1. 18 Pearls for 18 Years

    Today my firstborn turns 18. Yes, I now have three older children, but boy child bears responsibility for turning me into a mother, a mommy, and a woman besotted.

    When discussing his birthday gift, the girls said “Oh, that’s easy, you get pearls on your 18th birthday!” Yes, that’s the birthday the girls get pearls. Unfortunately, Tiffany, their little blue boxes, and boy child, don’t quite agree that a mommy can go pick up a string of pearls, write a mushy note, and be done with 18th birthday memory making.

    Instead I share eighteen pearls with you about my son. He claims never to have read his birthday posts, so yes, these pearls are for you and for me.

    1. My mother said that we watched newborn Joseph like television. I rolled my eyes at the time. I still roll my eyes. But the truth: I do. No shows have ever engaged me like the mesmerizing boy I gave birth to 18 years ago.
    2. He’s a feminist. Really. I wish I could credit parenting, but we’ve six children and well, he’s the most feminist of the bunch.
    3. He listens. He listens when you talk to him. He listens to you talk to others. You may think he’s oblivious to everything, but he studies people and their interactions like other boys study basketball and football games.
    4. Speaking of basketball, he doesn’t like basketball. He doesn’t like boats. This doesn’t stop a frequent statement in this house: “Joseph LIKES basketball!”
    5. Another statement in the house: “Look Joseph, there’s a digger!” This came about when Denise and the girls became aware of the parental habit to say “Look Joseph! There’s a digger!” while driving. It started (and continues) as a dig at our habit to cater to the wonder that entered the world eighteen years ago. It annoys me. It annoys Joseph. At the same time, it has become a bit of the family mythology of Joseph and a “mommy and me” thing. Yes, I got him the silver monogrammed digger clock from Lillian Vernon. No, it hasn’t been hidden away. I sort of think it is on the list of “Most Likely” to go to college with him items. Or it may stay here–a monument of sorts.
    6. He doesn’t rush. Ever. He insists on punctuality, yet never wants to arrive (or have others wait) early. He knows precisely how long something takes and he takes that time.
    7. That said, I must also say he’s rigid about routine. He likes a routine. He will cling to it. He’s annoyed by a change of routine (unless he has chosen it). There was a period of time when I thought to try new recipes for Tuesday Night Dinner. It didn’t matter what I served with those new recipes, chosen to entice the children, he didn’t touch it. This perplexed me. He’s not (and never was) a particularly picky eater in the “I won’t try new things.” kind of way. I could have made the same recipe on a Saturday and there’d be no problem. In fact, a few items that were hits with the rest of the family were made again on a weekend and he’d love them. It took us a bit of time before we figured out that after a day of school and whatever else had happened since we had last seen him, what he wanted was something predictable for dinner.
    8. He took his time learning to read. While I say the children learned to read in self-defense, since I read aloud poorly, he took his time. He listened to (and still listens) audio books long after other kids gave them up. He loves books. He just didn’t fall into them. I worried over this for YEARS. Then I prodded him with a YA book I had picked up. One after another book fell to compulsive reading. He’d always read, but suddenly he READ.
      What’s fascinating about his reading isn’t those things though. The fascinating thing is to discuss a book with him. Books I suffered through in high school come alive in a discussion with him. I want to read them again. I want to know why I wasn’t taught the books in this way–a discussion that explores the book or a character or motivations or metaphor in an engaging way.
    9. That said, he can ramble a book or topic in school until you are convinced he could write at least a senior thesis on it, but he won’t have written a single paragraph about it yet for school. His perfection stands in his way here as does the fact that the prescribed questions or topic isn’t what he wants to talk about in the book. In the past two years, he’s gotten much better at either making the assignment suit his desires and as school work advances, he has more options. When you see his written work, you find it well worth the wait in most cases.
    10. Speaking of written, he’s got a unique voice in his writing. He thought to trick me by posting anonymous comments on a site where I work. I pegged him right away. Multiple times.
    11. He has beautiful, long, golden brown hair with a bit of a curl. When younger, it tended toward coarse and we had it cut stereotypically boy short. He grew it out and while uncertain about it (particularly when it was in the puff of doom stage before ponytail length.)
    12. He also has impressive facial hair. This amuses me and befuddles me because his father didn’t have impressive facial hair early and my father had very little body hair. He shaved for the first time this year after years of me thinking he should shave. He still doesn’t shave often, because  of preference, not because there isn’t anything to shave–there is certainly hair to shave.
    13. When people say a person looks like someone else, I never see it. I do with Joseph. He looks like me. He looks like his father. He looks like Rebecca. (in fact, attending the same HUGE high school has been full of quirky encounters because the two of them look so much alike…including approximately the same length hair.) From the back, you really do need to pay attention or know both well to tell the difference.
    14. He’s got a wicked sense of humor. Really, wicked is the right word. He has a degree in snark and sarcasm. You also will really know when he means to wound you with his words.
    15. Speaking of wound: don’t let him poke you. His index fingers are the fingers are poking doom. He finds just the right place on your arm and you will have an aching bruise. He perfected this early.
    16. When he gets to talking to you, you will not get him to stop. (hmm, wonder where he got that from? Sorry.) He’s either silent or expounds on whatever the topic of choice is at that moment. He will know it all and be the expert. (or believe he is. Again. Sorry) It usually is a fascinating conversation.
    17. That brings up this other quirk: he’s incredibly narrowly focused. Whatever his interest, he will learn everything about it that he can. He will talk it to death. He will engage you in it. Airplanes (yes, I still remember fuel capacities of the airplanes in his decidedly non-kid airplane book as a toddler), Pokemon, grilled cheese, Runescape, Japan (and all things Japanese), Dr. Who–all notable. He’s a specialist.
    18. All that said, you may wonder is he a specialist or the “special-ist?” Here is the last pearl and probably the least surprising. This boy of mine spins me like a top. I love him and hang on his words, his movements, his thoughts. Yes, the sun rises and sets with him. He’s entitled, secure in his place, knows he is the prince of his domain. He theoretically knows his Thanksgiving birthday didn’t mean that a national holiday was created for him, but he also knows that we do give thanks for this young man. He is my favorite 18-year-old boy. He is a combination of generous, sweet, self-assured, bright,  and beautiful. He’s annoying, compelling, sensitive and well, fascinating.

