Autumn is the favorite season of most. And, ironically, it's not because some of us find it perfectly acceptable to plaster bloody handprints, the shadow of knife-wielding maniacs and emblazon a dripping plea of Help me! in red paint on our windows as Halloween "décor". It's certainly not because our neighbors can trick-or-treat us for a whole month with the most grotesque, gaudy decorations on their lawns, trees and walkways.
It's most people's favorite time of year for far subtler reasons: the cool, crisp weather, the changing leaves, the many harvest festivals and the joy of consuming heartier meals. Halloween is a small part of it, a really fun part as long as it entails black cats, wide-eyed owls, jack-o-lanterns, family costume parties, some self-regulated ghouls and a sprinkling of grinning skeletons. In the Southwest we also get the much more culturally interesting and wonderfully artistic Dia De Los Muertos.
Here in Phoenix we have reason to celebrate when we get that first whiff of fall weather. It usually comes in early October on some delightful breezes, though the native tapestry does not change in any perceptible way. But we hear the whispers of exotic, colorful, cooler climes on that welcome wind. Those breezes quickly shimmy somewhere else, spooked by goblin summer as it comes back to tease us in the middle of the month, stamping our dreams into dust and sending a few of us to therapy...or the northern mountains. But - at last! - by late Halloween we actually stand the chance of being chilly in our sandals and Bermuda shorts.
Except for this Halloween. It's in the 90s right now.
Despite some anger issues tied completely to summer's leftover temps, I love fall in Phoenix. I love it because of our dear friends. These selfless people spread Autumn joy around by hosting parties and entertaining our children, so that Matthew and I can actually talk to adults without that truly terrifying manifestation of the spinning head that parents in large families so often acquire when taking their brood out to crowded places.
Every year my friend Kim hosts a Halloween party, and whole families dress up. Her house is decorated to the ghoulish nines, and we walk in and gasp anew at her knack for weaving the perfect ambience. I could not attempt to describe her decorations, many of which she designed herself. She even has a marvelous painting of a haunted house lit by an eerie moon in her kitchen. Everywhere you turn you find yourself in a Halloween wonderland. It's her favorite holiday, and it shows in the eyes of all the cats, owls, scarecrows and skeletons peering at you from shelves, walls, hutches and tables.
Our children will someday reminisce about attending Mrs. Kim's parties - how she had the best piñatas that wouldn't break until the big kids had their turn; how there was wicked food including deviled eggs with olive spiders, donuts with vampire teeth, and jack o' lanterns throwing up guacamole; how every year as a party game they got to toilet paper their friends instead of neighbors' houses; and what they and their friends wore to the Halloween party. It's all dark, good magic, and someday they'll realize how lucky they were to experience it. Heck, I'm lucky to be included! I get excited every year and cannot wait to find my costume. It's the only time I get to play pretend.
A week later our family's trick-or-treat fortune increases, for tonight another good friend, Dana, will have the gang over to her house for trick-or-treating, and we'll all party and feast again. Her neighborhood is one of those rare conclaves where everyone decorates their house. They don't just decorate, in fact; they make the whole block scream Halloween with elaborate facades! Our massive group will head out to be spooked and wowed again as we wind our way through the candy-seeking crowd along ghoul-infested streets. I'll snag every chocolate treat I spy in my kids' bag, and they will ask to eat a piece every couple houses. The adults will have beer, talk and laugh again, and the young ones will have far too much sugar and terrorize each other, and it will be a very merry Halloween.
And it's all because of friendship. Our dear friends open their houses to us for celebration. I couldn't thank them enough for all the memories they've given my children. That's what now makes this season so wonderful to me.
Showing posts with label fall parties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fall parties. Show all posts
Friday, October 31, 2014
Monday, October 27, 2014
Short and Sweet: The Big Bro
My son Berto made me proud on Saturday. I saw the love of God shining through him several times in his interactions with his younger siblings.
