I Am From

Last May, a pair of dark-eyed juncos set up house in the hanging basket outside our kitchen window. We watched them gather materials to make the nest, including hairs from our white dog, Ez. We watched them commence incubation, and at one point I snuck a photo of four small eggs.

The day finally arrived when Mama and Papa Bird darted to and from the basket, bringing food to their tiny babies. Even in the shallow nest, we could barely see the tufts of their heads.

Every day they grew. By day six they were standing up to be fed, their necks stretched long to reach the food, their beaks open so wide you could see down their throats.

Then, on day nine, they just flew away. One dropped to the ground before hopping off to try its wings. The others flew short distances until they were safely in the bushes. I wondered if they’d all meet up somewhere under the blackberry bushes and cuddle up when night fell. None of them have returned to the nest.

So, our Libby graduated from high school in June. She’s our third, so we’ve done this before. But it wasn’t until this time around that I realized I don’t love when my kids graduate from high school.  In fact, it occurs to me that I’ve been tricked.

Libby has received graduation cards. “Congratulations, graduate!” “You made it!” “Best wishes as you follow your own path.” Yes, she’s earned it.

But then people cheerfully say to us, “How does it feel to have another high school graduate? Only two kids to go … You’ll be done before you know it!”

All these kind words are offered as if we want our chicks to leave the nest. Why do we want them to leave? We like them. Just when we’ve trained them to clean up after themselves, have interesting conversations, and be awesome, we’re supposed to rejoice that they’re leaving?

You don’t have to remind me that it’s good for them. I know they need to have their own experiences, start their own lives, conquer their own little part of the world. If they chose to just stay home forever, we’d have to kick them out for their own good—that’s the final goal.

But it still feels like a mean trick. When Daughter #2—Cassidy—graduated, two hours after the ceremony we drove her to start summer term at her out-of-state college.  That was four years ago, and she has only been home for visits since.  We celebrate that she’s independent and thriving, but we miss her, too. That day-to-day closeness we had stopped abruptly, and it all started with high school graduation.

Libby wrote this poem a while back. Every time I come across it, I end up reading it twice.

I Am From 

by Libby

I am from rainy days cuddled on the couch reading

I am from listening to my mum’s stories and cracking up

I am from wearing out the VHS tape of Beauty and the Beast

I am from crouching in the corner motionless and soundless just so I could watch my sisters play

I am from saying bless you whenever someone sneezes

I am from moving wood assembly-line style during the summer

I am from unsuccessful vegetable gardens

I am from jobs on Saturdays and church on Sundays

I am from reading the book before watching the movie

I am from everyone singing different songs while playing Mexican Train

I am from a calendar filled with times carefully planned out but being late anyway

I am from library trips being frequent but never boring

I am from ABBA, the Go-Go’s, and Queen

I am from loudly calling into the woods for our bearlike dogs

I am from “What did you learn today?” at the dinner table

We are where our kids are from, and I’m as curious as anybody to see where they’re going. Mama and Papa Bird only got nine days. I’m thankful we have them for eighteen years.

Living the dream, in my van, in the rain

Another favorite column, published in the paper a couple of years ago.

I’m sitting in my minivan with a Diet Coke, a book (never leave home without a book), my laptop, and just enough dark chocolate to keep me happy but not feeling too guilty.  Maybe a little guilty. 

It’s Saturday.  My kids are attending a church youth activity, so I’m just waiting in the parking lot.  I already ventured off to do my Costco shopping, but I still have almost an hour to wait. It’s pouring buckets outside.   A sudden creek running down the pavement between the cars changed my initial thought of, “Maybe I’ll go inside and see if I can help.”  No.

When I was a teenager, I never would have guessed I would enjoy writing on a computer.  I made it through college with my trusty electric typewriter. I loved the challenge of writing a paper, beginning to end, one time through.  The sentences and paragraphs have to be well-planned when you know you can’t go back and make changes.  One idea in the wrong place, and Bam!  Start over on another sheet of paper.  Talk about a rush!  Do nerds have extreme sports?  Yes we do.

When I started dating a boy my senior year who owned a computer (the only one in his apartment complex), for months I refused his offers to let me use it for writing essays.  Computers, I reasoned, fell in the same category as day planners.  The truly creative needed neither.

I finally gave it a try, and never went back.  Goodbye White-Out, hello cut and paste!  Also, I married the boy.  The computer was not a drawback.

