The Other Shoe

I am a great believer in cosmic equilibrium.  If something bad happens, there is something good around the corner to balance the badness.  Of course the reverse is true, as well.  I don’t know if I bring this on myself or if there really is some sort of force out there with a very demented sense of irony.  At the moment, I don’t really care; I’m currently stuck in an emotional vortex and I must ride it out until the end result.

In May, my grandfather generously decided to purchase a new flute for me.  I was totally blown away by this, but in the midst of my joy there was a nagging voice in the back of my head, “What will be the counterbalance? What big bad is out there waiting?”

Yesterday it reared its head.  The ultimate irony.  My grandfather’s health is fading; he has grown suddenly weak, relying on a wheelchair.  This morning my uncle found him on his knees where he had fallen, unable to rise.

And the flute? It is still at the Boston manufacturer.  It is finished; it is shipping today or tomorrow.  It should arrive in Arizona within the next couple of weeks.  The question that surrounds my waking day is, “Will it arrive in time?” I desperately want to play it for him, to show him how much his gift means to me, to prove that I am worthy of it.   I want him to know that his gift is not superfluous.  But I must continue to wait, to worry, to wonder, to weep.  And mostly, to scream at the complete and utter feeling of helplessness that has enveloped me.

A Bit of Weirdness

My dad and my mom’s partner, Margaret (who she left my dad for) have the same birthday, which is today.  Mom must love those Capricorns.

 In any case, Happy Birthday to both.

Last minute shopping

I am about to enter one of my nightmares.  It is three days before Christmas and I am heading out to go holiday shopping for my mom….and I have absolutely NO idea what to get her.  I admire my mom a lot: I think she is one of the most courageous and adventurous women I know (two traits I did not inherit…except in regards to recipes; I’ll try cooking anything once).  But she is not a typical woman or mom.  I so envy children who can walk into Bath and Body Works and find The Perfect Gift.  My mom eschews all things lotiony and scented or involving cosmetics.  She does not have pierced ears.  She wears minimal jewelry.  She wears utilitarian, wash and wear clothes(lightweight pants, knit shirts, white socks) that can be stuffed into her backpack for her next adventure.  She packs incredibly light for these adventures; when she went to Antarctica, she ignored the recommendations for bulky long underwear and wore a wetsuit under her clothes.  She likes to read, but her partner is a retired English professor.  They’re forever trying to get me to take books OUT of their house.

So, out into the holiday harassed world I trudge to become one of the multitude searching for an elusive ideal.  I’d settle for something she’d like.

Thanksgiving Leftovers, 2006: The Dinner

The table looked amazing.  It was practically groaning under all of the dishes.  Steam curled out the dishes.  We sat down with anticipation and began to pass dishes.  Without preamble, we tucked in.

Cathy and Jason are too polite to say, but amongst the hosts we’re pretty much in agreement.  Here’s what was great: Cathy’s salad (spinach with apples, celery, and bleu cheese, topped with a light vinaigrette), her quick breads (a molasses and an amazing orange cornbread), the stuffing, squash, potatoes, and asparagus.  My eggplant, after being made on Tuesday, transported one hundred miles and reheated two days letter, were the consistency of shoe leather.  My mom and Margaret both regretfully agreed that the turkey was “the worst I ever made” and “just not very good.” 

In any case, there was certainly more than enough food, and we all pushed back from the table, satiated.  “How are we going to wash all these dishes?” Margaret asked.  We looked at each other.  The plumbing to the kitchen sink was still in pieces; all that was catching the water coming out of the drain was a bucket.

“We could take them out to the garden and hose them off in the bathtub,” my mom suggested.

I looked at her.  “You have a bathtub in the garden?”

“Gopher problem.”

“We could scrape them into the trash and use the sink in your room.”  My mom’s “room” – read office – was formerly an artist’s studio (I counted over twenty windows in it one day), and as such was equipped with a slop sink.

We put this plan in action.  Within five minutes, we realized that we had made a horrible mistake.  By the third plate, the sink began to back up.  “It’s on the same plumbing line!” Evan exclaimed. 

Well, that tore it.  We piled all the dishes into the sink and moved into the living room.

Cathy and Jason brought Cranium, and we settled into play, splitting into two teams.  I’d never played the game, but I rather liked the charades/Pictionary/Trivial Pursuit combo.  We settled in for the evening with some port and pie (on paper plates!).

Roto-rooter was called the next day.  He snaked the drain for 1/2 an hour and could not get it clear.  “You have a broken pipe somewhere,” was the diagnosis.  It took a week to get the pipe pulled, matched, and replaced (and involved ripping the side of the house off).