I will tell you that, as oldest siblings are quite likely to do, he often is hard on his younger sisters and brother, telling Ana to speak up, for heavens sake, and then telling all the younger kids to shush up in turns. He tries to parent them, scolding and sometimes boldly remarking that I don't discipline them enough. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms when Ella's teacher praises her for being so caring and responsible, murmuring that she should see how Ella Boo behaves at home. He barks at all of them to stop singing, dancing or watching him play video games. He tells Daniel to stop acting like a baby.
But then there are the moments when I catch him being the ultimate big brother. I pass by the recliner where he is letting Boo snuggle up to him to watch weekend TV. I see him playing football with four-year-old Danny and letting him win. I hear him advise Ana kindly and wisely about school issues.
And on Saturday tears came to my eyes watching my oldest boy's big heart manifest itself in little ways.
Ana and Berto play for their Papa's soccer team. During this past game a boy from the opposing team and Ana collided with each other. Ana bounced to her feet right away, so that she could help the other player up. He ignored her proffered hand, but Berto walked behind his sister and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a momentary thing, but it expressed a good deal: Hey, teammate, glad you're okay; Don't worry about it; Come on, let's kick this game into gear!
We went to our good friend Kim's Halloween party that evening. Danny Sam is shy sometimes. He doesn't even want to stay for bubbles after library story time every week, because he would have to mingle too much, I think. At Kim's party he was too nervous to jump into the games. Berto, instead of running off with his friends to get started, encouraged his little brother to join the mummy wrap.
"C'mon, Daniel," he said, kneeling down and speaking cheerfully but gently. "You can wrap me up! You want to?"
No matter how many times he tried to persuade Danny, he couldn't get him to go. Daniel hugged the porch railing. I told Berto not to worry about it, and Danny called after him uncertainly, "Maybe later, okay Berto?"
When it got dark the huge piñata was hung for the children to admire, covet, and beat the carp out of it. Kim's husband Deane is an expert piñata manipulator. The children were blindfolded and got three swings a piece, but though a couple dozen superheroes, princesses and monsters took a crack at it, it didn't break. There were many swings that didn't connect to the bouncing, colorful ball. However, every time it hemorrhaged some candy, kids rushed in at their own peril while their compatriots were still batting. It was heck for us parents to keep swatting them back to a safe distance. We knew that once it shattered, those little pirates would pile on that grass, shoving each other out of the way, with wild abandon.
So it was no surprise that Danny was too afraid to get in on the candy-snatching mayhem when it showered out, despite the fact that parents were throwing extra treats into the mix from outside the commotion. He came up to Matthew and me, crying and holding out his treat bag.
"Danny, what's wrong?"
"I didn't get any candy," my little red-eyed fellar said, slumping into me.
"That's okay," I assured him as I held him close. "You brother and sisters will share with you!"
His little face was still droopy and dejected. Ella came up and gave him a piece. Two more older friends dropped treats into his hand. Then big bro showed up, the pop star kneeling once more by his little firefighter dude. I watched them as Daniel told Berto that he didn't get any of the candy. Berto listened carefully, said some soothing words, and then surreptitiously threw some candy behind Daniel's back.
"Look, Daniel!" he exclaimed. "There's some!" As Danny scooped it up eagerly, Berto cheered, "And you grabbed it all by yourself!"
That's when my eyes welled up. I looked up at Matthew. His eyes looked moist, too.
"He's such a good big brother," I said, leaning against my man.
We both gazed on our oldest with pride.
I will tell you that, as oldest siblings are quite likely to do, he often is hard on his younger sisters and brother, telling Ana to speak up, for heavens sake, and then telling all the younger kids to shush up in turns. He tries to parent them, scolding and sometimes boldly remarking that I don't discipline them enough. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms when Ella's teacher praises her for being so caring and responsible, murmuring that she should see how Ella Boo behaves at home. He barks at all of them to stop singing, dancing or watching him play video games. He tells Daniel to stop acting like a baby.
But then there are the moments when I catch him being the ultimate big brother. I pass by the recliner where he is letting Boo snuggle up to him to watch weekend TV. I see him playing football with four-year-old Danny and letting him win. I hear him advise Ana kindly and wisely about school issues.
