Family Reunion

We took a trip to Dallas in March, because my brother Nate was coming from England. I had yet to meet his twin baby boys, so I told my husband how strongly I felt about our family spending time with Nate's family, my sister Annie's family and my parents. I wanted Matthew to get to know Natie better, and I wanted my children to finally meet some of their cousins and to get to know cousins whom they had not seen in years.

Any time we travel to see family, I come home and mean to write about it, but then I don't. I feel incapable of writing down these memories well, and so the weeks go by.

Well, that was more than a month ago, and I want to capture a portion of what our reunion meant to me, so I'm letting go of the pressure to be perfect and elegant while reminiscing.

Though we spent practically the whole time in my parents' small apartment - our whole big family packed in, drinking and eating together - very special moments happened.

* I heard Mom telling my sister-in-law Natalie about her childhood, sharing stories of time on her grandmother's farm peeling potatoes and feeding chickens, and Natalie was sitting by my mother's chair, wine glass in hand, listening intently.

* I got to change poopy diapers, rock babies to sleep, and feed them cereal for the first time in years. My brother Nate's twin boys Daniel and Antony were magnetic, sources of pretty much constant joy, entertainment, and challenges. Daniel seemed like the calmer one, but my kids swear that he stole toys and flayed his limbs just to rile his brother. Antony was a passionate and energetic little fellar who made us feel important when he begged for exercise, entertainment or consolation. My children volunteered eagerly to hold their cousins, passing them around with pride, kissing and smelling their heads (fountains of youth, Berto said). My mom soothed her grandbabies to sleep several times with a magic touch.

* My sister Annie spoiled everyone with bagels each morning like a bagel Santa Claus in scrubs, dropping boxes of exotic flavors off before beginning her busy days as an in-home-care nurse. Then most evenings ended with Annie, her husband Keith, Matthew and me sitting on her patio, laughing and sharing stories and exchanging advice.

* My brother Nate played soccer with my husband and kids on the apartment complex's tennis court. Needless to say, there were bloody injuries, and I wasn't allowed to play in my heels though I wanted to, but it was a joy to watch my husband and kids playing a competitive game with my big brother, laughing and talking smack. (Did I mention Nate lives in England? I don't get to see these games just any old year. It was like the World Cup)

* My nephew Andy and my daughter Gabriella hung out for the first time since they were babies, playing video games and eating regular meals on the patio.

* My nephew James, who has autism, sat down with and hugged my son Berto.

* My little golden-haired niece Nina played for the very first time with my own children: giggling, running and crawling on their backs, especially Berto's, and speaking with her absolutely charming British accent that my children tried in vain to imitate. Even simple phrases were special when Nina pronounced them with posh delivery!

* The grownups took turns making big family meals: delectable roast chicken, spicy, satisfying gumbo, spaghetti with meat sauce. My brother Natie was the chef more than anyone, including providing the last breakfast together before my family had to catch our flight. The prawns he sauteed one afternoon are something I won't soon forget.

* My son Berto went golfing with his dad and Uncle Nate. The pride on his face while listening to Matthew and Nate tell of how well he did as a first-time golfer, and his excitement while telling his own stories of the green, warmed my mother's heart. I saw him stow away the scorecard for a souvenir.

* Dad, aka Paca, cheered on his grandchildren as they played polar bear bowling on his computer. I'm not a fan of video games, but I was a fan of the time, guidance and regular encouragement my dad gave to his grandkids as he watched them play, showering accolades on them for guiding a chubby polar bear on an inner tube into pins. It was awesome.

* Dad gave me a few chapters of his new fantasy book to read ( send me more, please!) and discussed ideas for my own book. He also invited me with him to the store, and on the way there we had a conversation about some challenges I've been facing recently. It was a good conversation, and I have a sneaking suspicion Dad invited me to come with him just so we could have it.

* On our last day Dad played tennis with Daniel and Gabriella even though he wasn't feeling well, and the cousins blew bubbles on the court - even Berto - while Annie, Natalie and I talked one last time.

At the Dallas airport waiting for our flight later that afternoon, my oldest daughter Ana and I were bereft. I missed my brother and sisters, Mom, Dad, niece and all my nephews, but I really, really wanted more time with the babies. When we get to see my brother's twin boys again, they will probably be far from babyhood.

So Ana and I wandered around arm in arm, talking about "da Babies" as we called them. Ana said she missed her "fussy Antony". I had no favorites; I just wanted to hold each of them again!

Men can easily get over the absence of babies' company, apparently. Even though Matthew and especially Berto had held them a lot, they seemed to be alright after being torn from their presence. But our hearts were broken.

A couple of women heard Ana and I talking about the twins and caught Ana saying, "Mama, it's time to ask Papa to adopt a baby."

"Get a puppy," one of the women, dressed nicely in business attire, said to us.

"We have one!" I replied, laughing.

Much later my littlest, Daniel, told me he was praying for me to have another baby. He also had been delighted by the company of his baby cousins.

But another little one in our family? "It would be a miracle," I told him.

I know some other Wise Men (and Women)

Happy Three Kings' Day!

Did you know that in Puerto Rico they get this feast day off? It's a national holiday. They know the holidays to celebrate, in my opinion. I wish we Americans would catch on.

I love the Three Kings or Three Wise Men, as you may know them. It's a celebration for Gentiles; Christ is for us, too. I have nutcrackers and wooden statues and even a tapestry depicting them and their journey and gifts. And around this time of year I stuff myself with figs, dates and apricots and make exotic homemade breads spiced with saffron and cardamom for my family and sometimes camel gingerbread cookies, too.

Speaking of important gifts, last year I wished to write a Thanksgiving post and then, when that failed to happen, a New Year's Eve post thanking people for the gifts they gave me in that good old 2015 of yesteryear. Obviously the post never got written, and so here I am in 2016 making a correlation between the gifts of the Magi and the gifts others brought to me when I needed them.

On this theme I must thank my dad for writing a Three Wise Men post. He knows how much I love the Wise Men, how I make a point to mark this holiday each year, fascinated as I am by their journey and their commitment and their grace (though, honestly, I really don't know why I love them so much). I am also enthralled by Dad's journey, and it is a great treasure to me that an important part of it is now written here. But, really, I think he wrote it to cheer me up, a gift! A great gift of the Magi.

My lovely mother

And, Mama, thank you for that long talk on the phone when you let your youngest girl pour out all her fears and insecurities, patiently listened to me and then responded with encouragement and wisdom and love. You pulled me back with all your might from a mental and emotional black hole. I wish I lived closer to you, so that we could have those conversations over coffee or tea in some quaint little shop, but I'm grateful for what you have given me, and your loving and calming presence could touch anyone across thousands of miles.

And, hey, sisters! I haven't forgotten you. Vinca, Annie and Natalie, thank you. Thank you for reaching out to me over the phone and online when you found I was struggling with myself.

Readers, my sister Vinca has a very demanding job, but she still gave her time to me, investing in a long conversation where she gently but firmly corrected some harsh opinions I was harboring in my angst. My sister Annie was working two jobs last year but still made the time to come see me for a weekend and to call late one night - when she had plenty of paperwork that begged for her attention after a grueling day - to stand by me, so to speak, and make sure I was making progress in my OCdemon adventures. Natalie has two twin baby boys, but she contacted me via Facebook from across the pond and seemed to understand just exactly where I was at and how I was floundering as we messaged back and forth. Wow. I love you all immensely.

