SIMCHA FISHER

I’m just asking for . . . reasons. I’ve been to a lot of retreats and conferences and mom’s days out, and there are always some things I love, some things I don’t care about, and some things that should be chased away by an angel holding little, pink, pearl-handled revolver and a bottle of Febreze.

So imagine, if you will, a six- to eight-hour event for a group of maybe a hundred or so Catholic women. How would you like to spend your time? What would make you think, “Why did I just pay for this?” What’s something amazing that would turn an okayish event into something you would rave about? How much can you imagine paying for such an event?

Type of food, style of food service, prayers, group activities, talks, sacraments, music, vendors, type of venue, scheduled events, unscheduled time, amenities, giveaways, hammocks and cabana boys — I’d love to hear about anything and everything that would make a difference to you. Tell, tell!

(Photo is of my husband and Corrie at a women’s conference in Syracuse last fall. Pretty safe to say that their favorite part was when Mama finally got off the stage.)

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SATURDAY
BBQ at Nana’s house

We had insane-o weather on Saturday — huge gusting winds, spiky hail the size of golf balls, and thunder and rainbows, all at the same time — so we decided not to grill outside. My mother-in-law started making dinner and then had to run out, so she asked my husband to finish cooking. There were hamburgers, marinated steak on skewers, and sausages, and a big pot of homemade tomato sauce. An embarrassment of meats! So he started cooking the burgers and the steak, and put the sausages into the sauce, where they simmered away, making everything all nice and sausagey.

Then she comes back, and guess what? The sausages were for sandwiches, and the sauce was for my vegan brother-in-law, who was bringing pasta.

So my husband had to go out in the rain and the thunder and the wind, and get some more . . .  you know, it seemed funnier at the time. To me. Some people did not find it funny even at the time.We were watching Flash Gordon again, too. If someone can explain to me why this has become the summer when we must watch Flash Gordon all the time, I’d be grateful.

***

SUNDAY
Cuban pork, fried onions, cheese and guava on crackers, rice, frijoles, tres leches cake

My friend Elizabeth took a trip to her childhood home of Florida and sent me a gorgeous carton full of foods we normally can’t handle this side of the Mason Dixon line. She also made up a booklet of family recipes, including Pernil o Peirna Asada.

Well, we could have feasted on the smell alone. This dish was heavenly. You have to start it the night before, but it’s easy-peasy-Cuban-squeezy. My ten-year-old daughter did the stabbing and salt-rubbing part. I can lend her to you if you want to make this recipe. She’s tops at stabbing [looks behind shoulder nervously]. Ten is a tricky age.

Here’s the recipe:

-4-5 pork shoulder or ham that is uncured and uncooked (skin on if possible)
-2 cups sour orange, or fresh lemon or lime juice
-1 bay leaf
-2 tsp dried oregano
-2 tsp cumin powder
-2 Tbs salt
-1/2 tsp black pepper
-20 cloves fresh garlic (yes, 20)
-2 large onions sliced in thin rounds
-1/2 cup of roast dripping
-1/2 cup reserved garlic and citrus sauce

The night before, stab pork all over. Rub salt into holes, all over. May need more than 2 Tbs.

After pork is salted, put citrus, garlic cloves, and seasonings into a blender and combine. This is the mojo. Pour off 1 cup and reserve. Pour remaining mojo over pork and work it into the meat and the holes. Sprinkle with more of the spices listed above, cover, and refrigerate overnight.

Let pork stand at room temperature for an hour before roasting. Roast at 325 for 3-4 hours or more (or less!). Do not cover with foil! Should be roasted, not steamed. You can very loosely tent if necessary. Baste hourly with 1/2 cup of the reserved mojo. It’s done when the juices run clear.

When roast is done, combine 1/2 cup of the drippings with the other 1/2 cup of reserved mojo, and sautee with the onions.

Slice meat and pour onions and juice over roast. Serve with black beans, rice, and plantains. 

Okay, confession time. I couldn’t find pork shoulder, so I just grabbed the biggest piece of pork I could find. It had no bone and cooked up way faster than I was expecting; so if you’re a recipe scofflaw like me, keep an eye on that meat! It’s so hard to break the habits from our super-poor days, when “make sure you choose the right cut of meat” sounded like it was on the same fancy pants level as “you’ll want to eat this dish with a soundtrack of waves crashing, to bring out the natural flavor of the oysters.” Anyway, wrong cut and all, it was super delicious.

