tone and tell you about say, a really righteous doughnut experience or a cutesy craft I stumbled upon. But I think I found the perfect segue for where I am at . . . Dia de los Muertos. Day of the Dead is a day in Mexico and parts of Guatemala where you don't mourn the people in your life that have passed away, you celebrate them. It's a way to happily remember your loved ones and their favorite things. One way to celebrate them is to create an ofrenda, an alter where you put photos and momentos and little bits of foods and sweet things.

Last Wednesday I was feeling kind of lost and blue. It was a rainy, dreary day and I didn't have to work. I wasn't sure what to do with myself and then I remembered that at the Mexican Fine Arts Museum down in Pilsen, they sell sugar skulls right around Dia de lost Muertos. So I hopped in the car and first went and enjoyed a very large plate of chilaquiles at this funny family restaurant I like. And then, with a happy, warm belly I made my way over to the museum. The museum gift shop was buzzing with kids on a school field trip and sure enough, behind the main counter were sugar skulls in a super wide range of sizes--those as small as a gum ball to those bigger than a softball. I picked a medium size skull out, it was covered with bright candy colors I knew my mom would adore. I also picked out a couple of chocolate skull lollipops for the boys. I paid and was ready to head back home when then woman behind the counter said, "If you would like to have a name put on it, the Alvarez family is on the other room decorating the skulls."

I had forgotten, but yes, every year the museum brings a family from Mexico for Day of the Dead. They bring thousands of sugar skulls that have been painstakingly made in molds in Mexico. They are "bare" and then once they get to Chicago the family members start embellishing them with colorful frosting and bits of shiny foil and even simple sequins. And sure enough, in the next room, behind two tables covered with all sizes of sugar skulls was a couple, probably in their 70s if not older, and they were both quietly decorating skulls. I came to one end of the table and the man had me write down the name I wanted. Then he picked up a small plastic bag filled with pink icing and he slowly, somewhat shakily piped my mom's name on the skull. When he carefully and thoughtfully handed it back to me with such modesty and grace and just plain purpose, my whole day went from dreary and down to happy and bright. My Mom adored the folk art of Mexico, she surrounded herself with it and this was certainly a thriving, vibrant folk art being placed right in my two hands. I waited for the icing to dry and then slowly wrapped the skull in tissue paper. "Mom would love this," I thought to myself.

I left the museum, bought a sack of warm churros from a tiny old man standing out in front of the museum and ate one of them happily in the front seat of the car. I brought my Sally sugar skull home to my growing/evolving shrine for my mom. It is so her and wherever she is, she's loving it. I am grateful to have a concrete and celebratory "place" to channel my thoughts, emotions and memories. (By the way, I purchased the sweet little etched glass pedestal that the sugar skull sits on at the thrift store last week for 69 cents. In the spirit of Sally, of course!)

 

Tonight me and Ted and the boys are headed back down to the museum together ("juntos") as a family. They are hosting their Community Celebration of Dia de los Muertos. There will be music and crafts and snacks and alters made by local artists to view. It promises to be a bustling, bright and I hope, happy gathering.

thoughts

I must admit that I am feeling a little hesitant and a tad self-conscious with this post. Not sure what the tone of the post after I posted that my Mom passed away really ought to be. So I think I am going to just go with my gut on this one and try and be myself and share a tiny little sliver of the somethings happening in the last week or so.

Well, basically, it's an odd and relatively mundane thing that happens when someone you love very much dies. Life around you still goes on. The kids still need to be fed and bathed and you get a postcard that your Saveur subscription is just about over and dogs still bark out the window and dirty clothes pile up. Cars honk, leaves fall gloriously from the trees, you walk by a condo and you smell garlic simmering. The checkout person at the little produce shop gossips in Spanish to the checker on the other side of you as she scans your apples, pears and bananas. You get an email from school saying lice has appeared in a certain classroom. You try to make chocolate chip cookies and end up with puddles of oozing dough and try really hard not to cry because crying over chocolate cookies at this time would be really stupid. You walk to the bus and rejoice in it, you go to birthday parties and pumpkin patches and a harvest festival. You walk to school and kick leaves. Your son starts a list of how many decorated Halloween houses he see and is currently at 158. You curse someone in traffic since you are running late to a meeting and they are in your way. You eat lukewarm Ramen straight from the pot and it tastes superb. You do a late night run to Target for diapers and walk the aisles like you're in slow motion. You clip you nails on the bus even though you know you shouldn't.