Big bro Nate in the British Museum

Natie, thanks for being my big brother and for all the great memories I carried back with me from the UK. Boy, I miss you, but that overdue visit was such a gift that I don't feel as far from you as I did before. I cannot wait to meet your sons!

Last but certainly never least, I thank my husband for standing by me throughout...everything, and for allowing me to chase wild horses in my writing, for shipping me off to London on a grand adventure for 10 days and, most importantly, for supporting me all these years at home with our children. It was a great gift to them and to me to have that time.

And thanks, kids, for all that you are.

Even when it drives me bonkers.

Because family, faith and love really are everything, the most powerful and enduring treasures we can enjoy and share.

So, now that I have given thanks at long last, let me conclude by wishing a very Happy Three Kings' Day to all of you reading. If you don't know much about this feast, well eat some chocolate cake! That's always a good plan. And may God bless you this new year.

Letter to Mama

Letters are intimate things. They are also often more informal. It takes the pressure off to allow myself to write letters here to those I love, and then I can more easily embrace the ideas and memories that are sitting on my brain at the moment. No need to make them perfect. Just let them go.

Dear Mama,

A couple weeks ago I was dreading the approach of Christmas - the shopping, the shipping, the "is this fair, is it all even?", and the constant decision-making. I love the idea of Santa Claus, but I laughed a few days ago wondering if I like the jolly old guy so much, because if he would truly just come around, it would take a load off, you know?

But then I perked up. Matthew came home with flowers one day at lunch. I spoke to my good friend Camille on the phone and now have the hope of seeing her family. And, with the magic that happens every year, I began to think about our lives in Tennessee, our Christmases there. Then I began to sing Christmas carols with Ana and to look at holiday decor catalogs, and my world was righted.

Do you know what I was remembering the other day? I was remembering that one cold night when I was eight, nine or ten. We were returning home as a family from shopping, and the car broke down or the bridge was out...or both...and we had to leave the car and walk home in the dark on the country roads, crunching leaves. It felt like an adventure to trek home in the dark. I was skipping in the cold breeze, because I had on a new pair of black booties you and Papa had bought me for school. I loved them. They had the little tabs on the sides, old-fashioned and charming. I still love those kinds of boots.

Later that night I got very sick, remember? And the space heater in my bedroom didn't work. So you pulled me into your room to sleep between you and Papa. All night you were up and down checking my temperature, very high, and making me drink glass after glass of water, bathing me with cool washcloths, then putting me in warm sweaters. It was like torture! But my fever broke. You took good care of me then and so many other times.

And today I suddenly remembered the time we went over to the Andersen's for a simple holiday gathering. (Perhaps it was the usual cup of cocoa I was preparing to drink this morning that brought back the memory.) We didn't have to go over the river and through the woods to get to them - though in those Tennessee boonies neighbors sometimes seemed like the next frontier - but down the lane and across the creek. I still can recall their little farmhouse quite well, perched precariously on that steep hill above the county road, their tractors and cows roaming in the field behind. I still see the narrow steps climbing from the road to their front door, and from there you could turn to look at our home across the creek between barren deciduous trees. As I remember, though, we went around to the back kitchen door to be let in.

Their home was very simply decorated, and the gathering was a quiet one as Mrs. Andersen stirred hot chocolate in a humble saucepan on the stove. I don't remember whether the cookies she served with it were homemade or store bought, only that they weren't as good as yours. I loved getting the hot chocolate, but for me there was no one to talk with as she had two big boys who liked my older sisters far more than they ever noticed me. I probably stayed around that little farm kitchen to listen to your conversation with that gentle woman. She had a very good heart but few and quiet words. Her kitchen was like her, warm and unassuming.

And Mr. Andersen, if possible, was even quieter than his wife. I think he and Dad mostly sat in companionable silence with every now and then a word floating between them.

I wonder now why that is such a persistent Christmas memory? But it is, and a very pleasant one. Perhaps it just breathes simplicity and purity and a time before Pinterest put so much pressure on celebrations. Ha, I say that, and I'm not even on Pinterest!

This letter didn't quite take the turn I thought it would. I thought I would talk about how I'm beginning to see this first year without my children at home as my "lost year", a time of rediscovery like a backpacking trip across Europe after high school. Maybe talk about my writing disappointments and how hard it is to be a woman. Maybe admit that sometimes I kind of want another baby.

But, no. I will say this, though: I miss you, and I do wish we could sit over fancy coffee or simple tea and talk for a long while. The more I grow in this parenting business, the more clearly I see all that you gave and gave up for our family, Mama, and I appreciate it.

And, boy, do I appreciate the memories! Especially now as Thanksgiving approaches, so many scents, sights and sounds remind me of what you did to make our home a home - all while working with Papa in the woods, too - and I am so grateful.

So rest assured that as I bast the turkey, whip together the sweet potato souffle, knead that dough for the Parker House rolls, and roll out the pie pastry, I'll be thinking of you, Mama Darling.

Love,

Hoodoo

Turkey and Swing, Baby!

Train whistles and church bells make me grateful, because they take me away from myself and promise something fresh, bright, something more, grander. This post was originally published in November, 2011. And, yes, I know it's not Thanksgiving yet.

Thank God for Thanksgiving. No gifts to buy for the occasion, and if you're lucky, you have plenty of relatives and friends coming to help prepare the feast. But the biggest thing is this: the holiday is truly about remembering what you have to be thankful for even if you don't have the formal This year I'm thankful for.... series of monologues. Besides, your husband, dad, uncle, etc. will just be grateful when the fancy-schmancy sit down dinner can get to the pie, so he can get back to football. And, yes, you know you'll have eaten the equivalent of two sticks of butter fried in lard, but you convince yourself that all those cranberries, sweet potatoes (with marshmallows!), pumpkin ingredients, and green beans will protect your heart from the sucker punch it just received. Anyhow, they don't call it a feast for nothing, do they? And did I mention there are no gifts to buy?

I know what I'm thankful for, even if I complain more than I humbly acknowledge. I do recall what I am most grateful for often in prayer - Jesus Christ, my husband, our children, and all that we are provided for as a family, even this 1240 sq ft home that I could swear is shrinking as my children grow. But there's usually something quite specific each year for which to be grateful, because it gave me added joy. For me this year it was a dance with my husband.

We got one dance. Fast and short. For all the hours I spent last week begging him to practice with me, dragging him up from his favorite recliner after long weary days at work - making him swing me and twirl me and kick it up all over our laminate flooring - all we got was one swing song, one dance on our night out at his company's holiday party.

But the practice was worth it. When all the kids were in bed, we started bouncing, rock-stepping, and jiving to our swing CDs, grinning at each other even when I tripped in my heels, kicked him in the shin on accident, or got a playful smack on the bottom because I failed to follow. It was our dating years all over again, only there was no heavy self-consciousness, not with ten years and four kids behind us. There was plenty of perspiration, however, and more rhythm to be found together when the dancing wound down.

All week I was locked in anticipation of our Saturday night out when we would actually be performing our steps before an audience of his coworkers. It had been four years since I'd gone to the holiday party, and that year I had really bungled our dance, wrecking one of our more complicated moves called the bicycle; Matthew kept throwing me out and pulling me back in for another attempt until I jerked like a nervous tin man one time too many and urgently shook my head.