[img attachment=”116617″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”cuban pork” /]

I also bought some plantains to fry up, which I’ve done before, but it was too damn hot.

We also had water crackers with cream cheese and guava paste. The four-year-old watched with towering suspicion as I put these together, and then ran around the house informing everyone that Mama was serving globber for dinner. Guava. Guava. Not globber. Savages.

Dessert was a tres leches cake that I threw together in about six minutes the night before, while I was half in the bag.*

[img attachment=”116618″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”tres leches” /]

The savages loved it.
*bag of staying up late. I would never.

***

MONDAY
Chicken nuggets, chips, broccoli and hummus

I was planning to make Cuban sandwiches (grilled sandwiches with layers of sliced pork, ham, cheese, and pickles with mustard) with the leftover pork, but guess what? There warn’t none. It was et.

We talked a little bit about picking some of that lettuce from the garden for a salad, but it’s all the way on the other side of the yard. I can either be virtuous enough to eat salad, or virtuous enough to plant a garden, but not both. You’re welcome, neighborhood rabbits.

***

TUESDAY
Thai sweet bowls with rice and red noodles, mangoes

I’ve seen this episode of Portlandia about four times:

and it was pretty funny (“Show people dying!”), but I couldn’t stop thinking about those Thai Sweet Bowls (although when my son asked what was for dinner, he groaned, “Ohhh, it’s something ending in ‘bowls!'”  What does that even mean? Savages.)

Here’s the Thai sweet BOWL recipe I chose. Would they eat anything like this in or near Thailand? No idea. It’s rice topped with cashews, cilantro, scallions, and chicken cooked in soy sauce, and covered with a creamy coconut curry made with fresh mangoes. I didn’t even bother looking for clover sprouts.

I thought it was a swell dish.

[img attachment=”116619″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”thai sweet bowl” /]

Per the comments, I reduced the sugar by more than half, and that was still extremely sweet. It went together very easily, and you could make all the elements ahead of time and then put them together right before dinner.

I also bought some kind of dark red rice noodles at Aldi (it was called “Taste of Thai” or “Dip Your Nippers into Thailand” or “Thai One On” or something), and they were the worst, just the worst. Glad I made rice. Aldi ethnic food has the disturbing tendency to taste faintly bus insistently German, no matter what it is. It’s like they have all the earnest good will in the world, and they’re going to follow the hell out of this Mexican recipe or this Chinese dish, but then . . . something happens, and it’s the wurst, just the wurst. ♪♫Bring your own bags über alles. ♪♫

***

WEDNESDAY
Hot dogs, fries

I don’t remember Wednesday at all.

***

THURSDAY
Grilled chicken thighs, weirdoslaw, frozen rolls

I had to run errands, so I asked my daughter to make some of her lovely coleslaw. It turned out we were out of (or she couldn’t find) many of the ingredients, so she made up this recipe:

Shredded cabbage, a cup of plain, fat-free yogurt, a cup of sugar, 1.5 cups white vinegar, juice of one orange plus some orange zest.  It’s snappy! Very sweet and citrusy. I kept thinking, “Maybe if you added grapes, and apples, and other fruits . . . and then took out the cabbage . . . ”

The rolls, I took three bags of rolls out of the freezer, realized I didn’t have time to thaw them before baking, and then realized that they must have already thawed at some point. They were all in one big slab, and then they re-froze that way. So I put them back in the freezer. There, there, rolls. We’ll talk about this later.

***

FRIDAY
Tuna noodle

Today is my husband’s last day at his current job, so the plan is for me to stop at the school at pick up the recycling, bring it to the dump, go home, pick up my daughter, bring her to the ear doctor, bring her home, pick up the boys at day camp, bring them home and pick up my other daughter, drop both daughters off at work, and then drive to my husband’s office in the next state so I can finally see his office for the first time! Then we’ll have a beer, and go home. And pick up my other daughter from work. I may settle for just imagining my husband’s office.  I hear it’s full of globber.

Last year, I did a Geek-themed back-to-school feature, and that was fun (although there was some eminently geeky squabbling over whether some items were truly geeky, or more nerdy, or shading into dorkiness, or whether they had crossed so far into the mainstream that they were the equivalent of Chrissy Teigen wearing glasses; i.e., really not geeky at all.

So this year, I’m attacking the problem from a different angle. Never mind the geeks; how does one shop for Goofus and Gallant?

