A Refrigerator's Worth A Thousand Words

NaBloPoMo Writing Prompt for November 12, 2013: 

Name five things inside your refrigerator right now 

and how you feel about them.  

Hmmm…fridge contents are like a peek into a person's inner life, don't you think?  I mean, I don't let just anyone look inside my fridge.  But for the sake of NaBloMoPo, I shall share, selectively, a few things you would see were you in my kitchen right now whilst I pull out Item #1.

Item the first: Red Hook Longhammer Ale.  I feel very, very happy about this particular thing inside my refrigerator.  Relaxed and happy.

Item the second: Buttermilk.  I feel good about the buttermilk too, not because I like buttermilk, but because the only reason I have it is so my 9 year old daughter can make her dark chocolate cake pops from scratch, the recipe for which calls for said buttermilk.  These little morsels are dense and delicious, and I derive great pleasure from doing the bidding of a 9 year old who bakes.

Item the third: Applesauce.  I feel guilty about the applesauce.  Because it's a giant, practically full container and it's been in there for ages, since the kids abruptly decided to quit their apple-saucing binge, the same one that not long ago had me scrambling to keep enough sauced apples in the house to meet demand.  Kids.  Their whims are inexplicable.  I am guessing (although I still haven't found the courage to look) that this particular container of applesauce is sporting lots of pretty shades of mold.

Item the fourth: A very large bag of pepperoni.  I feel daunted by this bag of pepperoni.  It taunts me.  It mocks my ability to think of new ways to serve it.  It ridicules me for not freezing it when someone else (not me) brought its girth and heft into our happy home.  So yes, I feel challenged and daunted by a bag of meat.

Item the fifth: Two netted bags of small, yellow roasting potatoes.  I feel excited about these potatoes.  Here's where you learn that, much like my husband can turn any conversation into a soccer conversation, I can turn any topic into a reason to sing the praises of NPR.  And so:

I love roasted potatoes.  But for the longest time, I have been unable to make them as delicious as the ones I've had other places.  Total mystery.  This past August, while visiting friends in Portland OR, my dear friend Kari served the most scrumptious roasted potatoes ever.  I actually FB messaged her after the visit, to ask how she made them.  The answer?  Bite size chunks of potatoes…olive oil…garlic…salt…pepper…hot oven.  Exactly how I do mine.  So I tried roasting them for longer, since she said she just waits till they turn the right crispiness.  Still not as yummy.  I was flummoxed.

Until one day, when NPR came to my rescue, as she has done so many times before.  (Did you know NPR is a girl?  She is.)

My rescue came this past September in the form of an interview with Mollie Katzen, of Moosewood Cookbook fame, who happened upon the subject of roasting vegetables, and shared this gem: You should never salt your potatoes before you put them in the oven, because the salt draws out the moisture.  Voila!  That was my problem!  I had been salting my potates (not a typo) before roasting them, and creating a moist roasting environment instead of nice dry roasting environment.  After my little chemistry lesson, I went out that same day, bought more potatoes, and tried it that night.  Salted them on the back end instead of the front, and ended up in potato nirvana.  Now, I can make those little bits of heaven whenever I want, in confidence that they will be everything I dream of.

(Many people already know this.  I did not.  I needed NPR to tell me.  And like a BFF, she told me what I needed to hear.)

So yes: excited about the potatoes in my fridge.  And by turns happy, ashamed, and daunted by the other contents.

And no, you may not look in my linen closet.

* * *

A Little Perspective

This is how you know your kids are over-exposed to public radio.

V: "Mom, this dinner would be a lot better if you didn't include the chicken."

pause

V: "With a perspective, I'm Vincenzo Alatorre."

* * *

This probably only makes sense to Bay Area readers.  Trust me, it means I've successfully indoctrinated him. 

* * *

Sharing Something Awesome

I love NPR.

Really, I love everything about it: the news...the reporters...the weekend shows...the information...the entertainment...

Sadly, I harbor deep-seated jealously of people who work at NPR, because I'm sure they have more interesting lives than I do, and I'm pretty sure I could have been that interesting, had I known enough when I was younger to go into journalism or communications or some such field.  I did not.  Instead, in a not-clearly defined trajectory, I went into the baby-making field, and we all know how that turned out.  That turned out five people.

Anyway, back to the issue at hand.  Peter Sagal has written a short piece on the wonderful Ira Glass.  I think everyone should read it, so I am sharing a link to Peter's site.

Here is the link to Peter's "hats off" to Ira Glass.

Since you have just returned after going over there and reading it, I can refer to the This American Life segment on the carnival game guy, and you will know what I'm talking about.  That particular show has long been one of my favorites.  It's not about something extraordinary or life-changing.  It's just the best kind of profile: one that makes us care about the subject and expands our view of the world just a bit.  To know that there are people out there like that carnival game guy makes me feel better about the world.  Perhaps that sounds strange.  Doesn't matter.  Still true.