This year, after my long absence, I was not going to mess it up. As soon as Jump, Jive and Wail! erupted from the speakers, we trotted out. In my little black Calvin Klein dress and my schnazzy, zip-up high heels, I kept step even when my muscles began to ache and vibrate as Matthew picked up pace, spinning me and throwing me out with dizzying frequency. When I heard a spontaneous cheer burst from the crowd, I relished the attention. I only tripped up once, and Matthew quickly masked my mistake like a gentleman. We came off the dance floor laughing and trying to catch our breath, and I longed for another song to swing too. Sadly, swing dancing is no longer en vogue, and despite our desire to step out again, we were subjected to hip-hop until it was time to pick up the kids.

However brief our time in the lights was, I'm so thankful for a husband who loves to dance. When I told my friends before the party how excited I was by this once in a long while chance to go out dancing with Matthew, one of them said, "My husband doesn't dance" and the next pal sighed, "Mine doesn't either" and then the third finished, "Neither does mine". They all laughed, because the tone of voice had been the same, and I inwardly thanked heaven that my man was a smooth dancer and wasn't afraid to show it (he's better than I am - it's the little bit of Latin in him, I think).

So our dance is the thing of added joy this year. When you go out on a date as seldom as Matthew and I do, you really appreciate the opportunity when it comes around once a year or so, and dancing is a huge bonus to the usual dinner and a movie or lunch at the local brewery. Of course it wouldn't have been possible this year if it weren't for a very dear and trusted friend with whom we left our precious children while enjoying ourselves. She put them to bed and everything, so I am also grateful for her kindness.

And tomorrow as I slave over the turkey, stuffing, sweet potato souffle, rolls, gravy and pies I can remember our dance, be grateful for all the calories I burned practicing for it, and reflect on all those moments amid the chaos of our busy lives that I have to celebrate this year.

I hope all my readers, whether family, friends or strangers, have much to be thankful for. I am thankful for your support in my writing, and I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Two Weddings

My brother-in-law Steve and my sister Annie got married a week apart on Saturdays in July. Both are the second oldest among their siblings. Both had destination weddings. For the happiness of both these family members our little family had been praying.

Steve married his longtime girlfriend Joy on a beach in Hawaii:

 

And my lovely sister Annie married her man under an enormous tree of wedding lore in San Saba, Texas:

 

 

There were no bridesmaids or groomsmen at Steve and Joy's wedding, but they asked all of his nieces to be flower girls. The girls wore Aloha dresses and shell jewelry, gifts from their uncle and new aunt. Jon's oldest daughter, Lily, flung the flower petals down on the ground by fistfuls, scowling as if she had great disdain for the flimsy things, making everyone laugh. The best part of the wedding was the look on Steve's face when he saw his bride walking down that verdant aisle toward the ocean. He cried. My husband said it was the first time he had seen his brother cry, and, I must say, Joy truly did look stunning in her gorgeous gown and white, fragrant lei with flowers pinned in her dark hair.

 

The older nieces jostled each other for the chance to take the bouquet from Aunt Joy. The look on their faces when the bride and groom kissed was comic; they all looked as if they were watching a fairytale ending. 

 

Our Danny Sam was the ring bearer. He kept scratching his sandaled feet during most of the ceremony. He even tried to lean on Uncle Steve to get better reach to his tickly toes during the presider's poignant discourse on the meaning of marriage, slipping off his sandals and attempting to balance. 

That wonderful event was the whole reason our family went to Hawaii this past July. The reception was a blast. The DJ invited all the married couples to take the dance floor, and then he started adding up years for anniversaries; anyone who had been married less than the pronounced time had to exist the floor. Matthew and I were there for a good while, we thought, but his parents stayed much longer, married now for more then 40 years. I felt a lump in my throat watching the few remaining couples; it was a beautiful testimony in a fickle age. When only one couple remained, neighbors of Steve and Joy, the DJ asked them to reveal their secrets to the newly married, and the gentleman replied, "Say, 'Yes, dear.' " It was cliché, but we all laughed. Then the wife added, "Have fun."

 

Matthew was having a good time

Fire dancers performed, making me clutch my chest and suck in my breath the whole time in fear of mishaps and in awe of their maneuvers with spinning rods of flame. It gave whole new meaning to burning your candle at both ends. The youngest one was a mere five years of age but full of bravado.

 

What was more astounding was that my oldest son Berto danced with his little sister Ella. I really wish I had gotten pictures. I would frame them on the wall in a collage as a reminder that those two do indeed love each other. Watching all my daughters and sons dance with their cousins, uncles and grandparents was precious and memorable. For me it was the best part.

 

*******************************

 

I was home but a day from Hawaii before flying out again for my sister's wedding. It was a small gathering of close family and dear friends. We all stayed in a quaint, tidy B&B in San Saba.

 

On the morning of the wedding, my sister Annie, Dad, Mom, and I sat downstairs and put together the bouquets, corsages, and buccaneers for the wedding. What am I saying??? My sister Annie did it all with precision, beautifully with a little help from Mom. I myself was confused by how to properly manipulate the floral tape.

 

As we dressed and primped before the wedding, the ladies had delicious mimosas. (I know, because I had at least two.) We chatted, shared feelings, laughed and cried, and the bride fixed our hair. Yes, she fixed our hair, because none of us had her crazy skills in braiding, curling and pinning.

 

We drove to the Wedding Oak down a dirt road bordered by barbed wire fences and hay fields. It was hot, but a welcome breeze followed us. My sister hid from Keith, her groom, behind her friend's SUV. Our mother was already crying. As I looked at Annie, I cried, too, because she looked so lovely. Her cascading golden hair - which she had fixed herself in intricate curls pinned back by silvery pins - embodied the rays of the bright sun.

 

The flower girl was the daughter of Annie's good friend, Jen, and her wheelchair was ornamented with pretty ribbons. Keith's dad was his best man. I was the Matron of Honor. The father of the bride was also the preacher and celebrant. He walked her down the dirt road as Keith's mother, Jan, played the violin beneath the sweeping branches of the colossal oak, and Keith's brother took pictures. Then Dad gave Annie's arm to her groom and turned to face her.

 

He asked, "Who gives this woman in marriage?"

 

My mother replied, "Her father and I do."

 

It wasn't long after those words that Dad got emotional, and as he struggled to speak, the breeze sighed through the broad leaves above.

 

And someone in a pickup truck idled just up the lane in order not to disrupt the ceremony.

 

What an unusually beautiful place for a wedding, beneath that magnificent oak! Just as Dad prepared to pronounce Keith and Annie husband and wife, the wind picked up dramatically and rushed about us for several moments, rustling the leaves. It was an impressive moment - at least I thought so. It was as if the Holy Spirit said, I make it so.

 

After much picture-taking, during which passing Texans in their trucks cried, "Congratulations!", we all went to the charming Wedding Oak Winery to celebrate. My sister designed the decorations for the reception area herself. Her gorgeous bouquets and hand-stenciled mason jars with tea lights rested atop burlap squares on the tables. She had made pretty little name tags tied on the keepsake wineglasses, and a cake topper of her own creation presided over the cake. The décor was rustic yet artsy, accented as it was by enormous wine barrels. It was completely unique, and I was amazed by what my sis had done - but not too surprised, considering all that she did for my own wedding.  