    Now if you made it to the end, you are no doubt tired of the praise of boy child. I know I am when I read birthday posts on other people’s blogs, yet I do it just the same. Of course, in my case, it is because I got really lucky with amazing kids.

    One day all too soon, they will all be adults. I’ll be the mom who pushes them from the nest, knowing they are ready to take on the world, while I shed tears and think (and say) “Wait! I am not ready! This is my baby! I need more time.”

    He’s my firstborn. He is 18. I am not ready. I want more time.

    Category retro food | Date: November 25, 2011 | 2 Comments

  2. The Season of Pop

    I generally ramble about my father around the Fourth of July or whenever there is NASA news. But, this period of time from Thanksgiving through January, he haunts me as well.

    His birthday was randomly somewhere around Thanksgiving. He was born at home and at some point had a birthday assigned to him. It wasn’t the 25th he believed, and later was found to be true when his baby book was discovered. The 25th meant he really shared a birthday with my son. He passed away rather suddenly just after the new year, over a decade ago.

    I tend to frame my father in the trips to D.C. “These museums are free and the greatest gift. You can learn anything and everything here.” He really did believe and lived learning in places outside of schools. I alternately thank him and growl because I live this way as well. I want to inhale all knowledge, sort it out, make something new.

    I may also talk of visiting my grandparents, his father and step-mother, in Indiana. They rented a small horse farm. I can ramble about the smell of chestnuts fallen to the ground, getting into trouble for gates left open, daring with horses, about my seemingly exotic Aunt Cindy, about the small bottle cokes in the garage refrigerator and the Hershey’s syrup in the cupboard.

