NorthSideFour Plus Russell

Three years is a long time to wait, even longer when you're ten years old and three years accounts for just under one third of your life. But wait three years they did, and their patience and diligence has paid off in one big furry reward named Russell.

This summer they worked in earnest, presenting their case early with a well written persuasive essay outlining the benefits of dog ownership, and making clear their plan to meet and exceed all expectations regarding care. They searched online for a suitable pet, initially setting their sights on a young beagle named Tiny Dancer who was available at a nearby shelter. Their informative paper written about Tiny Dancer included this line, "I'm sure we all agree that we will want to change Tiny Dancer's name immediately", but alas, Tiny Dancer was adopted quite quickly by a family perhaps better suited to Elton John admiration. The girls were disappointed but undeterred, the search continued.

It was Jack who needed convincing and yet it was Jack who found Russell, a five year old Beagle/Jack Russell mix who was surrendered to a nearby shelter when his family moved to Ireland. He was confused at the shelter and wanted little to do with us, by evening he was sound asleep in my lap. He slept until almost 10:00 the next day, earning a place, if not yet in Jack's heart, at least in his good graces. He is happiest with Mary and Kate, finally eating, and working hard on his chase the tennis ball skills. He is the perfect dog for us (although I am campaigning for a name change: Rousseau, Roosevelt, Franklin). Good work girls, patience and diligence do have rewards, you did a fine job, and so did your Dad.

Welcome home Russell.

Three years ago our beloved beagle Eleanor Roosevelt died, the girls and I have been campaigning for a dog ever since. 

March 17

March 17th, 2003

It should have been the perfect day: Cubs at Royals, in their new spring training stadium; Arizona in March (as opposed to Chicago); and our second wedding anniversary spent watching our two favorite teams play in their first spring training game ever.

It was miserable. Cold and rainy and miserable. Which is not what Arizona is supposed to be, not in March, not on our second anniversary.

Two green beers in they finally called it, after playing an excessively long game of absolutely nothing. The tarp never once left the brand new field.

The Royals and the Cubs meet again today. I wish for them fair skies, warm weather, and at least nine good innings. In theory, a baseball game could go on forever. We should be so lucky.

Slainte.

Take Me Out to the Royals Game

My love of baseball was cultivated in a time when baseball was the star of the game. I am so old that my first games were at Municipal Stadium in Kansas City which was torn down so long ago that a community garden now grows on the site. It was here I chose Lou Piniella as my favorite player and learned what the numbers 1 through 9 signified. It was here that I developed a passion for a summer day at the ballpark, warm and sticky, with 9 innings and a blank scorecard in front of me, in anxious anticipation for the 7th inning stretch. It was here I sat, between my father and grandfather, topped with a Royal Blue ball cap, Cracker Jack in hand, ideally happy for many a summer day.


Once again I am ideally happy. Once again the game of baseball is the star.


In the twenty nine years since the Royals last played in the post season I have grown too comfortable with the idea that the glory days of Kansas City baseball might have passed and that the Royals of my youth, George and Hal and Willie, might just be the only names to remember. My annual visit to Kaufman Stadium became more of an opportunity to share my childhood with my girls than one with any expectations for great baseball. Far too many stories began with "remember when Freddy Patek...?". (No one did.)

I've never been so deliriously happy to be completely wrong.

Playing the kind of baseball that is incredibly fun to watch, putting together runs like puzzle pieces, and behaving like genuinely good guys who are just as excited to be winning as their fans are, the Royals are headed to the World Series. This team that together only hit 95 home runs in the regular season has now swept two teams and won 8 straight post season games, putting together runs pitch by pitch. The team that has not one super salaried star but plays together like they've been doing it since 1985 (even though most of them were not yet born in 1985) is showing everyone what scrappy baseball looks like and why it works. The Royals are making baseball a team sport once again and we are enjoying every stolen base.
 

When the Royals moved from Municipal Stadium to Kaufman, we moved with them, summer days now spent in section 306, third base side.It was here that I announced to my Dad I was too old for the baseball cap he had dropped on my head, here that my grandfather saw his last game, and here that I watched, with my dad, Grandfather and sister, the Royals win Game 7 of the 1985 World Series. My view has changed; Royal blue cap on head I'll watch every game of the upcoming series with three new seatmates, not in section 306 but 500 miles away, remembering how great it is to be a Royals fan and loving every minute of this amazing year.