 

We ate a wonderfully filling meal with delicious wine - I particularly enjoyed the Viognier - and then Dad brought out his guitar and sang the most beautiful wedding song ever meant for a daughter: Where's The Little Girl, a song he wrote many years ago. It's the right of each of his daughters (and granddaughters someday) to hear it on our wedding day, and Annie had it sung to her for the first time. Then she and Dad danced to Landslide (Fleetwood Mac). the perfect choice, before Keith took her into his arms for At Last (Eta James). As I watched I, though missing my own man pretty badly on such a romantic occasion, was so very grateful to witness and experience it all.

 

 

 

 

Happy Virus Reunion

When you have waited years to see your parents, because one thing or another always prevented a reunion, the visit will be cursed in relation to the number of years that have passed since your last meeting.

Three years had passed, so it could have been worse, I suppose.

Because of a more active summer schedule than planned and a gradual decaying of my standards over the years, I didn't get the house all spic-and-span for my parents. It was more like dust-and-blah. I didn't even get around to calling my folks to ask them what they might like to eat and drink while they were here, so my dad called me the day before their flight: "You do remember that Mom and I will be in town tomorrow, right?" I assured him the kids had been counting the days; we couldn't wait!

When Paca and Grandmama (as my children know them) arrived that Monday, our Daniel had a really bad fever that was climbing rapidly higher. That morning he had crawled into bed beside me saying, "Mama, I don't feel well," as he tugged on my hair. When his grandparents walked in whom he hadn't seen since babyhood, he was listless, his eyes flush with fever. We had to monitor him closely, putting him regularly in lukewarm baths throughout the day to bring down the temperature that the medicine wouldn't tame.

On Sunday I had gobbled up a piece of cake from which Daniel had swiped all the frosting, so Tuesday morning I woke up with a grizzly bear in my throat, and then I turned into one. I fussed at my husband when he returned from the store laden with much needed groceries, half of which qualified as "too much fruit" - at least 10 kilos of apples, a thousand blueberries and a ton of grapes I estimated. I complained that, when not eaten in due time, I'm always the one who has to cook up the moldy, bruised, squashy, discolored fruit into something edible. Mom defended my embattled husband, assuring me that she adored fruit and would eat half of it herself - and that very night, too!

Unfortunately, Mama couldn't do that, because I said, "Boo...tag! You're it!", and she began to feel crummy because of contact with a contaminated coworker a couple days earlier. By that afternoon we both deserted Dad, who was starting to get that warm, fuzzy feeling of impending virus warfare in his gut, leaving him with the kids so we could sleep. He played endless rounds of twenty questions with the grandkids, bribing for naps with TV, a sleeping Matthew supporting him from afar in the recliner. That evening as I lay in the chair that Matthew had vacated - feverish, my eyes glazed and that grizzly still gripping my throat - Matthew hinted I should probably be making dinner. The grizzly reared, and Matthew resentfully began to push cube steak around in a pan. I conceded to boil rice in a display of good hostile will.

By Wednesday, Paca, Grandmama and myself were all ill in unison, and the long-awaited reunion had turned into a vulgar virus exchange of Texan and Arizonan germs, for just when we felt we might be getting better, we got sucker-punched by the other state's virus, becoming one, big, germ-mutated family. That day we abandoned the kids to the cruel, mind-sucking, time-warping influence of the TV.

By late afternoon, my dad had gone to bed to pass out in fever-induced delirium. When Mama, finally improved, went to check on him, he asked, "When did you get home from work?!" The next time she went to check on him and take him water, she told me I could say a quick goodnight if I wanted. I walked into the room right after her and said, "Goodnight, Papa." To which salutation I received a snore in response. The virus, the interminable twenty questions or both had done my poor dad in.

That evening Matthew went out to get Analisa her gift from her siblings; her birthday was the very next day. Having already made her cake with Grandmama, I read Little House on the Prairie to my almost 10-year-old, which brought back good memories for my Mom of when Dad had read it to our family in Tennessee. After the kids went to bed, Mama and I had a good, long, emotional conversation - the kind men avoid if they can, usually. Perhaps we felt safe to vent our feelings with Dad zonked out and Matthew running over Phoenix searching for the Frozen DVD.

When Matthew returned he started Ana's birthday banner (that I had completely forgotten), and Mama and I got crayons to help him. The poor man had been so gracious in the face of my orneriness.

Thursday morning we fed our bodies Krispy Kreme donuts in honor of Ana's birthday, thumbing our noses at the proper nutrition necessary to ward off a virus apocalypse, and I made the blue frosting for her sun cake. Then, heaven help us, we somehow roused ourselves to go shopping and out to lunch; Grandmama wanted to buy her girl a stylish hat, and Mama still needed to get her one last birthday book.

The lunch was actually to be in honor of my mother's coming birthday. My beautiful mother announced that if we were to go out for lunch, she was - by Jove! - going to change into something more suitable. My mouth fell open, and I just stared, then looked around at the others for confirmation of my astonishment. My mother had looked gorgeous every moment of every day of their visit in her shiny, spiky heels that drove our Yorkie mad, her elaborate, musical jewelry and her flowing blouses and fitted jackets. What on earth was deemed more suitable than the lovely garments and jewels with which she had already adorned herself, and all while fighting a nasty bug? Already she was far more dressed up than most people would be to meet the president!

But changed she did into an elegant "sun" (sun goddess?) dress. So I got myself up to change my own attire, rounded up the children, and told them all to get out of the pitiful threads they were wearing, for heavens sake, and put on something nice for Grandmama.

After being the crabbiest shopping comrade in the history of mall crusades, I felt a little funny taking my glowing mother to a New York/Jewish diner for her birthday dinner. It's one of the nicest places my husband and I know. Obviously, we should get out more - a lot more. At least they have good cheesecake, and my mama loves cheesecake. As for me, I just had soup and cocoa; I was cold with a renewed onslaught of fever, hugging my Matthew with arms and legs and coughing into the elegant, diaphanous wrap my mama insisted I wear for comfort.

At home Matthew decorated Ana's cake with the bright frosting, those thousand blueberries and some simple whipping cream. We lit the candles on her sun cake and on Grandmama's cheesecake, and we sang to each in turn. Ana looked lovely in her new cowgirl hat that Grandmama had found for her, and my mother - now in her third outfit, one fit for traveling....to meet the Queen of England perhaps - laughed and smiled with the effervescent spirit of a young woman.

Then, feeling the weight of impending separation, Mama and I engaged in the time-honored family tradition of love offerings. I remember my sister Vinca once giving my mother a beautiful antique hat case because my mother said she liked it and asked where she might find one. So Mama gave me the rest of her bottle of perfume, Paris, because it reminded me of Idaho and of my own Grandmama (my mother had worn it at her mother's funeral). She tried to give me a whole stack of gold bangle bracelets which I could not accept. I gave her a Keith Green CD - because it happened to be on in the car, and she remarked how she missed listening to his music - and a fancy beaded wrap that I had worn but once and knew she would appreciate.

My little girls teared up at the airport as they grasped their grandparents' hands. Analisa had cuddled with Grandmama every chance she got, and Ella had followed Paca around like he was a long lost superhero. Berto simply smiled his million-dollar smile, even while knowing in his heart that he had lost his best twenty-questions ally, and Daniel seemed confused, quiet. I, of course, finally broke down, tears squeezing out my puffy, viral eyelids as I hugged my folks twenty times each and pronounced my love for them.