When I was a teenager, I never – ever – would have pictured myself with a personal computer on my lap, in my car.  This is not how I envisioned my grownup self.  I pictured me…with ten children, all out exploring the woods near my house, some with books in their hands, while my lumberjack husband tended trees in the forest.  (I liked the idea of a lumberjack, but never the associated destruction.  Maybe a forest ranger?)  Meanwhile, my housekeeper, Alice, would do the laundry and tend dinner.  And me?  I’d be by an open window, dressed in something soft and flowing, my electric typewriter clicking out my latest romance novel.  Diet Coke and chocolate nearby.

I got halfway there.  Still working on that novel. I had five kids, I’m at this moment wearing soft, loose sweatpants, and while I don’t have a housekeeper, there’s a job chart for the kids posted in the kitchen.  That’s something.  Also…my computer geek sweetheart both plants trees and cuts firewood.  I’m a lucky, lucky woman.

I read one of those Facebook memes recently:  “Don’t give up your day dream.”  Get it?  Like don’t give up your day job.  I like it.  Sitting with my laptop in my van, the back productively full of groceries, my usefulness as a mother secured as I sit and wait to complete chauffeur duties, I feel pretty successful.  I think the teen me would be okay with it.  My daydreams are still intact. 

When I’m done writing here, I’ll switch to the other document I have open: a romantic story I’m working on that whisks me far from parking lots and errands and whatever.  Modern mom, dreamy girl.  That feels right.  Thank heaven for minivans and laptops, and daydreams.

The rain is holding steady, and the wind is picking up. Still a long wait for the kids.  I don’t mind it.  I’m a princess perched in her tower, an authoress weaving stories from inside a deceptively common minivan.

Then, and now

Teaching Sandwich Education

I guess I’ve been a mom for awhile now, because one of my kids is getting married. While Cassidy’s wedding plans have kept us busy all winter, I think I’m still in denial. Where did my little girl go? I could swear it was just yesterday she went everywhere in her pink dance leotard with a feather boa around her neck, dragging her favorite doll by one arm. Now I have pictures on my phone of her trying on her wedding dress.

Looking through some of my columns from oh so many years ago, I found this one, and thought I’d share.

“Do you have a sandwich?”

My sister, Cindy, was standing in her kitchen talking on the phone (to me), when her 4-year-old, Josh, wandered in. She said he looked around the kitchen, frowned, and asked, “Do you have a sandwich?”

Not, Will you make me a sandwich? but Do you have one? As though she would say, “Why, yes!” and pull one out of her pocket.

We had a good laugh, and wondered whether we’d be successful in teaching our kids about where sandwiches come from; about the value of work, and self-sufficiency.

Cindy wondered, “Does Josh know that I make sandwiches, or does he think I’m just someone in possession of sandwiches?”

There are so many things kids need to learn from their parents. What if we forget to teach them something important? What if little Josh never learns where sandwiches come from? What if he never realizes his mother puts work into making his sandwiches, and she makes them because she loves him?

If he doesn’t learn this at home, he’ll pick up a few ideas at school about sandwiches, probably not the ones his mom would want him to learn. The day may come when he arrives home from school with a dab of jam on his shirt, and his mother says, “I sent you ham and cheese today. Where did the jam come from?” And her son, smiling at the memory, will say, “I traded with Sarah. She had peanut butter and jelly.”

Life may start to look like one big sandwich bar to him, all his for the asking.

That’s when it’s time for The Talk.

“See, honey,” you’ll say, “sandwiches are made in the kitchen. They start with bread.” Maybe get his father involved; it wouldn’t hurt him to remember all that goes into sandwich making.

Then Josh will know, and he will learn the value of a sandwich.

But I digress.

The sheer number of things we need to teach our children is overwhelming. Often I worry that I remembered to teach my first two kids a certain principle, but forgot all about it by the time my other three came along. The older girls know not to run with scissors, but did I remember to tell Megan? Do they all know not to stick their tongues to a frozen flag pole? By the time they leave home will I have managed to teach them how to mop a floor, how credit cards work, and how to say, “I’m not interested” to a telemarketer? Will they all receive adequate reminders to have good posture?

Recently I’ve been quizzing our younger kids on our phone number and address. I always get a little thrill when they get it right. In fact, this morning when Cassidy, 13, wrote our address on a form and I caught a glance at it, I felt myself exhale just a bit that she didn’t make a mistake.

Some things that we want our kids to know are life skills, some are for safety, some are just so they’re not dippy. I went to college with a few people who thought New Mexico was south of the border, and that all sinks have garbage disposals, some just without a switch.