12th Street and Vine

How we ever found this place is a mystery, located just south of the historic intersection at 12th Street and Vine, as is what logical thought went into making our way here, night after night, long after the more intelligent people had gone home.

Since 1930 musicians have gathered here, at the Mutual Musicians Foundation, on Friday and Saturday nights around midnight, after the regular gigs were over, to play together until the very early hours of the morning. The Foundation is on the east side of the city, an area not known for its low crime rate. We hosted my father's 60th birthday party at Arthur Bryant's, just down the street; the white suburbanites were in the cars and on their way home by sundown. Our night had just begun.

I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
Going to Kansas City 
Kansas Cit,y here I come
They got a crazy way of loving there 
And I'm gonna get me some

Thank heavens we had the good sense, at midnight, to never drive to the Foundation. Sadly we never had the good sense to realize that taxis, readily available in many parts of the city at midnight, are not too easy to come by at 4 a.m. when you want to go home, at least not at 18th and Vine. Fooled early on by rows of unmanned taxis parked in front we soon learned that they belonged to drivers sleeping at the transient hotel next door, who were not too interested in waking up to take us home. More than once we relied on the kindness of a departing musician to get us to a neighborhood that was at least semi awake.

I'm gonna be standing on the corner
12th Street and Vine
I'm gonna be standing on the corner
12th Street and Vine
With my Kansas City baby
And some Kansas City wine

They sell cans of Bud Lite for one dollar out of a blue Igloo cooler. The musicians rotate in and out of play, highlighting one then another, as seamlessly as if they played together always. The room is always warm, even in January, when it feels like a thick July night inside. The neighborhood, alive only hours earlier with sounds of jazz and smells of barbecue, is quiet now, save the music emanating from the old brick building on Highland. That guy, the one just walking in, has given up his search for a taxi and is going in to dance with his girlfriend, the one in pearls swaying to the saxophone solo. They are having the time of their lives. Thank goodness they weren't smart enough to go home with their friends, hours ago. Thank goodness there are still places like this, on the east side of Kansas City.

Well, I might take a plane, I might take a train
But if I have to walk I'm going there just the same
I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one.

Lyrics to Kansas City: Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller

This post was inspired by 2 A.M. at the Cat's Pajamas, a completely original and engaging debut novel by Marie-Helen Bertino. I could have written about nine year old girls, or teachers, or love, or Philadelphia or the kindness of community, as this book is so full of options. I was provided with a complimentary copy for the purposes of this post, as a member of From Left to Write. Join us August 28th, 2014 when we discuss this book and our unique impressions from its many themes.

Knobby Knees? Look At These.

My knees are fat. Even when I'm not they are. It's how they're built, I have never had knobby knees, I never will.

On our first date, which was not actually called a date then because we worked together (but is now because we are married), Jack and I went to a Cubs/Royals game in Kansas City. It was a Sunday in late June, sunny and well over 90 degrees. It was the perfect opportunity to sweat away any chance at a future relationship.

Uncle Kenny, my long time best friend and simply wonderful person, was there when I came downstairs, dressed for my non date in khaki shorts and a sleeveless navy polo shirt.

"My knees are fat. He is going to see my fat knees."

He laughed. He did not tell me that my knees were not fat because we both knew that was not true. He said this, "if he doesn't like you because you have fat knees then he wasn't worth liking at all".

And I went off to a baseball game with a guy that I thought I might like knowing that a guy I loved appreciated me for who I was, not who I thought I should be. He still does.

Every girl should be so lucky.

 Not a bad outcome for a Cubs loss on a very hot day in June, so many years ago.
 

It's Always a New Year

Last night we had crab cakes, 15 years ago we had crab dip, or at least I did.

It was our first New Year's Eve spent together. Jack and his roommate were throwing a party and I was included, in the planning, in the inviting, in the preparations.

I bought a new outfit and made crab dip. They flushed the toilets and bought a keg.

The guests arrived, including everyone they had ever known, and some woman the roommate had met only the night before. My guests, all three of them, arrived wearing clothing at about the time many of the other guests began to lose theirs.