Thank you to Peter (can I be on your show, please?) and thank you to Ira (can I work for you, please?), for everything you do to contribute to American culture.  You both inspire me.

Currently, that inspiration is working its magic by helping me fold laundry without grumbling too much.  Small, but significant.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 56

 

It's Friday and I'm not at BlogHer '12.  I'm at BlobHer, on my couch.  But I've got a computer and an internet connection, so nothing's going to stop me from Quick Taking!

Please visit our host, visit some of the other posters, and grace them with a comment or two or seven.

~1~

A Ridiculous Take.  I got a new toothbrush today.  I then had an argument with my youngest child, because she was upset that I would not let her have my old one.  Really?

~2~

A Promotional Take.  I really want to see this movie, and I really hope it comes to a theater near me.

Doesn't it look great?  Today, I went on Facebook and posted on the FB walls of two local theaters to encourage them to screen this movie.  DO THE SAME.  Seriously: here's how.

~3~

A Cutie-Pie Take.  One of my daughters asked me the other day for a hug.  Then she said: "Do you ever run out of hugs?  Because I'm going to be needing lots of them."  I assured her that I will never run out, and then I buried my face in her tangly hair and hugged her forever and ever.

This is my lil hugger from a few yeas ago.  Can you stand it?  I cannot stand it.

  

~4~

An Olympic Take.  I feel bad for the swimmers when they are being interviewed by the commentators right after their races, because they are still so out of breath.

~5~

A Shakespearean Take.  My son said today: "To wear stage make-up at my performance tomorrow, right before going to my soccer game: that is the question.  Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the idiots who think stage make-up is stupid, or face them and by opposing end them.  To wear make up on the pitch: that is the question."

Thus are the conflicts of a well-rounded actor-athlete.  :)

~6~

A Dissonance Take: Today is one of our big end-of-summer-camp days, with Shakespeare Camp and Art Camp both concluding with shows.  The good news is, we get to watch our son play Claudius in Hamlet and our daughter play Cordelia in King Lear.  (Note to HM: she is not impersonating your cat.  Or imfelineating.)  The bad news is that our young Picasso will miss his art show, due to a nasty case of strep throat.  That is just wrong and unfair.

Having two competing emotions -- excitement and disappointment -- ricocheting around in my head and heart?  Me no like.

~7~

A Twitterpated Take:  I joined Twitter.  I am unimpressed.

* * *

Thank You Linda Wertheimer!

We have two teen boys.  Well, one teen and one almost teen.  Teen culture is rampant around here, complete with flat brimmed baseball hats (ick), bad music, and hip lingo du jour.

Most of the time, I feel like I'm doing battle against pop culture, trying to show my kids the bigger picture, coaxing them away from questionable influences, keeping them aware of other ways of being in the world.

This morning, NPR helped me out.  Of course, the stories on NPR are interesting and go a long way towards educating my kids about what's going on in the world.  But I had no idea NPR could also actually change their behavior!

Today, during the Sunday Puzzle with Will Shortz, Linda Wertheimer was describing to one of the listener-players what he would get for playing the puzzle game, and she referred to the prizes as "NPR swag."

And from the backseat of the minivan, one of the boys piped up:

"I'm never using the word swag again ever."

NPR: making teen culture uncool for 41 years.

Thanks Linda!

* * *

I Bombed This Quiz...Again

Today's score: 58%!

You'd think I wouldn't enjoy repeated mediocrity. But each week, I take that damn New Yorker news quiz and only once have I scored above a 60%. And really, 60% doesn't even rise to the level of mediocrity. How embarrassing.

The funny thing is, I listen to NPR all the time. I would have thought that illustrious news source would prepare me nicely for a weekly news quiz. I do, after all, have slightly more success with Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, even if I can't get them to pick me to be on their show. I guess all that bickering in the background while I'm trying to listen to the radio is taking its toll on how much I retain of what I hear.

Oh well, I will keep trying. Join me! Take the quiz! Come back and leave a comment and tell me how you do! Brag if you can, join me at the Dunce Table if not.

What a Week: Mostly Osama, and Some Other Stuff

* * *

Good News!

Ah, NPR! You have enriched my life beyond measure. You have expanded my horizons, Neal Conan; you have kindled my intellect, Michele Norris. You, Nina Totenberg, you have demystified the mighty Judicial Branch for me; and Ira Glass, your stories have touched my heart. (And yes, I am a member of local KQED, so do not call me. Peter Sagal, you can call me if you want.)

But Robert Siegel, you have outdone yourself this time. This past Monday on All Things Considered, you answered a prayer.

Here's an excerpt from an interview I heard on ATC between Mr. Siegel and Ralph Keyes, author of Euphemania: Our Love Affair with Euphemisms.