And on Saturday tears came to my eyes watching my oldest boy's big heart manifest itself in little ways.
Ana and Berto play for their Papa's soccer team. During this past game a boy from the opposing team and Ana collided with each other. Ana bounced to her feet right away, so that she could help the other player up. He ignored her proffered hand, but Berto walked behind his sister and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a momentary thing, but it expressed a good deal: Hey, teammate, glad you're okay; Don't worry about it; Come on, let's kick this game into gear!
We went to our good friend Kim's Halloween party that evening. Danny Sam is shy sometimes. He doesn't even want to stay for bubbles after library story time every week, because he would have to mingle too much, I think. At Kim's party he was too nervous to jump into the games. Berto, instead of running off with his friends to get started, encouraged his little brother to join the mummy wrap.
"C'mon, Daniel," he said, kneeling down and speaking cheerfully but gently. "You can wrap me up! You want to?"
No matter how many times he tried to persuade Danny, he couldn't get him to go. Daniel hugged the porch railing. I told Berto not to worry about it, and Danny called after him uncertainly, "Maybe later, okay Berto?"
When it got dark the huge piñata was hung for the children to admire, covet, and beat the carp out of it. Kim's husband Deane is an expert piñata manipulator. The children were blindfolded and got three swings a piece, but though a couple dozen superheroes, princesses and monsters took a crack at it, it didn't break. There were many swings that didn't connect to the bouncing, colorful ball. However, every time it hemorrhaged some candy, kids rushed in at their own peril while their compatriots were still batting. It was heck for us parents to keep swatting them back to a safe distance. We knew that once it shattered, those little pirates would pile on that grass, shoving each other out of the way, with wild abandon.
So it was no surprise that Danny was too afraid to get in on the candy-snatching mayhem when it showered out, despite the fact that parents were throwing extra treats into the mix from outside the commotion. He came up to Matthew and me, crying and holding out his treat bag.
"Danny, what's wrong?"
"I didn't get any candy," my little red-eyed fellar said, slumping into me.
"That's okay," I assured him as I held him close. "You brother and sisters will share with you!"
His little face was still droopy and dejected. Ella came up and gave him a piece. Two more older friends dropped treats into his hand. Then big bro showed up, the pop star kneeling once more by his little firefighter dude. I watched them as Daniel told Berto that he didn't get any of the candy. Berto listened carefully, said some soothing words, and then surreptitiously threw some candy behind Daniel's back.
"Look, Daniel!" he exclaimed. "There's some!" As Danny scooped it up eagerly, Berto cheered, "And you grabbed it all by yourself!"
That's when my eyes welled up. I looked up at Matthew. His eyes looked moist, too.
"He's such a good big brother," I said, leaning against my man.
We both gazed on our oldest with pride.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Halloween and the Ghost of Costumes Past
Ah, it's in the air - the smell of candy corn and melted chocolate and pumpkin pastries! It's 102 outside and there's not a breath of wind, but I can smell Halloween creepin' round the corner, its arms laden with spider rings, glow sticks, and toilet paper.
You know what it is? It's the fact that my kids have already been in school more than a month. It doesn't matter that it'll be hot as blazes here til late October, that autumn does not fall on this desert. From my childhood I have associated going back to school with a change in weather, a change in scenery, and the forthcoming parade of holidays.
My friend Kim throws a huge party every year. You walk into her home, and it is decked floor to ceiling with fantastic Halloween décor. I can't conceive how much effort it takes to get it to that point of spooky perfection, but just passing the threshold of her home is a treat. The kids always let out involuntary oohs and ahs.
Along with the kids, I admire my friend's flair for creating atmosphere, and I always dress up for the festivities. That's part of the fun, a whisper of a different time when adults went to masked balls and wore exotic apparel to escape the ordinary, and the children, for an evening. The mulling over ideas, presenting of options to friends, and the wondering about how much your husband will let you spend on a fling worn for one night (two if you wear it trick-or-treating) is all part and parcel of the excitement.
