Thoughts on another rainy day

• We're having split pea soup for supper. I've never made split pea soup before. I'm not entirely sure I've ever consumed split pea soup before. My only association with it is the split pea fog from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. It sounds like rainy day food to me. We're using a recipe from Let's Stay In, which suggests pairing the soup with toasted, buttered raisin bread and cheddar cheese. (?) Apparently it's a Scandinavian thing. I know better than to doubt Ashley, so the raisin bread is out and ready for toasting. It's just weird enough that the kids will probably love it.
• Yesterday was a puzzle day. I did a T-Rex floor puzzle with Felix and it was the most exciting thing ever. He jumped all around the floor with excitement, practicing his new, most favorite word, "maybe." As in, "Mebeeeeee, dis piece go...wight...HERE!" And, no matter if it did or not, he'd jump to a new place and shout, "mebeeeeee, dis piece go...wight...HERE!!!!" Each piece's placement was met with utter joy, "Dere it go! We did it!" I also did the same T-Rex puzzle later in the day with Owen, as well as our 100 piece solar system puzzle. He took great delight in waiting for nighttime to watch it glow in the dark. It was pretty cool. My dad loves doing puzzles and I have fond memories of Christmas vacations with a big 1,500 landscape. It was a cozy way to spend time together off and on throughout the school break.
• I've just started Dave Itzkoff's biography on Robin Williams and it's fascinating. I find Itzkoff's starting perceptions of Williams similar to my own, which makes his analysis and opinions (when he deviates from fact) easy to follow. I'm reminded, as I am every time I read of aspiring artists, of the struggle and absolute devotion to craft necessary to rise above the poverty and rejection. Unfortunately, in Robin's case there was also a lot of cocaine throughout that struggle...it's challenging to read a book that you know will end unsatisfactorily. (It also makes me want to rewatch Hook and Good Will Hunting.)
• James is doing fantastic work with his Saxon math this year. I'm watching him work through a comprehensive review of line segments, thermometer readings, number patterns, word problems, basic geometry, dollars and cents, addition, subtraction, and multiplication. He's fallen in love with math this year, which is a bit surprising considering his natural penchant for words and language. I love it!
• Holiday baking will be here before you know it. Chill your cookie dough to mature the flavors and prevent excessive spreading. If the finished cookies are too puffy for your liking after baking, give them a solid rap or two on a hard surface immediately after removing from oven. You'll get those beautiful cracks on the surface while avoiding a pancake situation.

:)

Thoughts on a rainy day

• Rainy days are perfect when you can stay at home, read books, simmer soup, and drink coffee. Today we had company, doctors appointments, piano lessons, and work meetings. It is a very long, wet day. 
• I've read over 60 books this year and it's not even November yet. I was internally feeling pretty proud of this accomplishment and then the other night Roy mentioned, "Hey, guess what? I'm closing in on reading 150 books this year!" #whatever
• Owen is reading a Clifford book next to me and he looks like he's about to burst into tears. I know of no Clifford story tragic enough to induce such emotion. (I just checked. It was called "Clifford and the Grouchy Neighbors." I suppose an extrovert could find that distressing.)
• I've been put on a running sabbatical by my doctor. I've had mild hip pain since the summer that's progressed into round-the-clock aching. Especially annoying in bed. I'm on week two of three and today I walked on the treadmill and didn't feel my hips pop with every step. Progress! I miss running a lot--I miss the endorphins and excuse to indulge in mindless entertainment and actually feeling WARM.
• Last week we had a ham. I've never bought a real ham before. This was an 8 lb sucker (smallest I could find) and I've eaten enough ham since Friday to last a lifetime. The recipe included a mustard mornay sauce that is divine. The past two mornings we've had thick slices of toasted bakery bread topped with ham, eggs, and mornay. Sick as I am of ham, that is one tasty breakfast. (Did I mention that I've missed running?) 
• Our church, in light of the recent resignation of our pastoral team, has been on FIRE lately with guest speakers. It's like a best-of-Free-Methodism masterclass. I've been refreshed and am even journeying down the path to restoration. (Something I wouldn't have guessed if you had asked me two months ago.) It's been a real treat to plan services knowing that the Word of God will be presented with such wisdom, experience, and humility.
• Simone Biles is probably not human. It's so hard to describe to anyone (and I'm aware that it's probably embarrassing for me to try because next to zero people care) how superior her gymnastics is to any other. You can watch her routines and it's like, "Wow!" But I dare you to sit down and watch a 2 hour gymnastics meet, full of dozens of other elite, world-class athletes, and fit her routines into that context. "Wow!" turns into "... ... ..." There are no words. (And, quite honestly, I get tired hearing the announcers try to put it into words. So watch that two hour meet with the volume off.)