There should really be a checklist, like a chart of recommended vaccinations, or qualifications your child should have before starting kindergarten. A “How To” for preparing smart and responsible citizens, placed in your hand before you convey your newborn home from the hospital. It could be called, “What Your Child Should Know before Being Released from Home,” and be broken down into years.

By their seventh birthdays, for instance, they should know not to light a match when there is flour floating in the air, not to run with lollipops in their mouths, and never to drink bathwater. Also, they should know the three best ways to stop hiccups, legitimate reasons for staying home sick, and why you should not attempt to bathe with your cat.

The list has never been made because it’s endless. There’s just no way we can cover it all. From teaching them what to do when the house fills with smoke to how to play nicely, I just have to hope my kids know enough to take them successfully to adulthood.

And, by all means, I must make sure they learn where sandwiches come from.

Garlic, Mushroom, and Quinoa Soup for Crock Pot

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 yellow onion, chopped

1 lb fresh mushrooms, sliced (I used baby portobella)

1 heaping Tbsp fresh minced garlic (I may have used more...I love garlic)

6 cups water

4 tsp chicken base (or 4 bouillon cubes)

½ cup uncooked quinoa

1 tsp dried thyme

Salt and pepper to taste

1 lb ground turkey, browned and drained (optional)

1 cup fresh spinach, chopped

In a frying pan, sauté onion, mushrooms and garlic in olive oil until tender. Transfer to crock pot.  Add remaining ingredients, except spinach.  Cook on high for 5-6 hours or low 8-10 hours.  Stir in spinach for last hour.  May top with Parmesan or sour cream if desired.  Yum!  And smells divine.

Bringing Hotdish to the Potluck

My teenagers came home and said they needed to bring a hotdish to an event.  Hotdish?  I'd heard the term on television, and I think maybe in the Mitford books, but I wasn't sure what it meant.  Clearly it's something hot, and hotdish feels like it should be some kind of comfort food. Is it a particular dish, we wondered at our house, or regional terminology? Was it similar to the southern term barbecue, which refers to something you consume ("She served up some tasty barbecue,") rather than the act of barbecuing, or the event where people get together to barbecue? ("Are you coming to the barbecue?  We'll be barbecuing chicken.")

Isn't grammar fun?

The answer is that a hotdish is a type of casserole, no specific ingredients required.

It's worth looking in Wikipedia for hotdish and casserole, just to put a little smile on your face.  Here are some quotes:

Hotdish: a variety of casserole which typically contains a starch, a meat, and a canned or frozen vegetable, mixed with canned soup. The dish originates from and is popular in the Upper Midwest region of the United States, particularly the states of Minnesota and North Dakota. Hotdishes are filling, convenient, and easy to make. They are well-suited for family reunions, funerals, church suppers, and potlucks where they may be paired with potato salad, coleslaw, Jello salads, and desserts, and pan-baked desserts known as bars.  (That’s my favorite part. Please help yourself to this pan-baked dessert.  I call them “bars.”)

Casserole: usually consist of pieces of meat, chopped vegetables, a starchy binder such as flour, rice, potato, or pasta, and, often, a crunchy or cheesy topping.

FYI, my spell check didn't know hotdish, so I added it to my dictionary.

For someone who makes casseroles (and specifically hotdishes) several nights a week, the detailed descriptions are surreal.  Makes me feel like we're studying the lives of remote villagers. Imagine if in a hundred years your great-great-great-grandchild reads about casseroles in history books.  I wonder if the terms or the recipes themselves will follow future generations.  You never know what will get passed down, and what will go by the wayside.

When reading Wiki's entry on casseroles, be sure to explore “See Also,” and click on “List of Casseroles.”  Some you’ve probably never heard of: Moussaka, Flying Jacob, Nut Roast, and Rappie Pie, for instance.  There are also variations on old favorites, like American Goulash, Lasagna, Scalloped Potatoes, Frito Pie, Macaroni and Cheese, and Funeral Potatoes. That last one should catch your posterity's curiosity.

Comfort foods, casseroles, hotdishes, crock pot soups ... soft, warm foods for rainy, winter nights.  Perfect.

Here's one of our favorite recipes:

Gluten-Free Tater Tot Casserole (AKA Hotdish):

1 lb ground turkey, browned and drained

Salt and pepper to taste

2 Tbsp dried minced onion

1 ¼ cup (11 oz) gluten-free condensed cream of chicken soup (see recipe below)

1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

2 lb bag frozen tater tots

Preheat oven to 350°. 