    I don’t often talk about trips to see my great-grandmother, Nini, my mother’s grandmother, in relationship to my father. I talk about Nini’s recipe cards, her way with a cake, the genteel manners and grandeur to my child’s eyes but not Pop during our trips to Alabama.

    I want to today. You see, Miss Britt is in the South. She spent a week in Mobile. When she mentioned her location on Facebook, I babbled about the U.S.S. Alabama, Lion’s Park, and the Dew Drop Inn. I mentioned Nini’s house (but was tempted to mention the carport apartment) and Bellingrath Gardens. The thing about these places is this: my father was a daddy there.

    What? Well, here is the thing–there were no traditional park/playground types of places we went to while at home. On vacation, my father would load me and my sister into the car and head to Lion’s Park. Looking back it wasn’t much of a park, but it seemed incredible to me. The old rocking metal animals, swing set, merry-go-round, teeter totters all formed that mythical playground made real in the humid, southern summer. Pop was in charge–my mother was with my great grandmother. This didn’t often happen. At home, it was limited to the trips to Dunkin Donuts when I was small or some small errand. We also would go at least once to see the U.S.S. Alabama which I loved and the Drum, which convinced me I could never live on a submarine.

    The Dew Drop Inn was a secret from my Great-grandmother (though I doubt it really was a secret.) My parents went there on dates. There were stories of buckshot in the odd meal or two. It wasn’t really a place for kids in my father’s mind. It did have incredible food in the way of local hole-in-the-wall places. It was a place to escape the light end of day meal at my great-grandmother’s house.

    The main meal was served mid-day and it was an affair. Imagine china, crystal, cake on cake stand, my great-grandmother reigning supreme at one end of the massive table and my father at the other end. There was my great-grandmother’s “help” serving–endlessly refilling the glasses of iced tea which I adored. (and my father loathed though he was brought up too well to ever say so.) Meals with my great-grandmother were a test of sorts for our manners as children and for my father’s manners as the Yankee at the table. Upon entering Nini’s house, my father became sir. My yes m’am and no m’am got a work out. No slouching. No elbows. Cloth napkins, and for goodness sake, use the right fork/spoon/knife. It was a complicated bit of pageantry that stifled as well as thrilled. This was a grown up occasion and one must behave to get the peek into a magic world.

    I always pondered over my father’s reserve on these trips. Yes, it was respect, but there was always something else and I never could put my finger on it as a child. After all, my father had lived in my great-grandmother’s carport apartment. (That is how he met my mother.) Yes, Nini was informidable, prone to a sharp tongue and obedience. My father carried much of the same in his world though differently. I don’t think it was until I was an adult visiting the in-laws and in-law equivalents that I realized that no matter how welcome and at home you are with this family you have through your love–you want to exceed expectations.

    A break from those things meant an outing with his kids for my father. In those outings, he was the dad from the television, the Disney movie. I think perhaps his need for a few hours of escape could have easily been also cast as an escape for bored little girls, before this one at least, lost her manners or came up with serious mischief.

    This week my first-born turns 18 on their birthday. I will muse over the similarities between my son and my father. I will wish my father was here to see his grandson, to watch the Macy’s parade and for me to have to come up with a ham for Thanksgiving. Instead of just picturing him at Thanksgiving and decorating the tree, I can also picture the trips to Mobile and those moments our generation calls quality time.

    Category retro food | Date: November 23, 2011 | No Comments

  3. Chilled Cinnamon Apple Salad

    My “big” kids grew up expecting a fruit salad or “fluff” for the holidays. Their grandmother on their father’s side served this I hear. But, my “little” kids grew up eating Red Hot Jello and expecting that for holidays. After a few years, this seems to have won out and I won over the big kids. It helps that I am the cook around here and red hot Jello is amazing.