But in the middle of all of these things . . . you get a card. Or twelve in one day. Or someone at work stops and puts their hand on your elbow and says how sorry they are. Or you walk into your neighborhood bookshop and they stop the registers, get off the phone and get off the computer to come hold you, tightly. All three of them. Your gorgeously sensitive husband with a terrible cold is fuzzily aware that you got up, packed lunches, changed diapers, filled cereal bowls and then takes one look at you and says, "It's okay to go back to bed." And you do. Your neighbor (that you want to know better) locks your gaze in the narrow hallway as you prepare to carve up pumpkins, hands you a foil-wrapped burrito and asks questions about the mom she never met. You get emails from across the globe and a call from a college friend driving to Fresno, CA and she didn't even know you were born there. People you know are extra kind to you and you feel it and you appreciate it on a level you never thought you would. And even though it is hard, you know it will get easier and you know you will be okay and you even know it's okay to miss someone like crazy.

And then you go and you buy a jar of hot fudge from Margie's, since your mother adored Margie's and was adamant that you should only ever have real hot fudge (not chocolate sauce!) on ice cream. And you put it on the dresser that was your mother's mother's, your Grandma Ruthie's. And you decide two things. To make a bit of a shrine to your mom, since you want to and you know she would love it. And also that you will leave the hot fudge on the shrine until your mom's birthday on November 6th and on that night the whole family (and maybe a few friends) will enjoy hot fudge sundaes. After a hearty but simple supper of really good soup and excellent bread and salty butter.

And so it is.

 

(Thanks for indulging the second person action, it was just easier that way.)

remembering

Thank you to everyone for all of the thoughtful kindness and sympathy you have sent my way. The cards, the emails, the phone calls, the food, the words of encouragement, the gifts in my mother's memory (such as five eucalyptus trees being planted in Australia) all of it has been so amazing.

Here is a link to her on-line obituary, a few of you have asked about it.

We will be hosting a memorial service on Sunday, October 25th at Syl and Lyle's farm. It will be a small-ish gathering and pretty simple in its essence. Mainly we just want to remember my mom and allow people to share their thoughts and emotions. 

I have started a list of things I do and want to remember about my mom. It's a very straightforward list at this point, like a laundry list. But it has been so good for me to keep it. For example, her never wavering love of butter. How she would tuck a spring of mint in her bikini top when we lived in Fresno. Polishing her white nurses shoes with white shoe polish for a quarter. Her ancient red wallet held together with a thick rubber band, the kind they use on broccoli at the supermarket.

It's just this quiet way for me to cope. But also to remember.

sally

My mom passed away last Tuesday, at about 8:30 in the morning with my brother Richard and my sister Jen at her side.

I might post more thoughts and images about this later, or maybe not. But just know that I think my mom's passing was just as it should be and we of the Tawse clan have been surrounded by tremendous support and kindness.

One thing I would like to share. I am so thankful that in the late afternoon on Tuesday when we were collectively full of so many different emotions and energy levels and just an awkward jumble of thoughts and feelings, we all headed to the Pueblo Nature Center on the Arkansas River.  And we just started throwing rocks in the water. My Mom told me about 15 years ago when we were up at the cabin in Beulah that when she was frustrated or scared or really ticked off, she'd go find some rocks and just toss them over and over. If she threw enough she might start thinking about the rocks and not the other thing on her mind. So we went to the river and we tossed rocks. We chucked them. We held them in our palms. We even smelled them (they smelled salty). We didn't say much. But then we started skipping them and we even had a bit of fun, trying to see who could get the most skips and find the flattest, rock for skipping. (I think my niece Em and my dad tied at seven.)

I am so glad we did. And I think my Mom, wherever she is, would be glad too.

7 for Sam

Sam turned seven today. Seven, it sounds and feels so lucky, such a good number.

Of course, a party was in order. We tossed it yesterday on our street no less since we got the permit for a block party. It was super urban and open and odd and just good. A few things needed to be organized to make it a real party.

Let's see . . . goody bag action? Check.

Vienna Beef Hot Dogs straight from the plant? Check.

Kids running in the street when the party really kicks into gear? Yep.

Snakes and turtles as the "surprise" guests? Yes, very much so.

A very large, delicious Calvin and Hobbes themed cake? No problem.

After the cake and the friends departed we went inside and Sam opened up some of his presents. It turned dark, Ted took Ben to bed.  Then we heard of few of the neighbor kids still out tearing around the street on their scooters and their parents laughing at a joke. I grabbed the bag of sparklers left over from the 4th and Sam and I headed back into the street, lit only by the street lamps. The other kids joined us and we closed the day with mini pyrotechnics and lots of whooping and hollering right on Glenwood Avenue.