Gallant is a classy guy, and expects all school supplies to be both well-made and practical, and in good taste; and it’s okay if they’re a little bit on the pricey side, because that child takes both school and personal dignity seriously.

But Goofus is just basically a rat boy or rat girl, who is openly proud of making the math teacher cry; and there will be no peace at home until mom orders a cartload of ridiculous office supplies to fend off her guilt from hiding from the little booger all summer. Here’s how you do . . .

BACK-TO-SCHOOL SHOPPING FOR GOOFUS AND GALLANT!

Let’s start with the locker.

Gallant wants a locker that sets the tone for a marvellous day. Gently twist the combination, swing open the door, and voila: a little alcove of refinement amid the hustle and bedlam of the hallway. Oh yes, there’s Locker Wallpaper – assorted colors and patterns, $19.99

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Because something tells me Gallant gets shoved into his locker a lot, so he might as well have something nice to look at while he’s waiting for the custodian to rescue him again.

Your standard issue Goofus, however, is going to need something a little different with which to decorate his locker. Check it out:

[img attachment=”116426″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 10.12.45 PM” /]

500 biohazard stickers, $6.99. These are not novelty biohazard stickers, they are just biohazard stickers. If you have sons age 12 and over, 500 may not be enough.

Speaking of biohazards, think on this: Wasn’t it Flaubert who had a theory about the power of scents? Why not send your little lovely off to face the world armed with a different itsy bitsy little scented candle to make their locker or desk smell pleasant. You can change up the aroma every month with a mixed bag of ten scented votive candles from Yankee Candle, which, in my experience (I spent an entire summer working at a gift shop) has the most penetrating, insistent scent:

[img attachment=”116362″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 4.38.03 PM” /]

Goofus, on the other hand, would probably get more use out of 72 individually wrapped fahrt bohmbs for under $10:

[img attachment=”116427″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 10.18.01 PM” /]

I know, only 72. Maybe you should put this item on subscription.
Oh, this seems like as good a time as any to tell you about this browser extension called Honey.

[img attachment=”116428″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 10.21.09 PM” /]

Once you install it, this cute little “h” quietly follows you around the internet and shows up when you’re buying stuff, and it tells you if you’ve found a good deal, or if you’re being a tremendous sucker and can save money somewhere else. Very unintrusive, occasionally super useful. Like when you’re . . . shopping for 72 fahrt bohmbs for under $10.

Onward and upward!

Feast your peepers on this onward-and-upward-style Leather Pencil Pouch, $19.99, side view:

[img attachment=”116410″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 10.01.43 PM” /]

Several of my friends assure me that this is the pencil pouch to have. It comes in black or brown and is elegant, versatile, and durable, and will stay with your child in and out of years because it has a homing device* for when the little peabrain leaves it on the bus again.

*Not really. But it’s very nice!

And here is one that is, on the other hand, shaped like a banana.

[img attachment=”116409″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 9.57.42 PM” /]

Me not going to lie to you: me not think this would fit an awful lot of pencils in it. But, it is shaped like a banana. $6.97.

Bonus idea: Pencil case shaped like a fish, and the inside of it looks like a fish inside. Boy, oh boy.

Pencils! You will need pencils. Compliment Gallant’s excellent penmanship and studious diagrams with a top-of-the-line Pentel P205 Gilded Series Mechanical Pencil for Drafting:

[img attachment=”116228″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-16 at 3.05.53 PM” /]

This is, according to my Gallant-type friends, “the queen of mechanical drafting pencils,” and very lovely she is. Comes in your choice of colors, with a gift box. There’s also a less deluxe version (non gilded, no box) for $10 less.

Or p’raps you’d rather just take that fancy pencil and let your natural stabbiness shine through with something a little more cheapski and in bad tasteski like the Dead Fred Pencil Holder:

[img attachment=”116396″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 8.53.30 PM” /]

$2.88. And check out the dead man’s book mark, the rubber band mummy, and Splat Stan the tragic coaster. I do not approve of Stress Ball Paul, though. I ain’t squeezing that.

But fountain pens! Oh, how I love fountain pens. If you have a spare $55 lying around, gathering dust, maybe throw it at the TWSBI Diamond 580 Fountain Pen with EF nib.

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little staples in
With gently smiling jaws, $9.95.