The crab dip was delicious, and a big hit with the one person I saw eat it. "Did you make this?", and I eagerly nodded. "Figures, it's good though". This was the longest conversation I had all night.

I've lost track of the all the eves in between crab dip and crab cake, but this one is always the one that counts. This year, crab cakes for four and a snowy night in Michigan. Cheers to those who make a new year worth celebrating.

Happy Father's Day

Giverny, 2012

I Can Breathe Clearly Now the Rain is Gone

Recently I've noticed that I am growing more and more boring, which I attribute to age. It seems now that one of the most exciting things I can find to discuss is the weather. I'll discuss the weather with anyone who might listen, and it is clear that I am thrilled to have such fascinating content at my disposal: Saturday it was hot and Sunday it was cold! Madness!

I mentioned this to one of my college roommates, who is also getting older, interrupting a truly titillating conversation on wind, "do you think we're getting old? We talk about the weather". She did not see this as a problem, pointing out that we choose to talk about weather, rather than other more pressing things, like dry cleaning. This is a woman I lived with for almost four years; someone willing to discuss with me, in great depth, the motivation of the boy downstairs in taking his garbage out at midnight rather than 10:00 pm. Hours of our young lives spent, across the table from one another at Egg Roll King, trying to identify every ingredient in chicken fried rice. We talked into the night, on more than one occasion, in an effort to understand why the woman who drove the bus to campus didn't have the huge, hairy mole removed from her chin. We strove to understand the deep meaning behind the lyrics of every Janet Jackson song.  We were never getting married, or we were but we were not changing our names, we were never having children, or we were having five.  Our lives were wild, chocked full of intrigue and mystery, we were interesting. Now we are grown up and too busy to notice hairy moles on bus drivers.

Just when I thought I could not possibly get more dull my allergies arrived. Through my thoroughly congested nose I tell anyone who cares to listen about how difficult it is to breathe, how I can't believe how quickly this came on, how they do seem to be getting worse as I get older and yes, incorporating both my interests, "it must be the weather this year, allergies just seem to be worse than ever before". Understand I said they exact same thing last year, and the year before that.

Last week someone at school, clearly unable to listen to me blather on any longer, suggested I try the Neti Pot.

"Really? They look so awful, you run water through your nasal cavity? All of it, just irrigate the entire thing? And stuff comes out? Like, snot, things like that? In lumps, or clumps? Does it just run out in one long boogery stream? Is it one big horrid snotty mess? Sounds a bit scary really". She smiled and ran from the room.

This weekend I bought a Neti Pot. So overjoyed with the disgusting result, and my new found ability to take long deep breaths through my nose, I raced to the phone to call the college roommate. "No", said Jack, "just no".

He thwarted my attempts to post this miracle on Facebook. He reminded the children that I love them when I shouted, while still taking deep breaths, "Glory be! This is the single greatest day of my life" over and over and over. He tried to interrupt when I said that nothing had more dramatically altered my life than this miracle pot, nodding to the two children staring in complete shock at their temporarily allergen free mother.. He stopped me from explaining just how good it felt to breathe without congestion to the nice lady taking my breakfast order. And he yelled "no, stop, enough" when I stood on the back deck singing "I can breathe clearly now the goop is gone". 

It's going to be unseasonably cool in Chicago this week. Bundle up if you live close to the water and don't let that sunny sky fool you, it's chilly out there! As it turns out, it was entirely possible to get more boring.

No Square to Spare

Of all the neuroses I brought with me from childhood, none is easier to identify than my need to have, at all times, at least 20 extra rolls of toilet paper on hand. For several years I was able to hide my secret and then one dark day he discovered the cache, a multiple Costco shopping trip supply rivaling that of any major hotel.

"What is this?"
"Toilet paper dear".

Jack took over the management of the household toilet paper and deemed himself responsible for maintaining a reasonable supply. Foolishly I trusted him.

"Mom, there's no toilet paper!"

For almost 10 years we have survived with this new order, with Jack managing the bulk of the toilet paper inventory, and I, like any dutiful wife, surrendering my neurotic need to know exactly, to the square, what was in the kitty at all times.

And then we ran out. It was late on a cold and blustery Sunday, far too late and far too cold for any reasonable person to walk the block and a half for reinforcements.

"Mom, there's no toilet paper!"