And today, on Sam's actual birthday, we opened the rest of the presents and then he and I and his cousin Talia headed over to Welles Park to see the Midnight Circus perform. This was a pretty last minute plan, to hit the circus, we just found out about a few days ago. To quote a certain 7 year-old, "It was awesome!" 

I thought so too. We were laughing and beaming and cheering and just loving every minute of it. Clowns, jugglers, tight rope walking, lots of aerial acrobatics, goofy music. It was such a happy, simple way to wind down all the birthday action.

A party in the street, a circus in the park. Not too shabby. And very Chicago. Happy Birthday, Sam!

paris, pastures and pie

We flew to Colorado for a little party last weekend. It was my sister Syl's 50th and so a soiree was in order.

The theme for the party was "Paris" since that's where Syl wants to go next. We figured, if she couldn't get to Grand Paris for her birthday, why not bring a little Frenchie action to the farm?

If you're going to act French, you must don a beret. A black one, of course.

And you must have glasses of bubbly and kissing

and a basket of macarons . . . (with a petit Eiffel Tower tag).

And if you want to get extra fancypants extravagant, you will have a towering, gilded croque en bouche.

But if you are partying on the Pastures of Plenty farm and you are my sister, it doesn't matter where you are or how old you are turning, what you really must have at your party is pie. Not just one pie, but eight. Eight pies made with fruit grown on the same road you live on. Peach pie. Apple pie. Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie. Peach-Raspberry Pie. Pies made by your daughters and your neighbors and your best friends.

And two coconut creme pies made by 70-something Belle, who could bake blindfolded.

And then you drink your bubbly and eat grilled lamb and quail and get silly 

and then move the party in the house and dance so hard that the glasses rattle in the cupboards and the floor bounces. You dance until 2 am. And you fall into bed. And when you wake up, you have pie for breakfast. With a slice of cheese. Maybe even a little glass of champagne too.

At least, that's how we did it.

itchin'

banana peels
nail polish remover
Comet
baking soda
salt
bleach
jewelweed
Calamine lotion
honey
Vick's Vap-o Rub
eucalyptus oil
plantain leaves
watermelon rinds

Can you guess what's been going on in our casa this past week? We're not trying to concoct some sort of diabolical elixir or acting out Shel Silverstein's poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Nope. The list above is just a sampling of the different items I have applied to my inner forearms and Ted has slathered on his shins in an intense and at times completely pathetic battle with Poison Ivy.

Apparently the grape-like vine we were yanking out of a heavily weeded bed up in Michigan a few weekends ago wasn't grape at all but the evil, pernicious and insanely tenacious Poison Ivy. Maybe I should have suspected something when I wasn't seeing any grapes. Ahem.

We are humbled and we are desperate. I have reached out to friends who have dropped off remedies (jewelweed) and before you can say "thank you for driving out of your way to deliver me a zip loc baggie of jewelweed" I was mashing it up and slathering it on my arms. It helped, it pulled some of the poison out. But then it was all gone and I couldn't forage for any in my hood. So then I rubbed banana peels and watermelon rind on the horrid red bumps filled urushiol. (That's the poison oil that the plant rubs off on your skin and then causes all the horror on your sweet, unsuspecting epidermis.) When the banana peels and watermelon rinds didn't do much (but smelled nice) I rubbed salt and baking soda into my arms like a complete madwoman.

I have pleaded with co-workers, one of whom turned me on to Tecnu. It's pretty good stuff, despite its creepy origins--it was created by Dr. Robert Smith, a chemical engineer, in the early 1960s during the cold war years. The wash was originally intended as a waterless cleanser to remove nuclear fallout dust from skin and clothing for families' personal bomb shelters.  Because I applied it a week into my rash (as opposed to suggested first 2-3 hours of exposure) it didn't knock the evil rash out of the ball park but it did seem to mobilize it. Sort of. I mean, the yicky, itchy bumps aren't gone but are slightly less horrifying. Maybe I need to switch to Tecnu Extreme. I'd say things have gotten rather extreme around here. Maybe the fine folks at TecLabs need to come up with Tecnu Totally, Utterly Desperate. I'd be so all over that.