Pair it with this dragon head stapler (uses standard-sized staples), and let them fight it out. $15.99:

[img attachment=”116398″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 9.04.28 PM” /]

Is it okay with you all if I drop the Goofus and Gallant/classy and silly thing and just post a bunch of awesome stuff? Whew.

LOOK AT THIS CHAMELEON TAPE DISPENSER.
THIS IS WHY GOD MADE CHAMELEONS LOOK LIKE THAT.

[img attachment=”116395″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 8.49.25 PM” /]

Now you know! And it changes color when you touch it! $25.95.

That famous picture of Albert Einstein making that goofy face is ju-u-u-u-u-u-ust about all worn out, but before it goes, here’s something:

[img attachment=”116397″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 8.59.43 PM” /]

$10.17, but it’s not a toy. So only put paper clips on Einstein’s head without having fun.

Whether there is a uniform or not, most schools frown on wearing underwear on the outside like Superman and Batman do. But that shouldn’t stop your kid from being a secret superhero on the inside:

[img attachment=”116438″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 8.36.01 AM” /]

No kidding, this could actually help a nervous kid through a tough day if everyone thinks he’s mild-mannered elementary school student Nerdy McPunchmyface . . . but he knows he has a secret identity.

And, this being 2016, superhero underpants come in adult sizes, too, for men and women; but I’m going to let you do that particular internet search yourself.

Next: Gorgeous little bags and clutches. My friend Elisa, who is the manic genius and agile fingers behind Door Number 9, has an amazing variety of hand-made pouches, bags, and wallets in various sizes. Maybe your kid can’t stop raving about Hamilton? Here’s a gorgeous little fully-lined zip clutch in the shape of a letter to Eliza Hamilton:

[img attachment=”116442″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 9.19.10 AM” /]

Best of wives and best of women. Ahhhh. Or here’s a smaller zippered pouch for a kid who knows his chemistry:

[img attachment=”116443″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 9.24.46 AM” /]

Heavy metals, ha! We love Door Number 9’s lovingly handmade, awesomely thinky products, including religious goods, badge holders, tea wallets, jewelry, original art, and more.

So, backpacks have gotten weird, huh? Here’s one I haven’t seen anyone toting around:

[img attachment=”116446″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 10.12.35 AM” /]

Blocky! There are also, of course, backpacks studded with bubbles,

[img attachment=”116448″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 10.25.23 AM” /]

backpacks to transform you into a metallic turtle bristling with spikes, and of course a Pangolin backpack made of recycled innertubes:

[img attachment=”116447″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-18 at 10.21.35 AM” /]

Lest you should worry you’re not getting your $240’s worth of value from this backpack as seen on X-MEN: Days of Future Passed, one reviewer says he did fit a medium-sized watermelon inside.

Back in the sane world, I want everyone to have this fish backpack. EVERYONE.

[img attachment=”116399″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 9.14.08 PM” /]

$17.99, and you can choose tons of colors. Looks like it doesn’t hold very much, but how can you be gloomy with a flashy, happy, fishy coming along to school with you?

Speaking of tons of color, I can’t believe you were thinking of sending your child off to school without a Zen Chicken Meditative Coloring Book.

[img attachment=”116400″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 9.21.56 PM” /]

$10.26, you monster.

You already planned, however, to stock up on bull erasers, $5.49 each:

[img attachment=”116401″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 9.34.16 PM” /]

Doesn’t this seem like the best possible way to rub out your mistakes? Or, for goodness sakes, a handful of these peanut erasers, $3.50 the set.

[img attachment=”116402″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 9.37.58 PM” /]

Did I just find myself scrolling down to the bottom of the page to find out if they were nut-free? Yes, I did. And that’s the most back-to-school thing of all.

Maybe your kids will luck out and get one of those teachers who insists that kids use silent hand signals — two fingers, quiet coyote, and so on — to let the teacher know what it is that they want before they even speak. So, this is needful:

[img attachment=”116429″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 10.49.44 PM” /]

Me, teacher! Call on me! $13.99. Call on me!

And last but not yep: Door Number 9 just listed a flock of hilarious alien earrings like this pair:

[img attachment=”116430″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-17 at 11.12.53 PM” /]

These kill me. Back to school, yep yep yep!

At least eleven non-famous people are dead, and 40,000 more have had their homes wrecked or damaged. That’s 39,999 Americans who aren’t celebrities, so their very real tragedies simply didn’t rate as headline news.