I’m sure my mom would disagree, since I didn’t have to deal with all the headaches that followed, but I will always remember that evening as one of the best Thanksgivings.  I look upon all the “catastrophic” disasters as proof that, despite everything, the food takes a back seat to the company.

Thanksgiving Leftovers, 2006: The Preparation

I thought I would spend the next week sharing my memories of some Thanksgiving pasts.  There is a purpose to this, one that is hopefully therapeutic for me.  This will be the second Thanksgiving in a row that I’m facing after having lost someone important in my life in the previous year.  So I look back in an effort to move forward.  This first post turned into a monster, so I decided to split it in half.  I present, here, part I.  It is a series of events that feel germane to a badly written sitcom, but I swear they’re true.

Last year was my first holiday season after Mark left me.  We always celebrated our ”anniversary” on November 21st which, of course, meant that it often fell around Thanksgiving.  Realizing that I would likely be feeling depressed and lonely, I actively arranged someplace to be for the day of thanks.  This involved a certain amount of somersaulting because my original plan involved spending it with my mom.  I love my mother dearly, but it can be very difficult to “make plans” with her.  Her household tends to operate on a certain amount of spur of the moment mentality.  I, however, am a planner, and particularly last year, wanted to know, for sure, that I would not be alone that Thursday.  So, I called on my friend and former roommate Cathy.  If my mom was unavailable, I would spend the day with her husband, Jason,  and her.  As it turned out, my mom decided to host the dinner and Cathy and Jason would join us.

My company gives away turkeys to all employees for Thanksgiving.  Or rather, they give certificates that can be exchanged for a turkey.  We stopped being able to buy frozen turkeys directly from a grocery store because they couldn’t accommodate such a large order so close to Thanksgiving.  I was not sad about this – by the time 50 frozen turkeys had spent the day defrosting on our operations department carpet, the entire office smelled like a butcher’s counter.  And, inevitably, someone always forgot to pick up their bird, which involved trying to find space in the company fridge for it.  The exception was the last year we did actual birds – people took more than one and so we ended up short.  That was the last straw and we moved over to certificates the next year. Since I’m a vegetarian, I often don’t take mine, but this year I sent my certificate to my mom.  If I was “forcing” her to host, I might as well help provide the main course.

The three households planned the menu via email.  My mom, who’s not quite a technology virgin, was delighted with the ease of the process.  A couple emails in which we cc’d everyone, and the menu was set and we all knew what we were responsible for.  I was responsible for the veggie main course; Cathy and Jason were bringing a salad and some baked goodies (she is an amazing baker).  I also suggested that they bring some wine as they’re more wine literate than I am, and the last time I looked at the wine rack at my mom’s there was something growing on it.  My mom would provide the rest.

I drove over Wednesday evening with my quinoa stuffed eggplant and found the prep work well under way.  When I expressed my amazement (the stock was done, the bird was brining, the pumpkin pies were finished), my mom replied, “I’m retired now! I didn’t have to work today.”  Of course.

Thanksgiving arrived.  I wandered out to the kitchen to find mounds of celery and onion waiting to be added to the stuffing and the bird wide open ready to be, well, stuffed.  “Did I tell you about the turkey?” my mom asked as I poured a cup of coffee and snagged a chestnut out of the bowl. 

I eyed the bird and took a small sip of coffee.  My heart began to race instantly – my mom is quite fond of strong coffee.  “What about the turkey?”

“Well I went to Safeway, and they didn’t have the brand that the certificate was for.”

Oh god, I thought.  Please tell me she didn’t buy a turkey.  “OK, but the store’s supposed to let you swap out for a different brand if they don’t carry it.”

She began emptying stuffing mixture into two bowls.  “Right.  So I went to Linardi’s and they didn’t have it either.  So I looked through the fresh turkeys and found one for 17.99 pounds and convinced the checker to accept the certificate for it.  After all, it was under 18 pounds.”

I stared at her.  “But, the certificate was only good for frozen turkeys.”

“It doesn’t say anywhere on that piece of paper that it is only good for a frozen turkey.  It says it’s only good for a turkey up to 18 pounds.”  She dropped two sticks of margarine into a pan of turkey stock.

“Wow.”  I snagged another chestnut, amazed yet again at how well my mom is able to negotiate bulldoze wheedle the unsuspecting public.  “Linardi’s is going to be pissed when they only get reimbursed for the cost of a frozen bird.”