In a 9x13 pan, spread ground turkey and sprinkle  with salt, pepper, and onion.  Spread cream of chicken soup over top of meat.  Drizzle Worchestershire sauce next, and use a spoon to gently spread into soup mixture, without disturbing the layers. Top with enough tater tots to cover the surface.

Bake at 350 for 30–40 minutes, or until the food is hot and bubbly.

Gluten-Free Cream of Chicken Soup

6 Tbsp butter

2 Tbsp dried minced onion

1 tsp dried thyme

½ tsp dried parsley

¼ tsp each garlic powder and salt

⅛ tsp each pepper and paprika

¾ cup brown rice flour

1 ¾ cup gluten-free chicken broth

1 ¾ cup milk (I used dairy-free rice drink)

Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium heat.  Add onion and seasonings.  Add flour, and stir until thick and slightly bubbly.  Add broth and juice.  Bring to boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.

This will make more than the above recipe calls for.  What you don't use can be frozen for future recipes.

Emergency Preparedness

I have a prickly dread of being isolated at home with a houseful of kids and a husband and nothing to do. When fears of epidemics, catastrophic earthquakes, or invasions from Canada (you never know) worm their way into the conversation, it's one of my first thoughts. What if we were quarantined, or couldn't go out-and-about for some reason? What if we had to remain within the four walls of our house for days, weeks, months? What would we do to keep from going crazy?

So, I have prepared some activities in the event of any or all of the previously listed emergencies. Obviously, if we still have internet, we can find endless hours of information, escapism, and cat videos to keep us occupied. We could sign up for everything—Hulu+, Netflix, Amazon Prime, even the Hallmark movies, just so we had all possible options.

If we don't have internet but still have power, it's lucky I have approximately 170 hours of National Geographic VHS tapes for us to watch. That should lead to some intense family discussion, and likely count as home school.

Also, board games. Last week when the power was out, we played games for hours. It was anything but boring.

Piano lessons. Do you have a piano? Our oldest daughter, Jenna, plays, and some of the other kids briefly took lessons. Consequently, we still have lesson books ranging from beginning to advanced. In the face of months with no electricity, we could all become proficient pianists by the end of our quarantine/disaster isolation/hiding from the Canadians. Luckily I never throw anything away.

Craft supplies. And, if you know how I feel about crafting, you know I would only pull out the supplies in case of emergency. I do have them, though.

Finally, we have books. Do you keep books in your home? Even if you don't read on a regular basis, it's a good idea. Pick a few classics, books with meat to them that would still be interesting on the twentieth read. Remember in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers"? Millie had a copy of Plutarch's tales, and the Bible. When the brothers and the hoped-for brides were trapped at the farmhouse for the winter, they read Plutarch (and presumably the Bible) over and over and over. Wouldn't they have loved a little Shakespeare, or Dickens, or even an old Farmer's Almanac?

With that in mind, I keep lots of books on hand. How could we survive without books? And, just to keep things interesting, I often buy books I know nothing about, and leave them on the shelf for boredom emergencies. Makes sense, doesn't it? "Open in case of emergency." We probably have a thousand books. Paper books, mind you, not eBooks.

If our county department of emergency management were to chime in at this point, they would probably add the need to stock up on other things, too. Emergency kits, extra food in the pantry, bottled water, medicines, books… Wait, I already said that one.

A lady I know told me this story (hopefully I have it right): When Mount St. Helens blew on May 18, 1980, she was living in Ellensburg. They were preparing to go to church when they heard the explosion, and the sky went black. They stayed home, of course, as the air was clogged with falling ash. What do you do when you find yourself stuck at home and the world appears to be coming to an end? You bake a chocolate cake, of course. And that's what they did. Comfort food is important in times of emergency, so keep some cake-making ingredients on hand, too. Just in case.

You know, once you're prepared, nothing bad will happen. That's how it works. Get ready to be housebound, and I can almost guarantee that the plague, the Big One, and the Canucks will never come.

I'm still here

I know it’s silly, but the reason I haven’t posted here in three years is because I get frustrated with fonts.  I read once that Jean Kerr, author of “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies” (later a movie starring Doris Day) was inspired to write with the idea that she might make enough money to hire a housekeeper.  I’d say that’s good motivation, and would add to it hiring a technical assistant to figure out this blessed, idiotic internet. Creating a blog post with a consistent font shouldn’t be that hard, but there you have it.

I’m still writing. In fact, I’ve decided to post a few of my favorites from my column in the next few months.  Please bear with me as I work through my love/hate/really hate relationship with fonts. 

Denise