This is nothing new. When the Titanic sank — arguably the first news story to get immediate, international coverage — newspapers ran large photos of the Astors, who were aboard, and only later began to report how many third-class passengers were lost because there weren’t enough lifeboats. It will always be this way: Big names sell headlines, and the suffering of nobodies gets a bored shrug, and we move on to whether or not a gymnast stuck her landing, whether Britney Spears looks more toned than last time we saw her, and whether Donald Trump is still Donald Trump.

It’s frustrating, even sickening, when the news gets covered this way. Here’s what we can do in response.

Read the rest at the Register.

***

Image: The National Guard via Flickr (licensed)

Sad person wrote sadly about sadness of summer, and the existential desire to prove that we love and are beloved as summer draws to an end. But it wasn’t just all moping and maundering and wallowing in the exquisite bathos of that squooshy spot where memory meets love.

No, there was also . . . a lot of TV-watching. Specifically, some of my older kids really got into the hilarious show 30 Rock (and yes, we skipped a few of the more inapwopwo episodes).

For some reason, one scene that really hit home was the one where uberhick Kenneth invents a new game show, and as he tries to sell it to the network, he accidentally wields a powerful bargaining chip by implying that he’s in talks with [CBS CEO Les] Moonves. In fact, Kenneth is referring to Moonvest, a batty homeless guy sporting a vest with moons on it.

In what is obviously part of a daily ritual, Moonvest says . . . well, see for yourself:

Okay, so what happened next is that, for some reason, we taught the baby to do this:

As always, I am unable to judge the severity of my actions.

We also went to the fair, okay? And we toasted marshmallows one time.

“Mama, I had a dream about you last night.”

Oh, I heard that collective gasp of horror from all the other Mamas of kids who dream. When kids dream about you, somehow you’re never at your best. Last night, for instance, my daughter dreamt that she wanted to go hang gliding, but I said “no.” Then we went to the fair, and she wanted to go on a ride, but I said “no.” Then we all adjourned to the cafeteria, where she asked for dessert, and I said — guess what? — “no.” And then I said “yes” to her sisters! What is the matter with me? I mean, besides that it wasn’t actually me, it was just her little squirrel brain firing off in her sleep.

Well, I’ll tell you. I wake up in the morning, and before I even let my tootsies touch the floor, I think, “In what way can I disappoint, frustrate, thwart, defraud, or otherwise let down my family, so that I will be forever associated in their minds with great suffering?” And I’m not allowed to have any coffee until I have a plan.

The other day, I went shopping.I made my shopping list taking into account the needs, desires, tastes, and schedules of twelve people, plus a dog, a fish, two parakeets, a mouse, and two hamsters. Shopping took three-and-a-half hours, as it always does, because I go to Walmart, and then my shopping buddy and I get lunch, then we hit the dollar store if they’re still young enough to find it thrilling, and then we go to the cheap supermarket and fill two carts with food and treats, and then we go to the real supermarket to pick up whatever we couldn’t find elsewhere. I also got gas, went to the bank, stopped at the post office, and nipped into that awesome toy store that is closing, so I could find Christmas presents at a discount for the kids. And we drove around for a while looking for a power station, in case any Pokewhatevers were lurking about.

But I forgot my shopping list at home. However, I remembered everything on it.

Almost.

I chose, bought, bagged, loaded into the car, unloaded from the car, and put away approximately 426 useful and desirable and reasonably-priced items, but I forgot soap.

So my husband mentioned it the next day, and I apologized, but I forgot to pick some up again. This went on for a few days. He would mention it; I would promise to buy some, but then forget. Finally, in desperation, he went to the store himself and attempted to buy some soap.

I know. Someone should make a daytime movie special about us: She Didn’t Buy Soap  . . . Twice. 

So the poor fellow gets to the counter with his four bars of Ivory, and the cashier looks at him from under his S-Mart visor, one canny eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Buying soap, eh?” the fellow says. My husband admits that he is.

“Ain’t that a weddin’ ring on your finger?” continues the inquest. Sotto voce, my husband acknowledges that he is, indeed, married.

Pause.

“She run off or sumpin’?”

A single tear of shame trickles down my husband’s craggy, careworn face. No, she did not run off, but she might as well have, mightn’t she’ve? Leaving the house soaplessly forlorn, like some kind of heartless amalgam of Medea, Mrs. Portnoy, and whoever made Dina Lohan be that way.