Time to get the babe up so I can pack up the boys and splash our way over to some very wet, cold piano lessons. 

Memories of Grandma

A year ago I was in the midst of making a handful of unexpected journeys down to southern PA to be with my family. I still regret not being able to make it 16 hours sooner to say goodbye to my paternal grandmother before she passed away from cancer. I'm surprised how much I've thought of her this month, without anyone reminding me of her passing anniversary.

I thought of her when I bit into a gloriously ripe pear last week. I lived with Grandma and Grandpa one summer while I was in college. I worked for them at their lawn and garden store that year and learned a lot about horse feed, mulch, and invoices. It wasn't exactly the type of work I loved, but I sure did love being the only grandchild hanging out with Grandma and Grandpa. Their store ownership prevented most opportunities for weekend visits and overnight stays when I was little, so I delighted in having them all to myself. Grandma packed me the most ridiculous lunches each day for work. There would be a meaty sandwich, fresh veggies, a bag of chips or pretzels, a giant-sized Little Debbie's oatmeal creme cookie, a soda, and a pear. The pear was the best part. In my family we always bought the 5 lb bulk bag of apples or pears, so there wasn't a whole lot of choice about individual selection. Grandma hand-picked her fruit from the displays, and the difference was extraordinary. That single bite of pear last week brought back the smell of the store, the stacks of paperwork, the oily, grungy tools in the repair queue, the late-night movies I watched on my laptop in their house at night. It was a very special summer. 

I think of Grandma when I pick up a handful of kale and squeeze it with a pinch of salt. I never, ever ate kale before Grandma. She got me to eat a lot of weird things because we all trusted the magic she made in the kitchen. I remember one particularly eyebrow-raising concoction of canned pears, frozen blueberries, and mayonnaise. It was extraordinary, but I'll never attempt a replication. I watched Grandma massage that bunch of kale, explaining how the squeezing breaks down the toughness and makes it delicious. 

I remember as a tyke thinking I was drowning in a swimming pool after getting in over my head. A strong hand plucked me out of the water and decisively plunked me down on the concrete. I've never felt Grandma move faster than she did that summer day in the pool, and I'm very grateful for her lightning-fast reflexes.

I think of Grandma when I pour milk on cereal, particularly rice krispies and shredded wheat, both of which were staples in her farmhouse kitchen. I think of her when I eat those little soft butter mints, remembering a leisurely afternoon around her table molding mints for an upcoming wedding. Whenever I see a particularly grand sycamore, I remember the one at the end of their driveway, with a perfect handhold just over the first branch that made it climbable. 

I remember trying to climb that sycamore after burning three of the fingers of my right hand attempting to take something out of her oven. I didn't realize there were hot coils at the top of the oven and blistered myself as badly as I ever have.

I think of Grandma when the alto section in my church choir sings something particularly exposed. Music was very important to her--she sang in her choir and they often had sacred or classical music streaming from their Magnavox boombox. Grandma didn't give praise often, so I'll never forget the time she snuck quietly into the church sanctuary in which I was practicing piano. When I finished she said quietly, "that was incredible. Please don't stop." A compliment from Mozart couldn't mean as much.

When our firstborn arrived, Grandma heard his name for the first time. "Oh! A little Jimmy!" (She was informed that there was no way we were going to call him Jimmy.) Three years later, baby Owen Nicholas was dubbed "Nicky." (Again, clarification was required.) When Felix arrived two years ago she was rendered utterly speechless and said, "...but...but what are they going to call him?!"

I remember her visits to us in New York after I was married, always emerging from the Chrysler minivan with little gifts--baked goods, Amish bologna, stickers or metal cars for the boys. Grandma always, always had something to share with you. She was brimming with hospitality and generosity.