It was immediate; gone was the confident 46 year old mom so certain that the reserves were being maintained, and in her place, a scared child searching for a box of tissue.

This ride is over Jack. Thanks for your service but clear out the basement honey, I'm going to Costco.

Always Playing Catch Up

When I was six my best friend was Stephanie, who lived next door. Next to her lived the Flemings who had, it seemed, 42 children, but not one that was our age. The closest was Susan who was two years younger than we were, which, when you are six, seemed an enormous valley of years. We were in kindergarten, Susan did not even go to school. We were allowed to ride our bikes up and down our street, Susan could not even ride a bike. Susan followed us around, so certainly in awe of our older and wiser six year old selves.

On her fifth birthday Susan proudly told Stephanie and me that she was almost caught up, that on her next birthday she would be same age as we were. We smiled and hugged our little friend, "silly girl, you never catch up, you will always be younger than we are!".

It's true, we always get older but we never catch up. What was a catastrophic age gap then seems like nothing as Susan would now be three years older than my husband, who is doing his best to catch up today. Young in spirit but graying at the temples, the old man is growing up. Happy birthday Jack, enjoy your weekend!

The Music of Family

Kate's only complaint, when staying in a hotel room, is sharing a bed with her sister. I sympathize; having been Mary's first accommodations, carrying her for nine months, I too have suffered from the incessant kicks and blows of a slumbering Mary. It's not uncommon to find her in the morning, feet on the pillow, snoozing peacefully, having completely flipped during the night. Years ago, in Dallas, I woke up to find her right foot under my chin, her left foot across my mid section. Frequently she sits up, appears to look around, and flops down, head first, in whatever direction she is facing. Pray that she has not turned to face you in this moment of alertness. She is a lovely and kind child but a wild and reckless sleeper; no one wants to bunk next to that.

And yet there I was, the night before Thanksgiving, in a beautiful downtown Chicago hotel room, wide awake while Wild Mary thrashed next to me. In the next bed lay Kate and her father, peacefully sleeping, completely unaware of the scene being played out in our lovely and very dark room.

By this time the street outside had quieted, the sounds of the city taking a break before the big day. But in our room the music was just beginning: from Kate, whose 11:00 pm nosebleed had landed me in the bed with the Wild One, a deep and loud breathing, forced from the earlier nasal incident, all from her wide open mouth, breaths more like exhausted sighs. And in the horn section, her father and his rhythmic snoring, accompanying Kate's breathing as if they had been playing together for years. Next to me lay the conductor, orchestrating this great movement with madly waving arms and legs, a rhythmic feast for the senses, assuming those in the first row were wearing protective gear.

Two days later I was home in our kitchen, cooking our second, but first at home, Thanksgiving meal, when I realized that I was singing along with Snow Patrol, "This is All I Ever Wanted From Life".  Having just celebrated the day when I am told to count my blessings, it occurred to me that perhaps this was it: awake in a stuffy yet well appointed hotel room at 2:00 am, listening to the symphony of my family, with Mary's foot in my ear; was this all I ever wanted from life?

You know I believe that yes it is, that and a little bit of sleep thrown in here and there.

June 17

Happy Father's Day

Sur La Table, Sur La Birthday

My birthday is rolling around again in a few days. Because my husband, who dislikes all celebrations that involve gift giving, finds my birthday, where he is really expected to come up with something, the most painful of them all, I try to offer some subtle suggestions. He is really very lucky; a perfectly fine birthday gift is a good book, one that he took the time to pick out just for me, knowing me well enough to know what I like to read. He has now convinced himself that we are in grave danger of falling, all of us, into the apartment downstairs due the weight of the books in our home, so has mandated a moratorium on book buying, which has not affected, one bit, my personal book shopping, but it has his. Thus, I have had to be a bit more creative. In mid May I left the Williams Sonoma catalog on the dining room table, which he promptly tossed in the recycling. Last week I flipped through the mail while he watched baseball, casually pointing out all the amazing baking gadgets available at Sur La Table.

"You don't bake".
"I might if I had this bundt pan".
"Allyson, you have a bundt pan. When was the last time you made a bundt?"