My husband, who, at this point, is already suffering mightily under the privation of soap for 36 hours and counting, cracks under pressure and begins to babble any lie that comes to mind:

“It’s not her fault! She has a shattered pelvis and two kinds of face cancer! She tried to order soap from her hospital bed, but the internet went down because of that multiple helicopter crash! We usually have lots of soap, because she gets everything eleven weeks in advance, but she was technically dead for four minutes, and the surgeon said I should let her re-e-e-e-e-e-e-essssst. . . ”

Unable to bear the searing scorn of the other customers who would never forget the disgraceful spectacle of a man forced to buy his own soap, he fled out of the store, clutching the bundle of Ivory to his chest, flinging wads of dollar bills behind him in his agony.

The next day, I woke up surrounded by my family. They proffered Champagne-colored roses, home-baked pastries, and a fragrant mug of coffee on a silver tray. I began to rise, but in a single voice, they insisted that I remain in bed, because of all the things I do for them.

Their faces were bathed in rainbows through the prism of my grateful tears. “My loves,” I said, “My dearest loves, I feel so appreciated, and that scone smells heavenly. Just let me get up and visit the restroom, and wash my hands. If someone would just hand me the soap . . . ”

And then I woke up. Hey, mothers have dreams, too.

It’s the end of vacation, when all the things we meant to do over the summer cascade into guilt and regret. “Tree house” and “ocean” and “art museum” come off the list; “haircut” and “school shopping” go on. We should have done more! When I was little, I remember doing more.

On the radio, I heard the end of an essay by a man trying to connect with his elderly father, a father who had been harsh and distant for decades. I gathered that the one happy childhood memory the narrator had was of their annual, extravagant beach house vacation. The kids would run and play and whoop it up, while the dad, as he recalled, would glower and retreat to the couch to watch TV. Still, he made it happen year after year.

Now, forty years later, the man finally asked his father if he had fun on those vacations — and if not, if he hated them as much as he seemed to, why did he make such a point of taking them every year?

It turns out that the old man, now almost eighty years old, was still smarting from the sting of his childhood, from the first day of school, when the teacher would assign that dreaded essay, “What I Did On My Summer Vacation.” The only true answer would have been: “We gathered peaches to pay the landlord” or “We shot rats in the turnip field so we wouldn’t starve come winter.”

So he and his brothers would make up something to write about, something that would prove that they had been having fun like the rest of the world. He resolved that his own kids wouldn’t have to resort to fantasy. They’d do something real on summer vacation, something wonderful. Something to report.

When my kids were all little, I used to accuse myself of not so much striving to make a happy childhood for them, as striving to create evidence that they had had a happy childhood. A baby book full of carefully edited anecdotes and cute dialogue; a photo album of high points and rare good days. Maybe, day to day, they had to cower away from me and my mood swings, and maybe they longed for me to just sit down, relax, and play with them, rather than frantically crafting towers of glorious expectations, and then collapsing in tears when it all caved in under the weight of real life. Maybe so. In the words of an old guide to confession: I am unable to judge the severity of my actions.

Either way, I had some hard evidence. I could point to the salt clay figurines, the stretchy loop potholders, the quirky animal sewing cards I had made just for them, using the back of a Crispix box and my own lifeblood, and I could say, “The proof is here. Only a loving mother would have done this. Remember how I let you make muffins with me, even though you drive me crazy? Let’s laminate this photo of you petting a goat at age 2, and let’s not laminate the memory of me crying over how much money we spent to get in. You liked that goat, you liked it very much. But you won’t remember, so I need to nail it down now, to present to the judge, I mean put in your baby book. And look, you were wearing a dress that I sewed myself.”

Behold, the gulf between love and intentions. Oh, the longing to love, the longing to be loved, the longing to have been loved. Oh, the clumsy swipes we take at that shining, shifting goal of happiness.

We are all, maybe, hoping to pacify the demands of the past, striving to bridge the gulf, to reach back over all those summers and tell our own selves as children, “Yes, you were happy. Here’s the proof.” We’re telling that long-dead teacher, now moldering in the grave, “You wanted an essay? You wanted to know what I did? Here’s my child, and he had fun on his summer vacation. Here’s the evidence you demanded; it’s all there.”