Oh, did I mention that we itch with a burning that seems kind of biblical? I'm not kidding. it's so crazy that I wouldn't be surprised if frogs started falling from the sky in about 22 minutes. I've actually been jealous of friends who were sidelined by lice last week. I mean, lice, big deal, you wash your hair and clothes with some nasty pesticide and in a few days, you're good to go. The way things are going around here, I'll still look like something between a sketchy junky chick and an escaped leper next weekend when we're in Colorado. (People have been taking one good look at my arms and giving me some really healthy personal space.) And I bet I'll still be itching!

Got any remedies? Ooooh, do let's us know. The removal of limbs isn't an option but has been considered. The one thing I am too scared to try is sandpaper. That's right, I read in one of my many, many internet searches, that you can take medium grade (not even fine grade!) sand paper and just sand away the blisters. Apparently we aren't the only desperate sufferers. But it sure feels like it right about now.

first day of first grade

Today Sam made the big transition to "upstairs" at his school, to a new classroom with new faces and all sorts of other firsts--including bringing a packed lunch and having a locker with a real combination. He is there now. I wish I could peek in a window and watch him. Here's few shots from this morning. I am a proud mama today, goofy giddy and a tiny bit anxious. Which, I think, is sort of how Sam felt at 8:15 am.

new hampshire

The boys and I are back from our NH adventure. We covered all the bases -- hitting the arcades and the drive-in movie theater at Weir's beach and then swimming in lakes and rivers up in the White Mountains. Kind of a nice blend of kitsch and Mama Nature.

The most fortuitous discovery of the entire trip was staying at the Boulders Motel on Little Squam Lake. It was built in the 40s and has these great little screened in porches overlooking the lake. Here's the view from our room.

There was a tiny little sandy beach and a raft you could swim out to and rocks you could clamor on. We found mussels and a crayfish and floating acorns. The temperature of the water was spot on.

In the morning there were homemade blueberry muffins, still warm and served with butter. After gobbling up our muffins we headed to the Squam Lakes Science & Nature Center where we saw mountain lions, bobcats, black bears, otters, deer and a slew of raptors. We will definitely be returning to this neck of the woods next year, but next time for more than one night. And with Ted along. (What were we thinking having him not come?)

Up at our friends' place in Bethlehem we enjoyed the local river: wading, swimming, looking for "cool" rocks, lazing in the sun, me and my friend Jen sitting on our towels, catching up.  Going to the river was my favorite part of that end of the trip. We liked it so much we went two days in a row.

I think Ben's favorite part of the trip was feeding Shaun's chickens every morning. We'd run down to their funny pen and Ben would take one bite of the bread and then toss a piece at the clucking hens. "Kickens!" he'd holler. "Here kickens!"

Speaking of being fed, it wouldn't be a trip to New England without scoring a lobster roll. I had this my  first night at a roadside shack with a very large neon lobster.  I could have easily eaten two but I didn't. (But I wanted to.)I pulled off the insipid tomato and iceberg lettuce bits. When you only eat one lobster roll a year, you don't want it sullied by anything that's well, not lobster.

If you're feeling a little tinge of envy at our New England bliss, let me tell you, it wasn't all sunshine and shellfish. I managed to get a speeding ticket (my first ever!) as we were headed to the airport on the last day and the fine itself would buy a round trip ticket to any lovely North American city. And since the combined edge and drag of getting a super high price ticket wasn't enough, I also managed to (ugh, I am so loathe to admit this, it is just so stupid) run out of gas about 30 minutes later. (My first time ever running out of gas!) Oh well, I had the dumb luck or the grace of some higher power to have a Fish & Wildlife guy pull up right behind me as the engine cut out. So we had gas back in our tank in no time and were back on I-93, headed back home and back to reality.

And here we are. Back in Chicago. Happy to be back with Ted but sort of stunned to be back where work and a routine and a lack of rivers and chickens and lobster shacks is still a little noticeable. We have exactly nine days left before school starts. Let's see how we do.

Up North (and east)

Guest Blogging: Ted Grossman   

Hey there folks -- bonnie and the boys are in New Hampshire and having a total blast. This is a partial rundown on their adventures: went to old fashioned arcade at Weir's beach where sam struck triple 7s and got a lot of coin; ate lobster rolls; saw a mountain lion at the nature center; and went swimming in the golden pond from the golden pond movie. Now they are with Jen and Sean and Calvin in Bethlehem.

For some stupid reason I am here. We can't remember why this trip was planned without me, maybe it had to do with work. Ugh.
 Bonnie will fill you in when she gets back. Hopefully the house will be clean.

block party!

We spent the weekend tootling around on our bikes.