We tried this about 6 years ago. While in Sur La Table I pointed out the most amazingly beautiful cake pan I had ever seen, a sheet pan with daisy outlines, which of course would allow me to make the loveliest cakes ever seen, all moist and delicious, each one with a hint of lemon, to be served at the tea parties I would soon be hosting with my daughters. To date I have made one cake, kind of. What I made was a dense scrubbing utensil which adhered to the daisies like super glue. It hinted not of lemon but of eggs and shook like jello when cut. I made an omelet in a cake pan, to the delight of my husband.

"I want to bake."
"Fine, and when you learn I will buy you a bundt pan, but for now, you are well suited for bundts."

For me, the bundt (which I now say as boondt, and will forever do so, as did the mom in My Big Fat Greek Wedding) is the quintessential baked good, the one thing I feel I should be able to do effortlessly, as in, "oh I just whipped up this vanilla bundt with blueberry glaze, would you like a slice?", but I can't.

The reality is that I am a terrible baker. I'm a decent cook and pretty good at pulling out what I find in the refrigerator, mixing it up with pasta and calling it dinner, but I cannot ever prepare the next course, not if it involves heat, leavening agents and measuring spoons.

"Mom, can we have dessert?"
"Not tonight, you already had something sweet today."
"When?"
"Didn't you have grapes in your lunchbox?"

Early on I lived with the delusion that if I served sweets casually, not as treats, my darlings would grow up similarly to French children who taste wine at a young age; that is to say that sweets would not be a big deal. The problem was that my sweets were not at all sweet, on the rare occasion that I actually baked something. So this theory was soon scrapped en lieu of don't give them sweets and they will not develop a taste for them and their precious teeth will not rot and fall out of their small mouths. That has not worked too well either. It turns out that children really liked baked goods, almost all of them.


We did not eat dessert when I was young. Occasionally Dad would take us for ice cream but my mother has never, not once in her life, baked anything that remotely resembled dessert. When all the other kids brought homemade cupcakes to school on their birthday, I brought Tootsy Rolls. I once took a bag of Milanos as my contribution to a school bake sale (they sold). When it was my turn to bring treats to the Girl Scout meeting, and I begged for something homemade, my mom whipped up graham crackers with pieces of a Hershey bar stuck in the middle (her specialty was graham crackers with applesauce in the middle but that didn't travel well). Things don't change. About every third time I talk to my mother on the phone she says, "I'm really on to this fabulous new dessert idea, you've got to try it! It's just a scoop of vanilla ice cream with a few splashes of Scotch on top, and then finished off with freshly ground pepper. Do you need to write that down Allyson?". Even I've got that one Mom. This is the same woman who routinely suggests that I serve buttermilk mixed with jarred salsa to my children, "honestly, the best soup I have ever had, serve it in mugs!".

The bigger issue is that I want to be a baker. I really want to be the mom who rushes in, powder on her nose, with a large box of freshly baked, and oh so tasty, cupcakes tucked under her arm. It seems logical to me that what I should do, in working to accomplish this goal, is to acquire all the snappy baking gear I can from Sur La Table, store it in our already overburdened kitchen cabinets, and continue to wish that I could be her, the baker mom. It doesn't take much insight to recognize that, as a child who was clearly served one too many vanilla ice creams Scotch sundaes, I just want to give my children something I never had: a bake sale donation that does not say Pepperidge Farm on the outside of the package.

The new summer catalog arrives; I leave it on the kitchen island, open to the cake pop pans.

"You don't bake. What would you do with these?"
"Think about summer, think about how cute those would be decorated with the little flags!"
"Who will do that?"
"Me."
"You don't bake, you would make weaponry with these."

"How about a new cookbook?"


First image, courtesy of Molly's Cupcakes, the wonderful place that saves me when baking is required. The second, from my favorite Sur La Table.

Mid Life Career Change, One More Time

It's late April and I have set a goal for myself, a personal goal for the new year. It is not terribly lofty or unattainable, it has nothing to do with personal appearance or acquisitions but everything to do with the way I see myself. Sometime this year, in the 8 months remaining, a very hard deadline, I must find someone to publish something I write.