Here are the things I remember about my childhood, along with the vacations and the treats, the parades and the birthday parties — and also along with the mood swings and strife, the tensions and shouting and slammed doors. Here are the things I remember, from summer and from winter, from the long, empty, formless days of vacation and the long, empty, formless days inside the lonely, needy heart of a child looking for some definitive proof of love:

I remember my mother putting down her book (more precious than rubies) and looking me straight in the eye when I called her name. My father pausing for a minute before he answered me, staying silent a little too long, muscling past his first impulse to criticize or refute. My big sisters praising me for so skillfully walking down the stairs with only one foot on each step, instead of two, like babies do. I remember being on skates and being swooped up from behind, just as the floor was looming up to pound in my face. I remember someone holding a pajama zipper away from my belly, protecting my skin as they zipped it up. I remember being protected.

There’s the evidence, and I’m writing it down now.

***

Image: David Prasad via Flickr (Licensed)

[img attachment=”98244″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”whats for supper aleteia” /]

Here is my story about food:

SATURDAY
Korean beef bowl; rice

Yep, Korean beef bowl again. It’s so good!

[img attachment=”115784″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”beef bowl” /]

And what made it taste even better was (a) my husband made it, because I was exhausted from a trip to Colorado followed by grocery shopping and (b) my husband kept marvelling at how exhausting it is to care for kids and cook dinner and run errands, never mind writing about it. Delicious. I mean, gratifying. I mean, I like him.

***

SUNDAY
Sausage subs with peppers and onions

On Sunday, we went to the county fair for six hours! Fun fun fun! I love the fair. And I was so smart: I cooked dinner the night before, so we just had to heat it up when we got home.

[img attachment=”115785″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”sausage subs” /]

Fair food is, of course, hideously expensive and deliciously hideous, so we were strategic about keeping everyone fed and hydrated throughout the day without spending too much and without throwing up.

We had lunch right before we left, and we brought water, juice, candy, and frozen grapes. The frozen grapes are wonderfully sweet and refreshing snack for when you’re out in the hot sun (as long as you have a cooler with you).

Then, after we were pretty much done with the violent rides, everyone got to pick one item of fair food. Benny had her first ever cotton candy and was in paradise.

[img attachment=”115786″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-12 at 11.28.45 AM” /]

The other kids chose fried dough or french fries, and Dora and I had fried pickles.

[img attachment=”115802″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”fried pickles” /]

I’ve seen the sign for years, and always imagined a giant batter fried dill pickle on a stick, which is just silly. But it turns out they cut the pickle into chips and fry them separately, and they were fantastic, if you like that kind of thing. (A clear winner over their other options, fried green beans, fried Oreos, and fried strawberries. That ain’t right.)

At one point, after the pig races but before the free Bibles, my son said, “I want to be a demolition derby driver when I grow up!” and I said, “WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.” But we distracted him with candy and he forgot about it. So like I said, we were there for over six hours, with the goats and the heat and the ring toss heartache and the face painting and the pony rides and the neck-snapper and the upside-downer, and by the time we got home and had supper, all ten kids agreed that it would be prudent to skip dessert. Whew.

***

MONDAY
Blueberry chicken salad; ice cream sundaes

You know how your wife is always telling you that a salad can be really filling and satisfying if it has enough protein in it? Your wife is not crazy (in this regard, anyway). This recipe (from the Blueberry Council, which my kids thought was hilarious) has chicken, blueberries, toasted pecans, red onions, romaine lettuce, feta cheese (the recipe calls for bleu cheese, but I didn’t think the kids would like it) and a dijon vinaigrette dressing.

[img attachment=”115801″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”blueberry salad” /]

Really delicious, and also pretty.

I did owe them dessert, so we had hot caramel sundaes.

***

TUESDAY
Giant pancake with accidental blackberry jam; sausages

One box of pancake mix, plus cinnamon and some of our lovely homemade vanilla extract. Mix it with water until it looks right, throw it in a buttered pan, and bake for a while. Cut in wedges. It’s sort of like a muffin scone cake pancake thing, and it fills up enough of the plate that I feel like I can call it “dinner” without too much shame.

Here’s a pic with a terrible camera:

[img attachment=”115788″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”blackberry jam” /]

The blackberry jam was homemade. Homemade, I tell you! We have ten thousand wild blackberry bushes, so I told the kids that if they picked enough berries, we could make syrup. Not jam, since every time I try to make jam, it ends up being syrup, no matter what recipe I use, what kind of pectin I use, how carefully I employ a candy thermometer, etc. We always end up with thin syrup: grape syrup, chokecherry syrup, even dandelion syrup. The only exception was when we tried to make maple syrup, and ended up with maple-flavored scouring solution, full of ashes and grit.