If I had unlimited funds, I would of course dress up as Elizabeth Bennet or Jane Eyre, elegant period clothing complete with bonnet and ribbons. But I would want to do it right, and my husband would never agree to dress in the top hat and period suit of Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester - though he would look so damn irresistible in them; I would have to speak softly and carry a big stick the whole night to beat back other women, especially if he wore something like Colin Firth's forest green jacket in the movie. So, fantasies aside....I must be a flamenco dancer, if not too dear, or dress as the quintessential 1940s or 1960s woman - any era, really, of the twentieth century. And I must lay a heavy guilt trip on, slyly convince, or plead with Matthew not to go as "a sensitive guy" - something he threatens to do every year by painting a big blue teardrop at the corner of his eye.
In years past I've had a fairly easy time of it. Last year, my eldest boy, Berto, went as Anakin Skywalker, so I was his daughter, Princess Leia:
You know what it is? It's the fact that my kids have already been in school more than a month. It doesn't matter that it'll be hot as blazes here til late October, that autumn does not fall on this desert. From my childhood I have associated going back to school with a change in weather, a change in scenery, and the forthcoming parade of holidays.
My friend Kim throws a huge party every year. You walk into her home, and it is decked floor to ceiling with fantastic Halloween décor. I can't conceive how much effort it takes to get it to that point of spooky perfection, but just passing the threshold of her home is a treat. The kids always let out involuntary oohs and ahs.
Along with the kids, I admire my friend's flair for creating atmosphere, and I always dress up for the festivities. That's part of the fun, a whisper of a different time when adults went to masked balls and wore exotic apparel to escape the ordinary, and the children, for an evening. The mulling over ideas, presenting of options to friends, and the wondering about how much your husband will let you spend on a fling worn for one night (two if you wear it trick-or-treating) is all part and parcel of the excitement.
If I had unlimited funds, I would of course dress up as Elizabeth Bennet or Jane Eyre, elegant period clothing complete with bonnet and ribbons. But I would want to do it right, and my husband would never agree to dress in the top hat and period suit of Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester - though he would look so damn irresistible in them; I would have to speak softly and carry a big stick the whole night to beat back other women, especially if he wore something like Colin Firth's forest green jacket in the movie. So, fantasies aside....I must be a flamenco dancer, if not too dear, or dress as the quintessential 1940s or 1960s woman - any era, really, of the twentieth century. And I must lay a heavy guilt trip on, slyly convince, or plead with Matthew not to go as "a sensitive guy" - something he threatens to do every year by painting a big blue teardrop at the corner of his eye.
In years past I've had a fairly easy time of it. Last year, my eldest boy, Berto, went as Anakin Skywalker, so I was his daughter, Princess Leia:
 |
| Princess Leia |
I decided to be the nerdy version instead of the sexy Leia. Yeah, yeah. Princess Leia didn't wear glasses, and her robe wasn't a satin lingerie robe, but details like that don't matter; I had the ear buns. It was gold, baby.
The year before that I went as a Wild West sheriff. I'm still a little bitter. I found a genuine reproduction badge of the AZ territory Tombstone sheriff's badge, and my husband wouldn't let me get it. It was too "expensive". Ah, well, he obliged me by dressing up as my outlaw. Too bad I cut the neck hole on his poncho too wide. He was an outlaw running from a bad tailor.
 |
| Sheriff and her no. 1 outlaw (photo by Kim) |
My hat was from our honeymoon in Fredericksburg, Texas. The suede semi-duster I got for dirt and pennies and had for years, and the denim vest was borrowed from a friend. I go in for cheap, as you can tell, maintaining the time-honored, non-spoiled-brat tradition of digging through all the junk in your closet to compile something truly jaw-dropping.