I remember pulling into the retirement community last October, knowing that I was too late to say goodbye. After hugs to extended family, I slipped away to her bedroom, wanting to see where she had spent her final hours. Grandpa found me there and we cried together. Then I found out that Grandma hadn't left without one final gift. She had planned, years ahead of time, for cremation. However, she mandated the funeral home be required to hold her body until I arrived, just in case I didn't get there in time. The next day I was able to kiss her peaceful forehead one final time, sharing my love and thanks. 

She was quiet and consistent. She was gracious and generous. She was, quite simply, an extraordinary grandma and I'm missing her very much right now.

Pride and Prejudice

It was a dreamy evening. We drove out to Buffalo holding hands, talking about travel and books and football (the real kind, not the imaginary seasons our sons enacted on an hourly basis). We parked on a side street and walked past old, beautiful houses, occasionally crunching one of autumn's first leaves under our feet.

He dropped me off at the front door, where I found two tickets waiting for me at will call. Two tickets! Is there no greater indicator of the love he has for me than to save me an extra seat just so I wouldn't be squished in between strangers? I gripped the tickets with an inner joy as I made my way to the hall entrance.

I was 5 rows from the front. Normally this wouldn't be a great spot to hear a professional symphony orchestra (father back means a better blend), but this was a Cirque show. In other words, gymnastics and classical music. In other, other words, heaven on earth. I had a perfect view of every split, flip, muscle, and the acrobats literally flew over my head from straps and silks suspended from the rafters.

If I stretched my head to the right I could occasionally get a peek of my handsome husband, tucked behind the basses and cellos, dressed in his tux, playing Spanish and Latin American music on his trumpet. He's a hottie. I was so proud sitting there, watching him do his dreams. Also, if I stretched my head to the left I could rest it on the empty seat next to me. (Did I mention how luxurious this was?)

The performance felt as if it were over much faster than the actual two hours. I sat a bit longer after the crowed had dispersed, waiting for Roy to pack up his horns and say goodnight to his colleagues. By the time he found me the hall was empty. We kissed, he grabbed my hand, and we headed towards the musicians exit. "We need to stop by next week's rehearsal schedule real quick on the way out so I can double-check some times," he said.

We approached the exit, only to have an older gentleman with a stern face glance us up and down, then frown at me and say, "You'll have to go through another door." Obviously, I wasn't dressed as a member of the orchestra, but the hall was empty, the stage cleared, and I was holding hands with my husband. I looked at the usher and responded, "I'm with him..." He put his hands out in front of me to prevent me passing by and pointed to the side door. "You can't go that way. You must go through the side door. You can meet him back there. Please, please. We can't have you going that way."

The doors were literally only fifteen feet apart.

Roy walked incredulously back to me, grasped my hand, and we both went through the "lesser" doors to find the rehearsal schedule.

My embarrassment quickly turned to indignation quickly turned to sheer anger. My ear canals were literally pulsing with fury as we exited the hall. Roy muttered some choice words under his breath about "that old codger" and "completely unnecessary power trips."

That old usher really put a damper on our dreamy date night. I don't know if I was more angry about his self-importance or in his rudeness deflating what had been a perfectly lovely evening of music and movement.

"Unfortunately there are a lot of ushers like that in classical music," Roy said.

"Well, they're not doing anything to encourage patronage," I retorted.

Once my ears stopped pounding and I was able to find a little perspective, three thoughts came to my mind:

1. My church has an usher team that's an awful lot like what I experienced on Saturday night. A team of good ol' boys that's been together for decades and hasn't done an awful lot to foster much more than the impression of a very exclusive club. (No women, children, people of color, or individuals younger than 50 allowed. Preferably have attended the church for at least three decades prior to serving.) This needs to change, immediately.

2. It was, perhaps, my first spoonful of what it must be like to be a racial minority. To be "politely" shown to an alternative door. To define and judge based by outer appearance. To be separated by someone you are traveling with because you look unalike in some manner. To those who have to deal with this on a regular basis, I ask your forgiveness, I pray for change, and I am grateful for your long suffering. It wouldn't take a whole lot of discrimination for my burning for revenge to outweigh my logical longing for peace.

3. If it had been a man with Roy, I bet the usher wouldn't have shown him the other door...