My mother's tears had started before we'd left for the airport and had continued as she held my hand in the car. Matthew and Papa had talked comfortably about sports and work in the front seat. I hated to see my parents leave, but we were brave, maintaining that other time-honored family tradition of waving until we can't see head or tail of each other anymore.

As we pulled away from the terminal curb, Berto said, "Hey isn't that Grandmama still waving?"

"Wave everyone!" I ordered, and we waved vigorously at my Darling Mama who was standing just around a corner in the airport, leaning out.

Once on the freeway, Danny Sam asked, "Are they going out to lunch?"

I glanced at Matthew, and then said to my little boy, "No, baby. Paca and Grandmama are flying home. That was the airport."

After a minute he said tremulously, tears sprouting, "I'm going to miss them."

"Me too, baby. Me too."

Turkey, Pie (term of endearment)

Thanksgiving in June.

Why not? Christmas in July is very popular as a means to sell merchandise, because, astonishingly, people who are much better organized and generally smarter than you or me actually do begin holiday shopping then.

So why not Thanksgiving in June? I walked into my house yesterday evening, and the exotic perfume of cloves and ginger hung in the air and I exclaimed, "It smells like Thanksgiving in here!"

There can be no higher compliment to spring from my lips in praise of food. Thanksgiving is to me the ultimate feast with the ultimate spread (a belief established in childhood thanks to my mother's cooking), a glorious tradition that can make an American's heart thump in supreme gratitude and proud patriotism over their full belly as they watch football.

So when I walked in and smelled the aroma of my daughter's birthday pie - pumpkin, chosen over cake - I felt like Thanksgiving in June.

I had felt that way a week or so earlier, too, when cooking a chicken for my friend. The poultry seasoning, olive oil, onions and butter mingling in the hot oven brought back the ghost of November turkey. The smell just about drove my husband to steal the bird for his own consumption. Of course, my friend might strongly disagree with our praise of that entree after eating it; perhaps it turned out like the turkey I fed her and her family at Easter. That was also a smell-good bird that was as dry as its own bones, and I didn't even make gravy to save it from its poverty of texture.

And in the spirit of disclosure, shh...come closer...those Thanksgiving pies in June I made yesterday had charred pastry, because I forgot to turn down the oven mid-bake.

So maybe there's a reason we American cooks go into indentured service for just one day a year. The bird's unstable, the pies - especially the pastry - unpredictable. Then there's the rolls, the dressing, the sweet potatoes, the gravy and the green bean casserole to worry about, too. That kind of stress should be reserved for the third Thursday in November alone. We've earned our freedom for the rest of the year. I just wish I could manufacture the smell of all that rich, spicy food to permeate my home until the harvest feast comes round again. All guests would enter, breath deeply and exclaim in gratitude, "Ah, it smells like Thanksgiving in here!"

Holiday Tales of Horror: Forgotten Socks and a KitchenAid Mixer

That Christmas was pretty entirely my fault. I can only blame my husband Matthew for one small thing: what he said on the phone call to Albuquerque.

We were going home to Matthew's parents for "the most wonderful time of the year", and he had called to tell them, and they were asking what we wanted for a gift.

"Hillary could use a KitchenAid mixer," said Matthew.

I was stunned. I hit him, and then said loud enough so his folks could hear, "Matthew, don't ask them for that! Your parents should not buy us something like that."

I had been telling Matthew how nice it would be to have one; that is true. I mean, I bake a lot; it's the only kind of cooking I enjoy. Still, I would never ask his parents for such an expensive gift. All the hints I'd been dropping in the cooking aisles at Target had been for Matthew.

"Hillary says you guys shouldn't get that," amended Matthew with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes, and then Matthew said into the phone, "So what do you and Mom want?"

After listening to the reply, Matthew repeated incredulously, "Really? Cookies and socks? C'mon, Dad."

His dad was adamant, but to us it was a joke. Of course I'd bake cookies; no one could keep me from doing that even if they bolted my oven door shut, smashed my mixing bowls, and poured all the flour and powdered sugar in my cupboard out onto my head, but socks as a gift? Surely not.

So we went shopping, looking for some inspiration. In Sears Matthew found a Craftsman grill set and brought it to me excitedly.

"How about this?" he said, Christmas fever in his eyes.

"For who? Your dad?" I was trying to think how to say it best. "Honey, don't you think he has enough tools? Your dad has the money to buy any tools he wants, and even you've told me he has pretty much everything."

Matthew looked at me none too kindly, and I suddenly wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

"I like my set. It's a nice set!"

"I know. I just think..."

"Fine. Never mind. You ruined it," he said, turning away.

"Honey, I'm sorry. Just get it..."

"You ruined it," he replied, stalking off.

We trudged to his Mom's favorite department store next, Matthew silent.

"I don't know what to get her," he said finally after looking over many nice things. "It'd be better to get her a gift card. But I'll get these anyway; she likes these."

So we went to the register to pay for the two pairs of furry soft socks he held in his hand. But we didn't get the gift card. We still needed to work out our budget.

We picked up some nice solid-colored dress socks for his dad, figuring since we'd already begun down that road, maybe we'd just do the socks thing for fun along with whatever else we found for them.

But we didn't find anything else, because time caught up to us amid all our travel preparations, and we headed for Albuquerque two days before Christmas, still talking about what else we should get them.

"Look, your parents eat out a lot now that none of you guys are home, right?" I said. "Why not get them a gift card to a restaurant? Where do they like to eat? There was some Japanese place you used to mention going out to for birthdays and stuff..."

"Maybe," replied Matthew noncommittally. "I'll have to ask them when we get there."

I was beginning to feel uneasy. I kept coming back to that suggestion. Matthew didn't warm up to it and never acted on it liked I hoped he would. I had the mistaken idea that since it was his family the final say should be his. Shoot! Wish I thought more like my sister Vinca.

And somewhere in the middle of the wide open drive to New Mexico, while reading a book, I suddenly realized something that hit another nail into the coffin of our Christmas spirit. For though there were two festive tins full of cookies in the back seat of the car....

"The socks!" I cried, sitting up. "We forgot the socks! They're at the top of the closet."

"We'll ship them," said Matthew.

Over the road noise I thought I heard the dull dismal thudding of disastrous Christmas tidings.

****************************

We got in late that evening, and there were all those presents for our nieces, our Secret Santa brother (Matthew has four brothers), and our own two little ones to unload from the trunk of the car. I carried the cookie tins in and tried to lay them in a prominent spot in the kitchen as if to say, "See, the cookies! We remembered the cookies you wanted." Plus I was proud of them: Cinnamon Chocolate Chip and Cranberry Orange Oatmeal, two of my best recipes (or so I thought).

The next day was Christmas Eve, but there was still time to do something, anything. Unfortunately, by early evening we still had no gift cards, no wrapped presents for his parents - nothing.

I was officially desperate, because they didn't seem to care for the cookies I'd brought either. At this point I must have been so discouraged I was delusional about what constituted good manners, because I spent my Scrooge moments rudely munching my own Christmas cookies that I'd brought as a gift - the only gift we had at the time, mind you - and staring balefully at a half-empty plate of Nestle brand cookies. (Matthew's dad caught me at it. "Going for the cookies again, are we?" he said one evening, as I was digging in the tin, feeling sorry for myself and my poor ostracized sweets. I wanted to shout back, "They're good, dammit!")