When, on April 15th, I signed our joint tax return, prepared by my accountant type husband, I scribbled my name on the line above his typed assignment of my occupation: volunteer librarian. Granted, a giant step up from the previous years where I was categorized as "homemaker". The usually straight up Jack really took a risk on that one; we would have surely been heading towards an audit had the IRS delved at all into that career classification. In no way do I extol the traditional values assigned to a homemaker, anyone with eyes (and on very bad days, a nose) can tell from the front door that there is not a great deal of homemaking going on inside. However there is writing, quite a bit of writing, but for Jack, it's not writing as a career choice until you are paid to write. To be clear, no one has ever paid me to be a volunteer librarian, nor, obviously, have I ever received monetary compensation for my excellence in career homemaking.

Either I figure out how to fill out a tax return, which is as likely as me discovering how to retract the cord on the vacuum cleaner without cowgirl tricks and sailor language, or I write something someone can publish.

A Tale of Keys and Patience

At some point last weekend I lost my keys. I dug around in various bags and, even though it was steadily in the 80 degree range for all the days in question, in every single coat pocket. I moved around all the keys in the key drawer; keys to the mailbox and basement, keys to a car that no longer works, keys to Uncle Kenny's house, but there was no key chain received as a high school graduation present, no keys assigned solely to me.

The last time I remember seeing the keys was when Jack and I went to the symphony so I checked with the very nice babysitter; had she seen the keys? Yes, but she was certain she had left them on the table inside the front door. Because she does not know me well enough to know that I frequently loose things, she kindly offered to check her backpack where she did not find my keys.

The ease at which I loose things seems to run in direct proportion to the ease at which Jack looses his patience.

"You have checked your purse?"

"Yes dear, first place I looked."

"You change purses often, you have checked all of these bags?", gesturing to the growing pile of bags in our bedroom, bag confusion attributed to the oddly warm weather.

"I have."

On Monday morning I packed up the black bag that I carried all weekend and Jack nervously handed over his keys, to allow the girls and I to get in the apartment after school. I did not once, not all day, loose his keys.

On Tuesday, another 80 degree day, Jack decided to play golf. He took the train from his office, to school, to pick up his keys, and then took a taxi home to get his clubs. He then took a taxi back to school, to return his keys to me and left from there for the golf course. The girls and I walked home, wandered really, meaning that he arrived home, without keys but with golf bag, before we did.

Later that night Jack decided to find my keys. He looked under the table where the kind babysitter felt she had left them, he too dug through the key drawer, he checked the playroom as the girls occasionally borrow my things, he checked my coat pockets and, as a last resort, re-checked all the bags piled in the corner of our bedroom.

He was successful. He found my keys, at the bottom of the black bag I had carried all weekend, the bag that sat, on Tuesday, in the closet at school while he traipsed back and forth via taxi, to deliver keys to me.

Jack's patience, while easily tried, is rarely fully exhausted.

Image courtesy of Tiffany & Company.

March 17

It's Girl Scout cookie time.

Without checking with each other, Jack and I both bought cookies at work. Mine came from a fourth grade girl; he bought his from a co-worker whose daughter is a Girl Scout.

We each bought three boxes.

Jack bought two boxes of Trefoils, the shortbread cookie, and one box of Thin Mints. I bought two boxes of Thin Mints and one box of Trefoils.

Jack doesn't really care for shortbread, but I do, it's my favorite cookie. And I don't like chocolate, but he does, and he loves Thin Mints.

Happy anniversary Jack, it's been so nice getting to know each other so well.

How Far For Pho?

It's an ongoing battle. My want of life in a charming small town versus my husband's insistence that there is no such place. My visions involve summer dirty children, running wildly in great expanses of grassy fields, riding bikes on sidewalks to the main street ice cream store (Eleanor Roosevelt panting in chase behind them), long lazy days on blankets eating sandwiches and analyzing clouds, and Independence Day parades full of local high school marching bands, Miss Blue Hydrangea 2012, and dogs in Uncle Sam hats.

Jack's vision involves Wal-Mart.

"Would you give up Vietnamese food for life in a small town? Because there are no Vietnamese restaurants in small towns", he says with the authority of one who has visited every small town in each state I find acceptable to call home.

"I would not. I love pho. Maybe I could learn to cook it myself".

This portion of the conversation is now over, Jack is laughing too hard to return fire.

The girls and I return home from picking up the dry cleaning and a stop at the tea cafe nearby. I'm aglow, basking in the kindness of those who always remember my children, and almost always have a small something for them to stuff into their pockets. This week it is a hair bow, from the dry cleaner, a trinket her daughter picked up in Korea. "Imagine the familiarity in a small town Jack, imagine how friendly it would be and the sense of community...", my voice trailing off, wandering miles from our apartment.

