stupid presidents

My son is worried he will be the only one in his class watching "The Obama Speech" tomorrow. It was delayed because our school district opted out the day it was originally shown, then realized they looked like they weren't supporting the President and sent a letter around asking people to send a form if they don't want their kids to watch the President on tv at school tomorrow.

You know, for 8 years we had a president I didn't vote for. I could have "opted out" of supporting him. But I didn't. I supported the stupid Republican president - maybe now we could all support the stupid Democratic president...

After all, as that one annoying country song says, I'm proud to be an American - not I'm proud to be a Republican...

on my best day

I woke suddenly last night thinking of an old friend. As I lay there, I realized I have known her, quite literally, as long as I can remember and memories flooded my mind: playing Barbies at her house when we were very young, playing games and going to dances with her and a large group of friends, long talks about boys.

I remember working as partners in French class, watching as she defended her beliefs (and mine) in an Advanced English Lit class to a wonderful but obstinate teacher who doubled as a debate coach.

I remember sharing a business class to which she once came in late (beaming) with the only excuse the teacher said he would ever accept - she had been hit by an STA bus (luckily she was in her car), and a wild and week-long scavenger hunt resulting, ultimately, in invitations from our dates to the junior prom.

I have memories of accompanying her as she sang at so many events, always with a beautiful voice and a smile. And I have memories of her in college. Although we didn't see each other as much, when we did, it felt like nothing had changed.

The semester my brother Mark died, I ran into her on campus. She asked how things were going and reluctantly I told her my woes. Based on other friends' reactions, I wasn't sure what to expect. College kids are not adept at responding appropriately to tragic situations. But Anna was different. I remember her response, because it mirrored my own emotions. She empathized perfectly and made me feel like my grief was okay.

Among all these thoughts, there was one thing I couldn't remember. I couldn't think of an instance when Anna spoke an unkind word, or was caught up in some silly social drama. I couldn't think when she had ever lacked faith, or complained about anything she was expected to do. I couldn't think of a single time when Anna had been anything less than a perfect example.

For several years after college, Anna and I were out of touch. An occasional Christmas card let us know what was going on, but it wasn't until last year that I was able to keep up more with her life. Not surprising, in the face of her very real challenges, which surpass some of my darkest dreads, it is clear Anna has not changed.

She is amazingly patient and positive, steadfast and stalwart where others would simply give up.

If I, on my best day, could be what Anna is on her worst, I will have made great strides.

pot roast on sundays

I don't serve pot roast on Sundays. This may not seem like a big deal, but the big Sunday meal is kind of ingrained in my religious culture. I would say a large number of women in my church have their Sunday dinners prepared before I am typically awake on a Sunday morning. Simmering away in a crock-pot or slipped in the oven just before church, their families arrive home to the lovely aroma of meat and potatoes.

Not mine. When we get home, all things edible are fair game. Fend for yourself or starve. If we haven't gorged ourselves on snacking, I might make dinner later that night but sometimes, I am ashamed to admit, we make cookies or caramel popcorn after church and no one is hungry come dinner time.

The problem with this (aside from the general nutritional issues) is my enormous sense of guilt about my lackadaisical attitude toward Sunday dining. I long ago realized it's not the pot roast I feel bad about, but the event of a big shared meal. Something different and important to mark the Sabbath as special.

In the years that have followed this realization, I have implemented several new "traditions" for Sunday meals (waffles for dinner, leftover day, brunch right after church) but none of them have stuck. Some of them were just bad ideas (leftovers!) but the biggest problem was that none of them really lent themselves to time shared together in the kitchen or at the table. There was nothing special about them.

Another tradition I have been wanting to start is a weekly home-made pizza night. Last week I brought it up again. I suggested we try it on Fridays, but we never know what a Friday will bring, and Saturdays are no better. Dave suggested we try Sundays. I stared at him blankly. Pizza on Sundays? It seemed wrong somehow. But it makes perfect sense for us and it couldn't be worse than waffles or leftovers.

Last night we tried it. After a nap and watching a movie with the kids, I started the dough and then called everyone up to help. Abi made the sauce - with full control over seasoning. Max helped with the veggie prep and put on the cheese. Dave was in charge of the meat (sausage) and I sauteed the flavor (onions, garlic, peppers). The pizza turned out beautifully!

It took some tenacity, on my part, to keep everyone in the kitchen, but over time I think it could fulfill all my Sunday meal dreams: family togetherness, a meaningful meal and (start to finish) no more than an hour and a half.

It may be a little unorthodox, but I think that makes it even better!

the all-american housewife

I've been thinking with fondness lately of the All-American Housewife. The June Cleavers, Marion Cunninghams and Ethel Mertzes of the world, dolled-up in delightful dresses and perfectly polished pumps as they served their husbands three squares a day and washed all the dishes by hand.

I wouldn't trade my life today for the lives that they lived then (I'd be more of a Lucy Ricardo if I did), but I'm beginning to admire them more - for taking a moment each day to dress up, for wanting to take care of their homes. I admire them for waiting patiently at home, for keeping a dinner plate warm. For growing geraniums and mopping their floors, for ironing everything they wore. For wearing white gloves and polishing silver, for making elaborate jell-o molds. For putting their families before everything else, and spreading their beauty around.