"What are we doing?" I said to Matthew urgently in the guest room that evening. "Do you know what we're getting?"

"The socks and cookies," he answered. Damn, he'd given up. "Look, me and Rob are going to Walgreens," he added. I groaned in dismay. "It's our only option now. I'll try to find something."

I wanted to jump into a patch of tangled plants in the backyard and hide until after Christmas when I saw what he brought home.

"Honey, noooo..." I said in real mortification when he held up "his finds".

"It's the best I could do," he answered, chuckling. "And they're funny. They'll laugh; don't worry. Plus, we'll send them something later. Hold on - I have to borrow some wrapping paper from Mom."

No, no, no! It was bad enough that we had resorted to gag gifts for his parents' presents, but we had to borrow their pretty paper to wrap them up? What had I done? I should have bought his parents' gifts a long time ago! There was no even-steven at Christmastime. The woman should do all the shopping, because she'll get all the credit for choices made, good or ill. And some ill choices could be branded in her in-laws’ memories forever.

 ********************************

Everyone gathered at my in-laws' house the next day to eat a fine fattening meal and exchange gifts. All of Matthew's brothers were there, the two sisters-in-law, and our nieces. Our little Berto and Ana were running around, too, while I stood in the formal sitting area where the beautiful full tree with its elegant white lights and coordinated handmade ornaments graced everyone with its presence. Beneath it was an ungodly cascade of wonderfully wrapped presents. The sight of them, instead of soothing my wounded holiday mood, only made me more angst-ridden.

"Wow, that's a lot of gifts," I remarked, climbing up onto an imaginary soapbox to begin my tirade, pounding an imaginary (candy?) cane emphatically for each point made. "Too many gifts. When I was growing up, it wasn't about the presents. It couldn't be. It was the decorating of the tree and Mom's wonderful food that we'd look forward to. Plus, Dad would always play his guitar for us on Christmas Eve and read the Christmas Carol before bed. I'm not a big present person now. It doesn't put me in the holiday mood. Just the opposite; it depresses me to see that many under the tree."

"I think someone broke the rules," was the only reply my mother-in-law made, tight-lipped. (She was referring to the Secret Santa exchange everyone had agreed to that year for the brothers and their significant others.)

My sister-in-law told me frankly that I hadn't really seen anything. She proceeded to tell us then about the extravagant gifts her parents had merrily exchanged that morning.

When I wandered off into the guest room to freshen up before the gift-giving pictures started, Matthew came in and shut the door.

"Hey, you need to be careful what you say," he told me, a seriously reproving look on his face. "You may not like seeing that many presents under the tree, but you need to remember that some of them are for you."

The weight of my own bad behavior settled quietly on my conscience like a subtle but chilly snowfall. I was ashamed and now really did not want to face the inevitable revelations of the gift exchange. But I had to, and I did - after trying weakly to eat some of my words of a moment before.

And so began the blur of torn pretty paper, discarded bows and numerous recited name tags. Our kids got way too many toys, including a Playdoh table, and as Matthew and I watched them accumulate, we wondered how on earth we were going to get them all home in his sporty little sedan. Then, on the suggestion of one of the brothers (no doubt someone who had not bought them mere socks), Matthew's mom and dad began opening their gifts.

And here's where it became evident that none of the brothers had taken their parents' suggestion of cookies and socks as only gifts seriously. There were plenty of socks and cookies, yes, but there were also gourmet food and chocolate and a beautifully handmade centerpiece for their dining room table. And from the youngest son - who didn’t have the benefit of a female’s input at the time - a lovely white sweater for my mother-in-law from her favorite department store, the same store Matthew and I had wandered so futilely in.

Then came our gifts to them, meticulously wrapped in their own quality wrapping paper.

"We forgot your socks," I said feebly as they began to unwrap. "We have them; we just forgot them at home. We'll...we'll send them to you soon..."

I turned away as Matthew's dad pulled out his gift and held it up for all to see. Matthew's eldest brother let out a jolly, full-throated laugh, and I turned back to look once more with despair into the big yellow face of Homer Simpson on a pair of men's boxer shorts.

The underwear was held up for everybody's mutual merriment, and then tactfully returned to its packaging as Matthew's mom removed her present from its box. This time it was the red furry face of Elmo on a pair of oversized slippers that greeted everyone and elicited more snickering from the brothers.

Heaven help me! They thanked us without one look or word of reproof, but what could I say? Oh, you’re welcome. Agonized for weeks over your gifts and presto! Stumbled on these Christmas Eve! Sure hope you get some use out of them. (Oh, and here’s the gift receipt - you can return them, if you like, for a fat 10 bucks to spend on anything you want!)

Matthew and I afterward had to apply ourselves to unveiling the gift from his parents that someone had lugged to our feet. It was quite large. Heavy, too, and I must have known what I would find inside. Nevertheless, when I first really saw the words printed on the box and the beautiful picture accompanying them, I felt like the child who has asked Santa for an impossible gift, and then wakes Christmas morning to see it beneath the tree. It was the most shocking Christmas gift anyone had ever given me: a KitchenAid mixer. They honest to goodness, really got us a KitchenAid mixer! I began babbling incoherently and weeping convulsively, and everyone laughed again as I accosted my reserved in-laws with my wet face and broken words of gratitude while stumbling toward them for a hug.

      ********************************

December 26th we prepared to drive home from that holiday visit with a car full of stuff, the mixer carefully packed in the trunk. None of us had room to move in the car, held hostage by the gifts, luggage, the lunch cooler and even some bagged dirty laundry crammed down by my feet in the front seat. Matthew's mom giggled at the sight of our small vehicle stuffed full as if it were Santa's second sleigh. She smiled and waved as we drove away…fuzzy Elmo slippers on her feet.



Afterword: We did indeed ship the socks, along with an old iron we found at an antique shop (his parents collect them), but, well..some Christmases must go down in infamy, so we can appreciate the merry years all the more. And, really, that year wouldn't have been so terrible if I hadn't taken each and every opportunity to dig myself into a deeper holiday "Bah, Humbug!" hole. The best we all can do is hope that, at least to those who love us, it's not really about the presents. Nevertheless, I can personally attest that as an unexpected gift, a KitchenAid mixer rocks.

Mow down your sadness, take pleasure in growing things

I was supposed to be somewhere else on Saturday, or, rather, on the way to somewhere else. With my four kids and my handsome man, I was meant to be driving north through Arizona toward Nevada. On Sunday, we were to meet family in Idaho - a whole lot of family including my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles on both side, a slew of cousins, my beautiful sister's family, and my brother Nate and his wife Natalie who would be there from England.

Instead on Saturday I was home thinking about all the family in Idaho. Plans had changed for reasons we could not have anticipated, and we would not be joining my family for this reunion. Though I understood that it was not best for our family to travel, I was sad and restless. I tried to keep busy, My man and I hatched a last minute plan to switch our kids' rooms around. Unfortunately, that whole project only messed up the house and unsettled me more. From that project I leapt into laundry and picking up, vacuuming and sweeping, hauling out trash and recycling, but eventually I had to give vent to my feelings in words. Noises of discontent I had already spread around our home like wicked fertilizer set to increase unhappy feelings. But I wanted the harvest to be clear.

"I hate this day!" I blurted out.

Then I cried.