We hit the lake pre-Air and Water Show and marveled at the diversity of grilling meats, even at 10:30 am. We hit a garage sale of a guy who used to own a shop full of collectible action figures. Actually, we went to his sale twice. And then we went over to a Block Party a friend had invited us to.

I'd never really been exposed to any block club party action in my youth in California, I mean where they block off the street with the wooden saw horses and set up one of those bouncy things. I guess this is a Chicago thing? Or maybe it's a Mid-West thing? I've walked by them for years here in Andersonville, but I'd never actually been to one. Other than a wide open street, a bouncy thing and some hot dogs, I really didn't know what to expect.

The first thing Sam did after eating two helpings of free "old-fashioned" popcorn was to go straight into the bouncy house.

Yeah I know, shudder. But they love those things. Something about being hot and sweaty and having a stomach full of pop and salty snacks and bouncing every which way, just makes them deliriously happy. Well, it seems to work that way for most kids. Ben was completely mortified of it in one of those "irrational fears" kind of way and I was fine with him keeping his distance on it. So he found a Stomp Rocket and watched the foamy rockets go shooting up to the sky.

And then he found the Corn Hole game. This has been huge around our parts the past few summers, do you know of it? Our neighbors play it for hours. It makes quite an impressive THWUMP when the bag lands in the hole. Ben played for about 7 minutes. He also opted out of drinking a beer while doing so, which seems to be part of its charm--or at least for our neighbors and every other grown man I've ever seen playing it.

Sam then got to ride in a Go Kart, he was in heaven and it actually zipped around pretty darn fast, fast enough to slide his chin strap up to his little nose.

In addition to all this kiddie action, there were quite a few families gathering at our friends house and there was pop and beer and wine and chips and guacamole, we sat around talking about going back to school and what sort of trips we took this summer, how to rig your bike up to haul your kids and which classroom are kids would be in. If you didn't have kids it would have been shockingly boring I am sure, but we all did and it was just the kind of thing to happily chatter away about. 

We had brats and burgers and salad. I brought a green bean salad. I really did. It was the first one in months and this was a pretty new crowd for me, so I think I was safe. The boys were munching on Doritos and hot dogs, Sam was sucking down a can of Coke, giddy and covered with orange cheese fuzz. As if all this debauchery wasn't enough, someone hollered that there was a pinata filled with candy, waiting to be to pummeled. And pummeled it was. More candy came out of that thing than seemed possible. Sam filled a beer cup with candy and popped a neon purple Laffy Taffy hunk into his mouth.

The sun was starting to go down. Ben found a sprinkler and tore his clothes off, leapt around in his tired diaper. Sam and a posse of boys showed up with those giant Nerf guns that shoot foamy bullets. And then disappeared to terrorize some girls in front of the house with the popcorn machine. We were just about to pack up when Judy informed us that we couldn't go just yet. There was the cookie relay and the balloon toss yet to come. I wasn't quite sure what the cookie relay was, so I asked. A cookie relay is when two or three teams line up, they each send a person down to a table and each person has to take a big bite of cookie and chew it and swallow it. They can't turn around and run away until all of the cookie has been swallowed. There is a cookie-swallowing referee standing there to make certain you chew and swallow all of your cookie. All of the Dads were kicked out of their soccer chairs and ordered to participate. It was totally sexist. I loved it. Here's Ted working hard for his team.

The first team to eat the entire cookie wins the relay. It was a good three minutes into the relay race and there was this much cookie action left.

The dads were looking winded and kind of urpy. The kids were looking sweaty and crazed. We (the moms) made the executive decision to make the cookies smaller, much smaller so the relay would end sooner. (This was done by each Mom being given an obscenely huge chunk of cookie to then eat herself. We had to -- we were protecting our kids! And our husbands!)

All I know is Sam's team came in second and nobody threw up.

We ended with a balloon toss. A balloon toss that just involved balloons and water. Hurray. It ended quickly and managed to wash off some of the chocolate smears on some of the kids' faces.

We packed up our stuff, sweaty and dirty and happy to have been invited. "That was awesome!" is what Sam hollered as we climbed aboard our bikes. It was awesome. It's awesome that neighbors block off a street so that they can sit in front of their houses and watch their kids have a blast running around on a street that is normally totally off limits. It was awesome to watch kids making instant friends. It was awesome to come together around something simple like burgers and brats and chips and enjoy the conversation.

I am still with Ben, I don't care much for the Bouncy House. But I think hitting a block party once a year seems like a fabulous summer tradition. Heck, I might even look into throwing one of our own in 2010.