It's well-known that some people who suffer certain kinds of stroke lose their ability to speak, but they don't lose their ability to curse. And this has led linguistic researchers to conclude that swearing comes from a very primitive part of our brain and almost as not language at all.

This is good news, people. This means that my inability to control my use of certain colorful words is not actually my fault. Swearing, apparently, is so far deep into our primal being that it's not even language, and cannot be governed as such.

So basically, I can stop worrying about my cursing! This falls under the purview of my oft-repeated Serenity Prayer. This bit of knowledge falls under "The Wisdom to Know the Difference" umbrella and places swearing in the "Things I Cannot Control" column. Thank you Mr. Siegel, thank you Mr. Keyes, and thank you NPR for being an answer to my prayer and for sanctioning my use of the F-word.

Give yourself a treat and go listen to the story. In addition to that kernel about cursing, there are many delightful anecdotes about language and how we use it–always a fun topic for word geeks like me. Maybe you, too?

* * *

You Know You Are an NPR Family When...

...your 5-year old suddenly asks, after two months of being in school instead of with mom during the daytime hours: "Mom! We never hear Terry Gross talk anymore! Why???"

* * *

Life With Lullah

The other day, my three year old told me that I am "smokin' hot."

Yesterday, I asked her what she wants to be when she grows up, and she said "Hannah Montana."

Today at a restaurant, every time I turned around, she was doing her "Pink Panther" walk, wherein she imitates Steve Martin strutting around New York City.

Tonight on the way home, she shrieked for at least three miles: "Get off this stupid street, you dummy!" We were on the freeway. Apparently, she doesn't like freeways.

I am trying to potty train her. She is ready. She often wakes up in the morning and from her naps dry -- a good sign. She can tell me when she has to pee. She can run around dry, in underwear, for 2, 3, 4 hours. She can sit on the potty when she has to go. But she WILL NOT PEE IN THE POT. Given our busy lives, I have not had time to just sit with her until she goes. Inevitably, she tells me she has to go pee about 30 minutes before we need to be somewhere...and then spends the next 25 minutes messing with me, sitting and not peeing. This makes her giggle with delight. Then we have to leave.

I like to sing along to music in the car; she doesn't like it when I do this. So...when I start to sing, she starts to scream. My own little 3-year old dictator will scream and yell and fling her toddler vitriole at me until I stop. Sometimes she keeps going until I actually turn the music off.

She wants to be held most of the time, too. Except when she's careening around the house like a tasmanian devil, perhaps trying to chip one of her teeth for the third time in her young life. (She has already chipped her two front top teeth, in separate incidents. They are nice and symmetrically chipped: she has a neat little triangle shape right in front of her smile.)

When not careening around, she is either hiding from me so she can eat candy or she is badgering me with "Uppie, uppie, uppie, uppie, uppie!" (Pick me up!) I know she's had it for the day when she says to me: "I wanna sweep in yo' ahms." So sweet. But her timing sucks, because I'm usually making dinner at this point.

She's a pistol. I love her.



And in other news, you must listen to this gem of a story from NPR this morning. Talk about persistence! One wonders where the line between perseverance and insanity is, but there's no arguing with the fact that this lady finally achieved her goal. Good for her.



* * *

Beatles: 1, NPR: 0

I made one of the best decisions of the summer this morning. I turned off NPR and turned on the Beatles. Blasted it really loud on my way to work, sang like a fool, and percussed on my steering wheel.

Self-professed NPR junkie that I am, I realized that all thinking and no singing makes Mommy a very dull mommy indeed.

Need an infusion of energy? Looking for a new perspective on the daily grind?

Take a break from filling your mind with important social, political and cultural content and get your groove on!

Time for a Story?

I listened to an interview today with William Maxwell, the writer and one-time editor for the New Yorker magazine, who was born in 1908 and died in 2000. The interview was aired on the NPR program Fresh Air, hosted by Terry Gross. I have read Maxwell’s book So Long, See You Tomorrow, and after listening to him speak today, I will be reading it again.

Terry Gross asked him what he thought about living through so many changes in the world, having been born in the time of horse and buggy, and seeing things like moon landings, cell phones, and instant messaging come into being. His answer stopped me in my tracks and held me captive for a few moments. He talked about how his “condition,” his place in the world still existed some 40 or 50 years ago. Here is my best attempt at memorizing what he said while driving down I-80 in a fierce rain storm, because I wanted to hold onto the words for as long as I could:

“I like the world I came into as a child. It was a beautiful world..unhurried...it left time for brooding and for thought. It left time for being nice to other people. It left time for making presents instead of buying them. It left time for telling stories.”