I know that people used to head west in America a hundred plus years ago, and they would never see family again. That story has played out all over the world all throughout time when families have migrated. If you got news about how loved ones' lives were going, you thanked God for that small comfort, I suppose. But nowadays, if you get along with your family, you expect to see them at regular intervals, and Facebook doesn't count.

There were many things I wanted from this vacation. I wanted to introduce my Ella Belle to my grandparents, because she is the only one of my children they have yet to meet. I wanted to see my kids run around like little rapscallions with my sister Vinca's children, wanted them to experience camping together. I wished to talk with my brother Nate, because I see him now so little I feel that England has a larger claim to him than I have, and I can't remember the last time we had a long conversation about our lives. I hoped to spend plenty of time with my parents. I wanted to laugh with my relatives and eat good food together. And I yearned to raid a storage unit in Boise where tapes of my Dad's music repose in dust and dark, to snatch those tapes and gloat over my victory in salvaging them.

But the practical details of life sometimes crowd out the hopes or, if we're lucky, replace them with new ones.

I found an opportunity to make peace with my disappointment that evening. I concentrated on one of those practical little details of life. I got into holey jeans and tight, sundried sneakers that had been left on the patio too long, donned my sunglasses, and went out my back door to mow the lawn.

And that's when my sadness and I settled things. We mowed that grass together. It was work, but all things are better when you can see the green world. Better yet when you can smell, see and touch it. We began awkwardly but soon found our rhythm - pacing to and fro, backing up over stubborn clumps of vegetation, and chasing over small lowlands of dirt and patchy places more populated by pebbles than Bermuda grass. We squinted at the lawn to look for strips we'd neglected while the sun shone straight into our pupils from the west. And we smelt the sweet smell of freshly cut grass with each new swath of shortened blades. That smell was like balm, the incense for my meditation with disappointed hope.

When my job was done, not too exquisite but fine, I brought out my toddler son to walk on his little bare feet through the lawn with me, pointing out what Mama had accomplished.

Then we took a picture of our sumac tree's beautiful branches struggling beneath the August sun, and we went to inspect my pots of mini roses that are among the elite few flowers that I have succeeded in keeping alive and blooming.   My sadness didn't leave me as I roamed about my yard. It didn't fall away to nestle in the fluffy piles of grass clippings, content to decompose and grow into something new. But it did settle down and find peace, no longer struggling against reality. And that's a blessing.

Pie Pastry - Bah! (anniversary repost)

I'm taking this opportunity to say that these pies, the ones in this story that caused me such grief, turned out to be some of the best Thanksgiving pies I ever made.

The past two days I've been in a hot place with pie pastry...and I don't mean the kitchen.

Yesterday it was bad, very bad. Daniel, my baby, was crying from the playpen and I was wrestling with the devil dough on the counter, trying for the love of heaven to get it to roll out smoothly. Finally, as Daniel continued to fuss ever more loudly, and the cold pastry cracked and split beneath my frustrated hands, I sang out maniacally for my husband to, "COME HOME! Just...COME...home! Get yourself HOME...RIGHT NOOOOW!"

The kids were outside, and they came to the door, "Where's Papa? Is he home?" Then they saw my wild eyes, the pastry stuck to the rolling pin, and the flour monsoon in the kitchen and retreated, giggling and keeping a good distance.

By the time Matthew got home, it was all over. The pies, for better or for worse, were in the oven. And they weren't even the Thanksgiving pies. They were my test dummies for the real pies.

I was trying this new pastry recipe that's called Foolproof Pie Pastry. I wanted to compare it with my usual nightmare butter dough - that demon dough that tastes like heaven but gives you hell to roll it out. Well, this foolproof recipe called for part butter/part shortening and, of all things, vodka! You use the vodka in place of part of the water - makes the dough moist so you can smooth it out into a perfect geometric circle, but then the alcohol evaporates in the oven and voila! Flaky yet tender pie dough.

Well, that recipe ain't foolproof, and I'm the fool that proved it.

Because as I was rolling it out, I was still muttering at it and insulting it and threatening all kinds of demises for it that didn't involve a sweet filling and a nice warm visit to the oven. Yes, yes...it was technically easier than the butter pastry, but the dang dough still flaked and chipped, cracked and ripped. Stupid thing!

In light of the foolproof recipe defeat, I began looking for excuses: It's this dang desert climate - too dry! I said. I don't have a food processor like all my friends! I whined. My kitchen's too small! I cried.

But then I thought I knew the problem: I hadn't cut the butter small enough with the pastry cutter. I'd rectify it, and the dough for my pies would be perfect. Just perfect, I vowed.

Today was another day. I combined the ingredients, cut the butter just so, and tried to flatten them gently into the perfect "four-inch diameter" discs the recipe calls for before I placed them in the fridge to cool. An hour or so later I drew them out, and I knew with my first glance the battle would be the same as the day before. And if I wasn't careful, this time the pastry would win.

The mumblings began anew as I blanketed the dough with parchment paper, caressed the dough with floured fingers, and did my best to placate the dough with the careful push-push of the rolling pin. But, no - NO! The stupid thing couldn't be reasoned with, and I had to take it and literally plop it off the parchment into its pie pan, shoving tattered bits and pieces into the holes that mocked me. I didn't want to overwork it. Heaven help me, I know the bitter revenge of overworked dough.

Thank God Matthew was home today. Still the kids tried to bug me during the process, and many times I cried out in desperation, "Don't come in here! Don't talk to me! Can't you see I'm battling with pie dough?"

Berto commiserated.

"Wow, Mama. That does look hard!" he said, as I huffed and puffed over the monster I had created. "It is hard!" I wailed. "It's the hardest thing in the world! And it's stressful, so stressful..."

"Don't encourage her!" Matthew said sharply, bouncing Daniel in his arms. "Nobody encourage Mama in her tirade!"

After a litany of sighs and grunts, I did finally get the fresh pies in the oven, laying the top crust on in chunks. But, hey, the dough wasn't overworked (I think), and I covered its many imperfections with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar. I also remembered to put all the ingredients in the filling. Too bad I baked them at the wrong temperature, though. Nothing like flaky crust and undercooked fruit in a Thanksgiving pie!

Why does she bother? you ask. Don't they have prepared pie crust in the grocery store? you say. Okay, so they do, but I want to be the Pie Lady, the Pastry Queen. I want my sons to propose to their girlfriends someday on bent knee, and say, "Before I give you the ring, there's something you should know: my mom makes the best pie. Just the best. Yours can never compare. Not ever. And mom says you can't have the recipe. But I love you anyway, and we'll go to my parents' for Thanksgiving."

Alright, so that's not right of me. Maybe that's why every time I go to make a pie, I find myself eating the humble variety. But I still want a solid pastry recipe and technique to pass down to my daughters. My mom made the best pies, you see, and I want to, too. This Thanksgiving, I'm just hoping they're decent.


More food adventures in Holiday Tales of Horror - Stuffed Couches and Stolen Chocolates

Life, Twisted Trees and Dead Monkeys Get a Clue

The holidays remind me of games. Usually board games, though Dad did initiate a game of charades now and then. He always did the same old thing-twine his arms above his head, wrap his legs around each other, and while trying not to tip over, say, "What am I kids? Well, what am I?"

A twisted tree of course. I've shown my kids that and asked them the same question, "What am I? Can you guess? You'll never guess; Paca taught me this..." They weren't too impressed. But, then again, no one makes a twisted tree like Paca.