Now (rubbing hands together) for this year! What shall I be? What can I convince my Man to wear? What will our friends choose as their persona for a day? The anticipation, like pumpkin-chocolate cake, is to die for.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Punch Bowl is Unbreakable....A Tale Of Consequences
I hosted a party in the fall three years ago. It was an Autumn Potluck for my Mom's Group. A good party-lots of nice food. I made my Cardamom Christmas Wreath Bread which nobody cares for-except me, of course; I think it rocks, so I make it every year. My husband hates it. Of course, he hated the Pumpkin Spice Yeast Bread I made for a friend's Halloween party a couple years ago so much more. I put way too much allspice in that, and if you don't know what that mistake tastes like, you're lucky. I told my friend, the hostess, she could keep the bread, and she said with a very sweet smile, "Oh, no. I couldn't. You take it home with you."
That's when you know something is truly awful-when your good friend won't even keep it just so they can have the satisfaction of throwing it away when you're not looking. Instead, they send it home with you to punish you for its atrocious flavor, and if it happens to be a pumpkin yeast bread reeking of allspice, that punishment is harsh and completely unnecessary.
Anyway, the Autumn Potluck was a success. I even served punch in a punch bowl, and I've always held the belief that you can't get fancier than that. Even if the punch is comprised of orange soda and pink Cool-aide, your guests are bound to say, "You served punch? Well, look at you, Miss Fancy-Pants!" before they all end up sporting frothy coral-colored mustaches.
Besides, this beverage container was my wedding gift punch bowl-you know, the kind from Target, Walmart, etc. that is both a punch bowl and a cake stand. I had put a sticker on it to emphasize its fanciness which said: This is The Fancy Punch Bowl Given Me On My Wedding Day-June 16 of a Year I Shall Not Disclose By Someone I don't Remember. Consider Yourself Lucky, All You Who Drink From It.
Well, the punch bowl survived the party. Then it survived for several days after the party on the bar behind the counter. Then it survived for more than a week in the same exact spot.
Finally, my guilt over its neglect persuaded me to wash it one day as I was doing some pans. I was standing at my sink, and the bar is a few inches above that where a rectangular opening connects my kitchen to the dining room on the other side. I reached out from behind the sink with one hand and tried to lift the bowl from the stand. It wouldn't move. I tried again. Nope, wasn't going to budge, because apparently when you leave residual punch in a bowl for more than a week, all the sugar in the liquid that was slopped over the side makes a very good seal that glues the bowl to the stand and then to the countertop-possibly forever. Unless you take drastic measures.
Those drastic measures involved taking a few seconds to walk out of the kitchen and around the corner in order to carefully pry the punch bowl up with both hands. I could not do this from my current position in front of the sink because I was heavily pregnant at the time and had to turn my stomach aside just to reach one arm toward the punchbowl.
As I hesitated on the brink of a momentous decision pinned on whether or not I was going to be a responsible, circumspect adult or a what the heck! let's see what happens kind of gal, I could almost see the Little Leprechaun in my brain parading, waving flags and cheering me on. See what happens! See what happens! he was chanting. But on the other side of my mind, an old man with a push broom was shaking his head and saying, "Don't do it! This will not be good."
I stretched out my right arm again toward that stubborn bowl even as warning bells began to peal madly in my brain and a voice of reason that sounded strangely like my husband's drew out a long, "Nooooooo-aaaaaaahhhh!"
With brute one-armed strength, I gave that punchbowl a good tug and was rewarded by feeling it give and instantaneously watching it fly up from its stand as if in fury. As it arced in front of the dining room window, I just had time to think, "Ah, It's too heavy. It won't break," before it crashed with magnificent noise and burst into multiple glass daggers that shot up from the detonation point to penetrate every single porous surface in the dining room.
"Oh, shoot! That put holes in Matthew's floor! I thought.
And I was right. But it took me three hours to find those holes. First I had to locate the large dangerous shards lying on all the chairs and tables waiting for defenseless bottoms and, well...miscreant elbows on the tabletop. Next I had to find the sneaky glass splinter jutting out from the side of the glider rocker upon which I sliced my finger forthwith. Then I had to brush multiple pieces from the window ledge, shake them out of the blinds, and pick them out of a table linen. I had to crawl all around the furniture with my enormous belly collecting remnants of my fancy Target wedding day punch bowl.