    I do feel some guilt about subverting their tradition sometimes. That’s the sort of woman I am.

    Then I just saw this in Atlanta Cooks for Company, (1968) It combines some of the elements of Red Hot Jello with some of the elements of fluff. I suspect it could be a hit. Now, that doesn’t mean I am going to try it–but I might. You should though if you live in a fluff family but want more taste or a twist on the old favorite. With the cored apple presentation, you have the added bonus of a beautiful presentation.

    Chilled Cinnamon Apple Salad

    6 Tart Apples
    1 cup red cinnamon candies (“cinnamon imperials” or “red hots”)
    2 cups water
    1/2 cup Miracle Whip
    1 cup miniature marshmallows
    1/2 cup celery, diced
    1 cup dark seedless raisins
    1/3 cup chopped pecans

    Pare and core apples. Cook candies in water, add apples and simmer until tender, turning frequently. While apples are cooking, blend Miracle Whip with other ingredients. After apples have cooked until tender, drain and fill centers with Miracle Whip mixture.

    From Mrs. Jack Pipkin (Atlanta Cooks for Company, 1968)

    Category Fruits, retro food, Salads | Date: November 21, 2011 | 1 Comment

  4. Waffle House Family

    Waffle House is important to us as a couple. If you know us or have read this blog for a while, you surely know part of the story. Here is another part, part that mostly happened before I knew my love.

    Once upon a time, I moved to the south after about thirty years of life where Waffle House usually meant a road trip to see my great grandmother.

    I was excited to learn that I would be living in a town, Gainesville, with not one, not two, but three Waffle Houses.

    We ate Waffle House while house hunting.Then we moved to town and ate there a few times, but there were five of us including three under five.

    But, Waffle House, of course, is the sort of place you can go alone. Or in my case, with a baby or baby and toddler in tow. I’d stop there some mornings; after taking my now 18-year-old to preschool, particularly rainy, dim mornings.

    In fact, on those sort of mornings ever since, I picture myself having a bit of breakfast and people watching at that particular Waffle House. The staff there was classic Waffle House. I was sugar, honey, darling. They joked with each other and the regulars. They cared about each other and their customers.

    A couple of years later, we lived closer to a more convenient Waffle House and started to be more of a weekend type of Waffle House visitor.

    The Waffle House where I had spent many an hour with the baby closed. I worried about where one very special waitress Vonnie, would go. She wasn’t young, but she was that combo of sass and heart that makes for a great Waffle House employee.

    I am visiting the town I called home for a decade. This morning I dropped my other son off at work. I thought to grab coffee, newspaper and head back to the hotel. I texted my love and said “I don’t think I am getting Waffle House while I am here.” Today is my last day here and the schedule seemed unworkable.She suggested I go then. Ok.

    I headed to the closest Waffle House. I ordered. I thought “That one in Forsyth was way better.” (Just because the Waffle House I went to today is a training Waffle House and there is more staff, more people unsure of what they are doing, less of a Waffle House where people have worked there years and are comfortable with their job.)

    I popped a quarter in the jukebox; because it just isn’t right not to listen to Mary Welch Rogers singing Waffle House Family. I sat back down at the counter.

    Soon a familiar face showed up behind the counter! Vonnie! I was surprised and so happy. She looked good. I said “You worked at the Waffle House on 13th! She said “I did, until it closed down.” Then she looked at me again, smiled, and asked about the baby. Yes, the baby that is now 13.

    I ate. I got ready to leave. I told Vonnie it was good to see her again and for her to take care of herself. She said you too darling, you too.

    A decade after I last saw her, at a different Waffle House, Vonnie reminded me that I am still Waffle House family in more than just a past memories.

    I am proud to be part of the Waffle House Nation, even if I live far away from one now and my regular Waffle House is their Facebook fan page for now.

    Category retro food | Date: November 13, 2011 | 2 Comments

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