She handed me a bowl.  “That’s not my problem.  Here’s some vegetable stock; start mixing your stuffing.”

I must pause here to wax rapturous over my mother’s stuffing.  It is this fabulous mixture of sweet and savory, crunchy and chewy.  It has the basic celery and onion, but she also throws in roasted chestnuts, sauteed mushrooms, and dried cranberries.  Then she douses it with sage, oregano, and thyme.  I can eat the stuff by the plateful!  It is always the first leftover to disappear.

Since becoming a vegetarian 13 years ago, I have spent only a few Thanksgivings with my mom (this has less to do with my eating habits and more to do with our schedules).  She always buys extra stuffing mix and has a veggie stuffing made.  Last year I made it, imitating her to the best of my ability, as she stuffed the bird.  By 10, it was in the oven, which was doing its best to smoke us out of the kitchen.  Cathy and Jason were coming sometime between 2 & 4.  Dinner was on course.  We set ourselves to the tasks of the remaining side dishes.

At two o’clock my step-brother, Evan, arrived.  My mom began to diligently check the turkey.  She changed thermometers and checked again  And again with a third.  My step-mother, Margaret, turned to me.  “When are Cathy and Jason arriving?” she asked. 

“Sometime between two and four – probably closer to four,” I replied as my mom dug through the drawers for another thermometer.

“Two and four?” Margaret exclaimed.

I muttered something about that being the time frame I was given.  Evan sat down at the counter.  “You can make clam dip, Mom.  It’s not Thanksgiving without clam dip.”

As Margaret began to gather the ingredients for the bi-valve concoction her entire family loves, my mom pulled The Joy of Cooking out, checked it, pulled the original edition out, consulted it, and visibly began checking her math.  She looked at the clock and shrugged.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Turkey’s cooking slow,” she said.  “But we should still be in our estimated time.”

At some point, I was put in charge of the mashed potatoes.  I should mention at this point that I live in a fairly modern complex.  Read: my plumbing works and is of this century.  Mom and Margaret live in a funky, old ranch house that is pushing the century mark.  It is falling down about their ears a bit, and minor “repairs” tend to lead to substantial remodels.  The kitchen is really awkward in many ways, particularly for multiple people, and for cooking large meals.  As an added bonus, it is often the warmest room in a house that averages 63 degrees, so people are always congregating in it.

So, back to the potatoes.  I grabbed the vegetable peeler, and without question began peeling the potatoes into the sink.  When I finished, I whisked them down the garbage disposal and turned to the next task.

Within 20 minutes, the opposite side of the sink began to back up.  I didn’t think too much of this; I ran the garbage disposal for a few more minutes, assuming it would grind up whatever was causing the back up.  I was wrong.  Not only did it not grind up the clog, it increased the water level on the clogged side.  “Um, guys,” I said.  “We seem to have a bit of a problem.”

Margaret looked over my shoulder.  “What did you do?” she asked.

“I peeled potatoes.”

“Into the sink?!”

“Yes, into the sink.  I do it all the time at home.” 

Evan left the kitchen, returning with a plunger.  “This should clear it.”  He plunged.  He reached into the disposal (and came up empty).  He plunged some more.  “Hmmm,” he muttered and stuck his head under the sink (my mom, due to the incredibly awkward set up of the kitchen has been trapped in the pantry with the oven since I first noticed the clog).  Evan got up and left again (my mom took the opportunity to escape the pantry), returning with his tools and a plumber’s snake.  He undid the trap (also empty) and began to run the snake through the drain.  Several times.  When he tried to put the trap back together two problems emerged.  The first was that the washer snapped; the second was that the pipe into the wall had been cross-threaded, and he could not get it to seal.  Oh, and the sink was still clogged.  Realizing that nothing was going to get fixed that day, he stuck a bucket under the drain.  It was now four.  My mom declared victory on the turkey and pulled it out of the oven.  “Where are your friends?” Evan asked. 

At that point I placed a phone call.    I got her voice-mail, which I took to be a good sign.  “I think they’re on their way,” I announced.  Meanwhile, Mom had four meat thermometers in the turkey and was taking comparative readings.  She sighed.  “I don’t know.  It says it’s done.  It just took really long.”  We began to put everything that needed to be heated into the now empty oven, and quickly ran out of room.  With at least four more side dishes the warm, we were faced with a logistical problem.  Fortunately, there were two other ovens on the property: one in Evan’s apartment, and one in the guest house they rented to a retired math teacher (he was elsewhere).  We decided to divide and conquer.  Within five minutes, all three ovens were filled to capacity.