After picking, plucking, sweeping and then wiping up the arena of damage with dozens of wet paper towels, I found the holes I had put in the laminate floor my husband had worked so diligently to install-long, jagged gouges in the fake wood that would forever taunt me, because, as I now know, a punch bowl/cake stand may not last forever but holes in the floor are for a lifetime.
That's when you know something is truly awful-when your good friend won't even keep it just so they can have the satisfaction of throwing it away when you're not looking. Instead, they send it home with you to punish you for its atrocious flavor, and if it happens to be a pumpkin yeast bread reeking of allspice, that punishment is harsh and completely unnecessary.
Anyway, the Autumn Potluck was a success. I even served punch in a punch bowl, and I've always held the belief that you can't get fancier than that. Even if the punch is comprised of orange soda and pink Cool-aide, your guests are bound to say, "You served punch? Well, look at you, Miss Fancy-Pants!" before they all end up sporting frothy coral-colored mustaches.
Besides, this beverage container was my wedding gift punch bowl-you know, the kind from Target, Walmart, etc. that is both a punch bowl and a cake stand. I had put a sticker on it to emphasize its fanciness which said: This is The Fancy Punch Bowl Given Me On My Wedding Day-June 16 of a Year I Shall Not Disclose By Someone I don't Remember. Consider Yourself Lucky, All You Who Drink From It.
Well, the punch bowl survived the party. Then it survived for several days after the party on the bar behind the counter. Then it survived for more than a week in the same exact spot.
Finally, my guilt over its neglect persuaded me to wash it one day as I was doing some pans. I was standing at my sink, and the bar is a few inches above that where a rectangular opening connects my kitchen to the dining room on the other side. I reached out from behind the sink with one hand and tried to lift the bowl from the stand. It wouldn't move. I tried again. Nope, wasn't going to budge, because apparently when you leave residual punch in a bowl for more than a week, all the sugar in the liquid that was slopped over the side makes a very good seal that glues the bowl to the stand and then to the countertop-possibly forever. Unless you take drastic measures.
Those drastic measures involved taking a few seconds to walk out of the kitchen and around the corner in order to carefully pry the punch bowl up with both hands. I could not do this from my current position in front of the sink because I was heavily pregnant at the time and had to turn my stomach aside just to reach one arm toward the punchbowl.
As I hesitated on the brink of a momentous decision pinned on whether or not I was going to be a responsible, circumspect adult or a what the heck! let's see what happens kind of gal, I could almost see the Little Leprechaun in my brain parading, waving flags and cheering me on. See what happens! See what happens! he was chanting. But on the other side of my mind, an old man with a push broom was shaking his head and saying, "Don't do it! This will not be good."
I stretched out my right arm again toward that stubborn bowl even as warning bells began to peal madly in my brain and a voice of reason that sounded strangely like my husband's drew out a long, "Nooooooo-aaaaaaahhhh!"
With brute one-armed strength, I gave that punchbowl a good tug and was rewarded by feeling it give and instantaneously watching it fly up from its stand as if in fury. As it arced in front of the dining room window, I just had time to think, "Ah, It's too heavy. It won't break," before it crashed with magnificent noise and burst into multiple glass daggers that shot up from the detonation point to penetrate every single porous surface in the dining room.
"Oh, shoot! That put holes in Matthew's floor! I thought.
And I was right. But it took me three hours to find those holes. First I had to locate the large dangerous shards lying on all the chairs and tables waiting for defenseless bottoms and, well...miscreant elbows on the tabletop. Next I had to find the sneaky glass splinter jutting out from the side of the glider rocker upon which I sliced my finger forthwith. Then I had to brush multiple pieces from the window ledge, shake them out of the blinds, and pick them out of a table linen. I had to crawl all around the furniture with my enormous belly collecting remnants of my fancy Target wedding day punch bowl.
After picking, plucking, sweeping and then wiping up the arena of damage with dozens of wet paper towels, I found the holes I had put in the laminate floor my husband had worked so diligently to install-long, jagged gouges in the fake wood that would forever taunt me, because, as I now know, a punch bowl/cake stand may not last forever but holes in the floor are for a lifetime.
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