"There are no dry cleaners in small towns. There are no people with daughters who randomly stop by Korea to pick up some hair bows", he counters.

But there are cafes, and women working there who smile often and pinch cheeks and ask if I'd like my English muffin toasted or on the griddle. There are farm fresh eggs and local honey, hotcakes and corn cakes and pure maple syrup. There's a guy named Sam who sits outside the cafe in the morning, reading his paper and waiting for Wilma, his wife of 58 years, to finish having her hair done next door at the Curl N' Cut beauty shop.

Jack's small town breakfast is a ham, egg and cheese biscuit from the Burger King drive-through, tossed to him by a pimple faced teenager, working on Saturday morning to pay off the final installment on his girlfriend Jessie's tattoo. Just a few more Whoppers to go before her backside reads, in full, Jessie n' Josh 4Ever, with entwined hearts and roses. The biscuit smells of cigarette smoke; Josh has been sneaking a few in the break room, the stress of tattoos and parenthood at 17 are really getting to him.

Jack grew up in a small town, I did not. He is deeply familiar with crossing highways on foot to get to the school, Dominoes pizza as the sole option (in both delivery and ethnicity) and the eternal ache of wanting to find something bigger. I am familiar with strip malls, dual turn lanes, subdivisions and the easily replicated vibe of modern suburbia. My ache was in wanting to walk to town to visit my dad at work, waving to Floyd and Goober as I ambled along the dusty roads. Impossible, my dad worked in an office building in the middle of a huge parking lot, surrounded by overpasses and faux woodsy bike paths. Not once did I walk to his office, or anywhere; there is no walking to actually get anywhere in the suburbs, all walking is reserved for laps in enormous indoor malls and designated walking trails (frequented by the suburban villain, the flasher).

The battle continues. I search the internet for Vietnamese pho recipes and online sites that deliver nuac mam, sawgrass and sriracha sauce. Jack savors the shrill of sirens on our street at four in the morning. The girls wear hair bows from Korea, Sam and Wilma celebrate another anniversary and Josh and Jessie make wedding plans.

We will never move.

Dim Sum and Then Some (Thing Horrible)

"If your father was still alive he would send me a gift certificate to Gibsons."

Jack, my born and raised Nebraska husband, was not thrilled with the Sunday night dinner options.

In addition to the delicious sushi cake, there were noodles topped with edamame and peanut sauce (cooked to a near paste like form), and steamed whole wheat vegetable buns.

Even the girls, who generally like everything I offer, were less than enthusiastic when presented with the buns. "What's in that?", from Kate, who rarely checks the contents before diving in. "I'm not sure, could be spinach, it's green," said Mary, picking delicately at her warm bun. "Maybe can I share one with someone?", asked Kate. Mary jumped at this opportunity, "Here! Have part of mine!".

"You know, these noodles would have been so much better with tofu," said the cook.

"Really? Tofu is what you think this needs?", said the Husker.

Culinarily, it was not my best weekend. Saturday night I accidentally poached shrimp in butter and orange juice, resulting in a fibrous glop of crustacean, smelling sweet and tasting overwhelmingly of citrus scented dirty bath water . Not even a warm tortilla and avocado could save us from the pleasingly pink shellfish. Sunday morning I reached for cornmeal but found polenta, creating light, airy and oddly gritty waffles.

Saturday morning we went out, for dim sum, in celebration of Chinese New Year. The scallop and chive dumplings, pork shumai, rice noodle rolls, and lotus leaf sticky rice being by far the best thing offered this weekend, and that was before I whipped up mushy noodles and thin sushi cake for dinner.

"I'm going to send a picture of this to my family, my entire family, to see if anyone I am related to can identify this as dinner".

Oh Jack, maybe they need to get out more. I'd recommend Furama on North Broadway, anywhere but here.

Happy Birthday Jack!

Every year on this date the girls and I celebrate Jack’s birthday. Every year Jack, to the best of his ability, ignores us. He has no qualms about growing older, he embraces his forty'hood with gusto, it’s the actual celebrating that he dislikes.