Margaret pulled a third cookbook out and consulted it.  “Big birds always take a while,” she said sagely.  Mom glared at her.

At that point the doorbell rang.  Saved by the bell.  I threw open the door.  “Hi! Traffic?”

Jason looked taken aback.  Cathy said, “Well, not exactly.” 

“Oh well, you’re here now.  Ignore the voice-mail I left you.  The turkey’s out.”  I didn’t quite drag them into the kitchen.  “They’re here!” I announced.  If you’re reading this and thinking, She’s a might bit twitchy, well, you’d be right.  Extended periods of exposure to the “Mom and Margaret” dynamic cause that reaction in me. In many instances it’s unfair, but such is life.

Introductions were made, Jason was given a tour of the house (and had clam dip forced on him), wine was poured as we waited for the remaining dishes to reheat.  After such an eventful morning, our dinner appeared to be off to a good start.  Dishes began to appear on the table from the various ovens.  The turkey was destuffed and the slicing began. 

“I think we are ready to eat.”

All Saint’s Day

I am not a religious person, nor am I particularly a spiritual person.  My dad stated that today was All Saint’s Day, and since he is much more likely to know something like that, I believe him.  So, since this is the day that we remember the people who have passed away in the last year, I am writing this post in honor of my grandmother, who passed away on January 19.

My last memory of you is your tiny body sitting in a rocking chair with a dazed look on your face.  Everyone else, who saw that look on a daily basis, appeared to have gotten used to it.  I had just seen it for the first time two days before, and still could not accustom myself to it.  We could say it was due to the massive doses of pain medications that you were being given, or you were just confused as to what was happening to your body.  After 91 years of battling many things: little money, breast cancer, the loss of a child, an insidious cancer had taken control and made its presence known on your favorite holiday: Christmas.

You did not believe that I was there.  I had moved up my expected visit by three weeks after a conversation with my dad.  But the damage had been done.  I walked into your bedroom straight off the plane.  You grabbed my hand and kept saying “God be with you until we meet again.”  I could do nothing but weep.  Your beautiful face did not light up at the sight of your distant granddaughter; it was if you were grabbing onto my hand to stay into the land of the living, or perhaps believing I was a spirit, that I would lead you away from the confusion, the pain, the indiginity into death.  My stepmother walked into the room, and the fog lifted.  Your face lit up.  “I’m seeing false people,” you told her.  “You’ll tell them to go away.”  My heart contracted at the words, and I wept all the harder. 

Everyone who met you had the same initial impression: full of energy, full of life, sweet.  You remembered friends of mine that I had introduced you to once, and you wanted to hear how they were doing.  As a teenager, I would drop in unexpectedly with whoever I was hanging out with that day and you would stop whatever you were doing to offer us refreshments and sit and talk with us.  You opened your heart and home without question.

I still remember the taste of your vegetable soup; one I have tried to duplicate with miserable results.  You put oatmeal in your chocolate chip cookies, a concept I found bizarre as a child, but I now love.  Your apple pie and date bread, which only made their appearance a couple times a year, were welcome treats.

You taught me how to sew.  First you paid for sewing lessons; then we spent a summer assembling a dress.  I learned more from you than the teacher you paid.  It is a skill that I abandoned, but now have developed.  I now have about four sewing projects in process.

You loved music.  We must have music in our blood: both of your existing children play instruments, as do their children.  You had members of your immediate family who played instruments, though you were never taught, the penalty of being a younger child in a large family during the Depression.  I was twelve when you bought your first organ and started to teach yourself to play.  By the time I left for college, I was giving you my piano books and your husband had refinished an upright piano for you.  You still preferred me to play it, though.  You kept saying you didn’t have enough time to practice.  You came to all of my recitals.

Christmas was your favorite holiday.  You would decorate the tree and house, but your favorite thing was setting up the village under the tree, complete with ice skating rink and a huge model of a German castle.  Nothing matched, and the scale was totally off from one end of the village to the other, but it was beautiful, and you loved it.  It was the last thing you did before taking to your bed, never to leave that room again.

So, we come back to that long, sad, weekend.  My last day there, my dad and I did something we have always done for you: we played duets.  Suddenly, you were there.  You applauded, you commented.  We played and played until the heat of the room and our tears prevented us from continuing.  It was the only time I knew that you actually believed that I was there; that I wasn’t some drug-induced hallucination.  It allowed me to say good-bye to you; to tell you that I loved you.  I forgot to say thank you.

You died six days later.

So, on this Sunday, I remember you.  And I wish that you were still here.