What struck me about these words is how much we all still want those things in our lives, and how certain he was that this world leaves no time for them. We still regard careful thought and kindness as important, and we strive to teach our children to practice both. We all like it when our children hand make gifts, when we receive them ourselves, or when we make them for others...they seem – no, they are – more meaningful. And telling stories...well that seems to be what life is about. How sad, then, that from his perspective, we just don’t have time for them anymore.

Last night, as Elizabeth was settling into bed, she asked me to tell her the story about when she was born. “You know mom, that one!” I had no idea what she meant, but her big sister reminded me: “She wants to hear about how Sam forgot her name.”

So I told her:

When you were born, Elizabeth, Samuel was the happiest big brother imaginable. He went around telling everyone about you, and wore a smile bigger than his face. Your birth also coincided with his first few months of Kindergarten. A few days after you arrived, he was at school, and his class was in the Church, practicing for some Mass or other special event. He was standing at the alter with his classmates, when his teacher noticed that he was just sobbing away. She went to him, knelt down next to him, and asked him why he was crying. Between breathless bursts of tears, he managed to tell her: “I...can’t...remember...my...baby...sister’s...name!”

Thankfully, she knew it, first and middle, and was able to help him out. “ELIZABETH ROSE!” He felt better immediately! He was so happy to remember the name of this little person he had just met and about whom he could not stop thinking.

Who cares if the past three and half years have changed their relationship a little bit...to the point where I had to ask him four times this morning to leave her alone, and I have to keep an eye on her so that she doesn’t wreck his stuff just to be sneaky and spiteful?

Point being, I hope I always have time to tell the kids the stories that make up their lives, and I hope they will tell me stories when I am old and gray. I hope that Mr. Maxwell is wrong about the world we live in. And yet, I know that he is at least partly right, and that the world can indeed keep us from the things that really matter if we do not fight the good fight to keep those things alive.

The language of warfare, while violent, is apt. We must fight with everything we have to keep the world from running over us, to know that the world’s values are not the ones that will nourish our hearts and replenish our spirits, to keep this knowledge foremost in our minds, and to make time for thought, kindness, homemade gifts, and stories. What more do we need?

NPR Envy

Every mother has a secret life.

The one she would rather be living on the days when the kids are fighting too much, when there are too many dirty dishes, piles of laundry, diapers to change, problems to solve. In other words, every day. This secret life is the one that looks fabulous, meaningful, and thrilling. Here is mine:

I want to be Linda Wertheimer. Or Michele Norris. Or Nina Totenberg. I want to be a correspondent for National Public Radio. Of course, this fantasy comes partly from an intense desire to do something OTHER than the many tasks I have to do each day. Here are the things that I am sure are not on the job description of an NPR correspondent:

1. Field the following questions: Why is she looking at me? Where is my yo-yo? Can I have ice cream for lunch? Why does he get to do all the fun stuff? Why don’t you let me do anything fun?

2. Spend the majority of your day cooking three meals for ungrateful and frightfully picky eaters; follow up each meal by cleaning up after said ungrateful eaters

3. Troubleshoot all mechanical and emotional breakdowns

4. Willingly allow your body to be used as a jungle gym; do not stop; do it again. And again. And again. (Once, when I was really tired of swinging my daughter around, I told her to stop saying "again." She complied. She switched to: “Once more! Once more! Once more!”)


Here are the things I am certain ARE on the job description of an NPR correspondent:

1. Spend leisurely hours learning about really interesting people and topics

2. Convey your unique brand of confidence, expertise, and humility in fascinating stories you’ve whipped up while listening to classical music and sipping on lattes

3. Travel to exciting places without having to strap anyone into a car seat

***

I listen to NPR all the time. So much so that I can soothe a crying infant by humming the theme song from All Things Considered. You know the theory that babies actually hear in utero? I think it’s true: my babies all seemed mesmerized by the sound of Noah Adams’ voice. I spend a good deal of time with small children, so often, NPR is my only adult interaction, even it’s just between my ears and my radio. In the evening, when I am finally around another adult, my husband hears many a sentence that begins: “I heard on NPR today…”

I’ve gotten pretty good at tuning out the kids so that I can hear just a little bit more of Terry Gross (uh-huh, uh-huh), or Brooke Gladstone, or Steve Inskeep. The children, on the other hand, have begun to groan and say, “not the news!” when I turn the radio on. NPR is my lifeline to the world, my source for news, my place to learn new things. I have grown to trust and admire many of the correspondents; hence, my secret fantasy to actually BE one of them.

But lately, a little bit of jealousy has been creeping in. They’re all so damn wonderful and insightful and fascinating. It’s easy to be all of those things when your brain cells have not been decimated by too much Dr. Suess and too many potty jokes. So really, I can’t decide whether to hate them or dream of being them.

We’ll see. I’m not sure I have time to attend journalism school anyway, what with all the playdates and soccer practices I currently have lined up. But then again, I can’t even get someone from Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me to return my emails and let me be on their show, so maybe I’m just not NPR material.