So I threw the blackberries in a pot, mashed them a bit, added some water and vanilla extract and sugar, and let it simmer for a good long time. Then I left the house for some errands and completely forgot that the stove was on. Came back, saw that the house was still standing, and threw a little butter into the pot and let it simmer some more. Then we poured the syrup into a jar and put it in the fridge, and forgot about it for several days.

So, that’s how you make jam, apparently. What do you know about that?

***

WEDNESDAY
Ham, cheese, and mushroom omelettes; watermelon

I feel like there was a story here, but I forget what.

***

THURSDAY
Chicken quesadillas, frijoles, tortilla chips, corn on the cob

I abused, maligned, perverted, shamed and defamed my friend Elizabeth’s Cuban grandmother’s recipe so badly, I won’t even reproduce it here. But look at my pretty red plate!

[img attachment=”115799″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”quesadillas” /]

***
FRIDAY
Pasta or something

The perfect meal for when you stayed up late with a bunch of callow youth to watch the Perseids that never really turned up, and then the baby wanted to nurse for several hours, and then it’s super hot but someone stole your fan, so, rather than sleep, you had a four-hour medium-sized panic attack about children leaving the nest, and then there was this terrible fly that wouldn’t leave your face alone (AND MAY HAVE GOTTEN STUCK IN YOUR EAR). Then you doze for three hours with the baby sitting on your head and repeatedly stealing your nose, which would be cuter if someone would trim her fingernails.

Bye, Friday! Bye!

[img attachment=”115800″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-12 at 11.32.23 AM” /]

The UPS man just dropped off something I ordered with reluctance and gloom. It’s stuff called “Professional Anti-Aging Skin Cleaning Serum,” and it’s for my stupid old face. It comes in a little dark brown bottle, to keep the light from getting in.

There’s nothing wrong with taking care of your skin, of course; and there’s nothing wrong with feeling a little low when the mirror tells you that you are, indeed, aging. These attacks of gloom happen to most of us, and it’s all right to try and fight back.

It’s all right to get old, too. It’s all right to show the world your naked face, aged and dingy as it is, and just to let people look at you as you are. If the 21st century can learn to forgive a woman for hitting age 40, then the 21st century gets a gold star from me. The whole “I yam what I yam” movement has made my morning routine so much simpler.

And if I still do feel the urge to be attractive, I just think of poor, suffering Marya Bolkonskaya with the heavy tread, who was plain and dull when she thought about herself, but transfigured, radiant, when she thought of other people. Other people, imagine that!

Still, some days, it’s just me and the mirror, me looking at me, and me looking back, and neither one of us is well pleased.

Well, today is the feast of the wonderful Saint Clare, who faced down the Saracens — or, rather, she let Jesus face them down while she prayed before Him.

The mercenary hordes were trying to breach the convent walls where she was abbess, so she had the Blessed Sacrament carried out to the gate where the enemy could see it. As she prayed, the enemy was seized with a nameless dread. They panicked and ran away.

Why? I suppose because He looked at them, and they didn’t want Him to see them. It was intolerable, too beautiful, too threatening. As they were, what they were — rapists, thieves, murderers for hire — as they were, they could not let Him look at them, and so they fled.

We know what happens when The Almighty looks upon you in your lowliness. Moses had to wear a veil over his face after he encountered God, because the Israelites couldn’t bear that radiance. And that was radiance once removed: it was to protect them from seeing the face of someone who had seen God. What if they tried to look at God Himself?

What if they let God look at them? Intolerable.

So God did veil Himself. He did cover His unbearably radiant face so we could bear it, taking on a human body — and even further, taking on the appearances of bread and wine, so that we could bear to look at Him, and we could bear (sometimes) to let Him look at us.

Even in this form, doubly veiled as a consecrated Host, the mere sight of Him mounted on the gates of St. Clare’s convent was terrifying. Blinding. Too much to bear.

And when the attack is over and the enemy has been driven away, we are left to ask ourselves what happened. Who are we, that we are worth protecting? What does God see, when He looks at us?

I do want to be transfigured. I do want to be clean. I want to be brightened — not just in my dingy old pores, but deeper down, deeper than that. “I yam what I yam,” I bleat to the Almighty. “What will you do with me?”

“Don’t think about that,” He says. “Look at Me. I am.”

***

Image: Aimee Vogelsang via Unsplash