One Thanksgiving Mom and Dad bought The Game of Life. We played all day after our meal. Several times, actually, which isn't such a small feat with a game which my husband refuses to play with his own kids (its potential frustration level for the parent is bright red, you see, and he won't play any with a child-parent frustration quotient above a milky yellow). Still, I remember that Thanksgiving of "Life" very fondly. And I personally felt honored to be included in such a complicated game, being the baby of the family.

Nate was excellent at games, and the spark of competition never burned so brightly in anyone's eyes as when my brother was trying to beat his own family at a board game. He started winning at Monopoly when he was eight. That was pretty suspicious, mind you. And Mom and Dad did call him out for cheating once that I remember. But I bet you at least half the time he played square.

Nate and I also went through a card-playing stage where we had an absolute love and devotion for Uno. When we got tired of playing it, we started making up our own versions of the original with complicated variations. But for some reason we gave them names like Native American Uno, Chinese Uno, etc. I don't know why we did that-unless we were trying to make the game more culturally inclusive.

The game I remember the most, however, was one which Dad, Nate, Mom and I invented. On one of the last Christmases Nate was still at home before he left for the military, we contrived a game similar to Clue. We drew out the floor plan of a large manor on a big piece of poster board with far more rooms than that traditional game ever had. Dad used a ruler to draw the rooms and line up the spaces. We meticulously worked on it all day, carefully coloring in the details of the game board and assigning spaces for lost turns and "enter room free" squares. Nate drew corpses in a few of the rooms. (Never mind that they looked more like deranged monkeys and squashed spiders; it was the spirit of the thing.) Finally, we used a deck of cards for our list of weapons, rooms and suspects by writing on the thin labels meant for cassette tapes and affixing them to the cards.The face cards were our suspects, and since Nate and I were complete X-Files fanatics at that time, our suspects were Fox Moulder, Dana Scully, Cancer Man, and such. When we ran out of names we wanted to use from that show, we fixed labels on the cards that read Dad, Nate, Mom, Hillary.

We made the game hard; we wanted it to be a challenging and lengthy game with no quick resolution. It had a lot more spaces, first of all, and some of those spaces gave you sometimes helpful but usually thwarting directions. But once you were ready, feeling smug in your conclusions, it was also hard to look at your family, make a guess and say in all seriousness, "It was you, Mom, with the wrench-in the rooftop observatory. You slew the deranged monkey!" It was worse if your guess was wrong.

My kids like to play games. I have used Uno for all three of my eldest to teach them their colors. And I have great memories already of sitting down to play various games with them. When Berto was four and five, he used to beat me and his Papa at Sorry! regularly. We used to say the Sorry! Leprechauns were with him, aiding him to defeat us. When Ana began playing Uno, every time she laid down a card she'd point a finger and yell out, "Uno...I got you!" And Ella beat her school-age siblings at Memory when she was just two and a half.

Holidays were made for games, in my opinion-games of all sorts that can bring a family together over a table to laugh and share friendly competition. This Thanksgiving I'll draw out a few of our many game boards; I might even convince Matthew to play Life or perhaps Clue (possible frustration level for parent: dark orange).

To all a Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving by the Sea

When I was a kid turkey used to invade my dreams the night before Thanksgiving. Not that I knew any turkeys I had special concerns about. There were wild turkeys in the woods behind our home, it's true; our Labradors kept themselves amused for hours, chasing them from the field to watch their awkward bodies settle in the bare trees. But, no, it was the store-bought turkey Mom was cooking in the oven all night with its rich aroma settling in one's nostrils during sleep that evoked such dreams. She cooked it at a high temperature for a couple of hours and then turned down the oven to a very low temperature and left the turkey to cook for the rest of the night, tented in foil. My friends, it was wonderful turkey, moist and spicy. My mom would bring my dad a sampling of it for breakfast, sprinkled with salt and black pepper.

What did the children have for breakfast? Pie! Pie! Pie! Mom made apple and pumpkin every year on Thanksgiving Eve, and we kids were granted our first taste at breakfast. Unorthodox, yes, but incredibly scrumptious - and also the reason why I can sniff out a pastry at breakfast like a sweets-loving hound dog.

I have spent several adult years trying to replicate Mom's apple pie in my own kitchen - its creamy filling, its thick and pale butter pastry. I curse my laziness as a child! I was so content to fatten myself with the miraculous food given me but never took the time to actually learn how to make it. I could not foresee then that I would indeed grow up someday and would have to make food for my own family. And I did not marry (as I thought was my natural destiny as a lazy, culinary-challenged teenager) a rotund and jolly gourmet chef named Gerald.

I have many great Thanksgiving memories like those of the one our family spent with my sister Vinca at Topsail Beach in North Carolina when I was fourteen.

Vinca and Dave had a two-month-old son, my nephew Marcus, and they were living in a small bungalow apartment so near the beach that it stood on stilts.

It wasn't a perfect holiday (is there such a thing?). There were minor disasters that year, such as when Mom went to help Vinca take Marcus' temperature, using the traditional method, and the little guy had an exploding poopy all over her and the surrounding furniture. My darling Mama, intoxicated by the joy of being around her first baby grandchild, simply laughed heartily and took a long shower.

The requisite family squabble took place, too, between Dave and my brother Nate. Nate polished off the last of a batch of Vinca's special cheesy mashed potatoes for which Dave had a particular fondness. When Dave made the discovery of the scraped-empty bowl and saw the evidence on the plate in Nate's hands, he gave Nate the cold penetrating stare of a disgruntled Marine while the rest of us squirmed, looked around at each other and thought rather loudly, awkwaard.....

That Thanksgiving held the magic of my first ocean experience. Annie and I walked along the beach every day, encountering its briny smell, the sound and feel of the waves and the pleasure of comparing the contrasting gray blues of sky and water. We even had a short but close encounter with its seagulls. One day we found a woman surrounded by a flock of these birds and the cacophony of their eerie calls. She told us she had spent years enticing them with her bread crumbs, gaining trust. She kindly lent us some bread. They swooped and dived around our heads as we threw our offering in the air, fearing from their aggressive flight that they might drag us off by our hair if the meal train stopped. Annie eventually panicked, dropped her food and ran from the fray. Trying to be brave in the midst of what felt like a possible Hitchcock situation, I held on a little longer before fleeing myself, throwing the remaining crumbs over my shoulder as I ran.

Dave and Vinca had a dedication for Marcus that year in a church that had long windows facing the sea. It was a beautiful setting for their family gathering. I only regretted that our Thanksgiving meal had to take place in that same church's windowless basement where one could not gaze out at the ocean over a plate of turkey, yams and cheesy mash potatoes. What better view to inspire reflections about the pilgrims and their journey to that first feast, after all?

The morning before our meal Vinca took me along to her pastor's home in order to borrow a turkey roaster from the pastor's wife. When she introduced me as her little sister, I felt bashful but proud to be the sister of such a beautiful woman with a husband and small baby, her life full of mysteries which were still so remote to me at that time.

It was a good year, and if I ever get the chance to go back to Topsail Beach, I'll take it. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find the same fearless lady throwing crumbs to her Hitchcockian seagull friends. And if she invites me to share in her labor of love, I just might. But this time I'll wear my hair in a bun and a hat pulled over my head just in case.