He’s a fun person. He laughs, smiles, and seems to enjoy his life, but he does not celebrate birthdays. He has, begrudgingly over the years, learned to tolerate holidays. I celebrate Arbor Day. I believe birthdays are the most anticipated day of the year, and even after the celebrant has died, I still remember them. It’s an ideological difference we've been negotiating for over ten years. We've both had to sacrifice, we’re working it out.

As part of my acceptance, I have come to understand certain rules that might make the day more enjoyable for him. Primarily we are not allowed to ask, ever, what he might like for his birthday and we are not to expect overwhelming joy as his response at gift opening. He hails from a “what would you like’ kind of family, which has never suited him well. With his birthday coming less than one month after Christmas, this gift giving kindness has become a seemingly insurmountable burden. His mother once sent a brightly colored balloon bouquet to his bank office which may have been the year he formally announced his retirement from birthdays. Last year she sent a box of homemade cookies; he was genuinely thrilled.

With the arrival of children I warned him, he could no longer continue to be such a complete scrooge on his birthday, children expect more. They've been counting down all week, making presents and planning surprises. They started the day with shrieks of happy birthday and a special celebratory banana snowman shaped muffin. They have warned their teacher, please not too much homework tonight, it’s our dad’s birthday. They plan on being quite busy with all the festivities surrounding this wonderful day. If we were to leave Jack in charge, they would have time to finish their complete math workbook, complete the extra credit report on the Constitutional Convention and read the dictionary.

For their sake the newly minted old man will go out to dinner, eat cake and smile when they sing. He will open gifts, feign excitement and delight in playing with Bob the Talking Toilet Paper Roll Doll, "would you like an interest rate swap?"

And maybe next year, after this kind of wild fun, he might just offer a suggestion as to what he would like for his birthday.

Happy birthday Jack; tomorrow is a new day.

Before birthdays were tortuous.

Lights! Camera! Action!

For most of high school, and a good deal of junior high, my free time was spent in the theatre wing, reading lines, hammering on sets and soaking up the behind the scenes atmosphere so heavy when you are 14 years old. My contributions were generally backstage, sorting out costumes and arranging set plans, but occasionally I was called to the stage, most frequently appearing as the tottering old woman in whatever production was headlining that semester. I became a master at graying my straight brown hair, tying it into a bun and creating, with brown and white pencils, the lines that now decorate my face permanently. With the rest of the cast I gathered just before curtain time, holding hands in a circle, passing love with one squeeze to the next and handing out The Robe, a gift to the crew member deemed most vital to that performance. The minutes before curtain were, for me, the whole of why I was in theatre at all, the anticipation and excitement worth all the long nights and hard work.

When I graduated from college with no clear idea of what I wanted to do, I found a job waiting tables. Friendly but forgetful, I quickly acclimated to the topsy turvy schedule and grew to love my year of living without direction. When I worked in the evening, we arrived around 3:30, an hour and a half before the dinner service began. Once the assigned prep work was done, salads in the cooler, napkins rolled with silverware, we all sat down to a quick meal of whatever was getting old in the walk-in, and a pep talk from the chef on duty that night. The camaraderie of the assembled crew was contagious, knowing that for this to be a successful night we all had to work together. When the first table was sat the show began. My mother, who was not at all pleased with my educated career choice, softened a bit when I likened this time to my high school theatre days, and the excitement of curtain time.

Each year we host a holiday party, a crowded affair, with too many people crammed into our small apartment. I spend weeks planning and preparing, organizing and shopping. I'm up early on party day, cooking, while Jack gathers anything without an assigned space to be put in our bedroom, the designated dump closet. Mary and Kate now pitch in, responsible for the playroom, soon to be completely destroyed by the army of children scheduled to arrive. With an hour left before the first guest arrives, I'm usually showered but not dressed, fumbling around the kitchen in my old bathrobe and slippers, wet hair piled onto the top of my head. The four of us work together on the final preparations: snipping chives on crostini, lighting red candles, hiding puzzles from three year old guests, and chilling beer and juice boxes on the back porch. At 30 minutes I'm sent away, to lose The Robe and hide those pesky lines now appearing daily on my forehead. Minutes before the first buzzer I appear, ready to face the evening, my fellow cast and crew by my side. We share our own love, knowing we have all worked hard to make this evening a success. Even now, almost thirty years later, the show goes on.