I'm grateful that now all this is a choice - pants or a skirt, stockings or not - that ironing and jell-o are an option. But I do find joy in baking bread and making jam and greeting my husband at the door. And at these moments I think the housewives knew best. A happy home is a happy life and I should do whatever it takes to make it so.

Maybe I'll start wearing dresses more often...

queen of the house

I am not a cat lover. Or a dog lover. In fact, I really don't enjoy any animal small enough to put its genitals on me. This may sound absurd, but I grew up with horses - fifteen hand, thousand pound horses. They didn't come in the house, I changed clothes to ride them, and there was absolutely no way they could pee on me. Cats, on the other hand, can and did pee on my sleeping bag, and claw and bite without provocation; the only dog I remember once ate all my crayons then puked them up in my toy box.

This is why I was "allergic" to cats until a few years ago when the kids found a kitty hiding in our back yard. After Max named her and told the neighbors she was ours, I consented to let her live in the shed where she would keep the mice and birds away. That lasted a few days until other cats began eating her food. We then moved her to the garage where she had food and water and a nice place to sleep. A few weeks later we installed a cat door so she could go in and out as she pleased.

Come Fall, the cat sat outside the window while I taught piano, meowing regularly and clawing the screen. Inevitably my students stated the obvious, "I think your cat wants to come inside." "Yes," I replied, "but she isn't allowed in the house." "Why?" they asked. "Because. I'm mean." "Oh," they said. But, as it turns out, I am not as mean as I seem. The first truly cold day ended the "outdoor" cat arrangement and cleared the path for Gigi Harriette Quincompoix, Queen of the House.

It wasn't an easy transition. It took weeks to accept that the cat loved me best. (Why?!) But gradually she won me over. I eventually became desensitized to finding cat hair in my house (Yuck!) and at some point allowed her to sit on my lap. Now I cannot imagine our home without her. She has taught Abi to empathize, sympathize and love unconditionally and has served as a younger sibling to Max. To me she has shown unwavering devotion and Dave she allows to believe he's the boss.

So I find her today with a swollen right jaw and my heart is filled with fear. Ridiculous, I think. So stupid! She is just a cat. But this cat is a part of our lives and to lose her will break all our hearts.

I really hope she's okay...

indestructible bread

After searching for a really great bread recipe meeting all our family requirements (quick and easy to make in a mixer, at least some whole wheat, no powdered milk or wheat gluten blah, blah, blah, moist enough to not crumble, and tasty enough to please the kids) I finally found a recipe for "Fabulous Homemade Bread" on allrecipes.com.

The first time I made it, I scaled it down from 6 loaves to 2, so the recipe turned out with ingredient amounts like "3 tablespoons and 1-3/4 tsp. brown sugar." I rounded to the nearest tablespoon. The dough still looked good, so I let it rise. Perfect! I punched it, rolled it and put it in pans. I covered the pans and went out to lunch with my friend, forgetting to throw it in the fridge to slow the 2nd rising. Two hours later I returned to flat loaves. I baked it anyway and it was great!

The second time I made it, I activated my yeast around noon and then unexpectedly had to leave the house. I stuck the rising yeast in the fridge and remembered it around 7pm. I threw in the other ingredients to see if it would work. It did and it was great!

The third time I made it, I started the yeast and left it to sit for 5 minutes as instructed. Two hours later I remembered the yeast. It was big, but still bubbly. I mixed it anyway, adding two or maybe three times as much flour. It was a little less flavorful, but still great!

So, if you if you're interested in an indestructible bread recipe, here it is:

Fabulous Homemade Bread (2 loaves)

1. Stir the following ingredients in a mixer bowl and let rise 5 minutes: 3 Tbsp. warm water, 2-1/4 (or one package) active dry yeast, 1-1/2 Tbsp. whole wheat flour, 1 tsp. sugar.

2. Add the following and start mixer on low: 2/3 cup oats, 2/3 cup whole wheat flour, 1-1/2 cup warm water and 1-1/2 tsp salt.

3. Add the following and gradually increase mixer speed to speed 2, mixing until the dough clings to the dough hook and cleans the bowl: 4 Tbsp brown sugar, 2 Tbsp honey, 4 Tbsp vegetable oil, 3 cups flour (or more, as needed, to get dough to clean the bowl).

4. Transfer bread to a greased bowl, let rise for about 1 hour or until double in size.

5. Punch dough down, roll into a log and cut in half. Tuck ends under and set loaves into 2 greased bread pans. Let rise again until double in size.

6. Bake for 25 minutes at 350 degrees.

a good lesson

I spent several hours today digging up raspberry plants I allowed to spread too wide. I knew a couple years ago I was supposed to keep them in check, but I so hate to dig up a growing thing, that I let them all go.

So now my arms are scratched from elbow to wrist. My fingers are tender from thorns. My back is aching and my shoulders are sore, but the raspberries seem so happy now; they have so much more room to grow.

Overall... a good lesson on repentance.