Chirky

Visiting a city like Washington, D.C., where so much of our nation’s history has been determined, we figured there would be lots to do. We knew we wouldn’t have enough time to call on even a quarter of the places on our list. We already planned on several more trips, over several more years, so we could take it all in.

But we didn’t know we would be so charmed by the city and each of its micro-burbs, like Georgetown and Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle. We hadn’t planned on adding Washington, D.C. to the ever-growing list of Places We Would Consider Moving To. We didn’t know we’d be so enamored by how clean the subway system was.

I didn’t realize how patriotic I would feel, how my chest would swell with pride knowing that I was examining the very artifacts and statuesque faces that set our country’s freedom into motion.

We spent a morning in the Holocaust Museum. My second visit was just as somber as my first.

We hopped on a Tourmobile and visited the Jefferson and Lincoln monuments, re-enacting the post-Vietnam scene from Forrest Gump (but without wading through the reflecting pool), calling out Jeeennnnaaayyyyyyy!

We stood quietly during the changing of the guard at Arlington Cemetery, and I was struck with respect for these men who have the honor of guarding the Unknown Soldier’s tomb.

We walked along the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, looking for the names of those who served alongside my father.

We strolled the perimeter of the White House, peering through bars and wondering whether the President ever got annoyed by the throngs of people. I mean, I would if thousands of people stood outside my home each day.

We drove along Embassy Row, marveling at the differences between each country’s embassy. We wondered whether each country buys the land and building, or if the United States gives the building to that country’s ambassador. We never found out.

We were stunned by the architecture of the Washington National Cathedral, gleaming white with grotesques and gargoyles standing at attention. The choir practiced as we wandered, making the cathedral even more angelic. We toured the building, and while we were in the sanctuary our guide audibly gasped and in a hushed voice, said Oh my goodness. Everyone look up at the rose window right now.

We obeyed, slowly turning around, uncertain what would greet us. A bright light, brighter than the sun filtering through the stained glass, glinted down. As we moved around the room, the light turned from the brightest white to a royal blue to a deep purple.

The man who made this window loved his wife dearly. She died while he was constructing the design, at exactly 5:25. Distraught, and wanting to memorialize her, he placed this special glass in the window. The glass was situated in the lower right corner, just where the 5:25 index is on a clock. This is only the second time in eight years I have seen it glowing. The sun has to hit it just right, and you have be standing in just the right place at just the right time, to catch a glimpse of it. That moment was one of the most memorable of our trip.

Without question, though, what I reminisce upon most tenaciously were the bikers. The Rolling Thunder motorcycle group came from all over the nation – a local told us they saw license plates from as far away as Alaska – to take part in an annual ride in memory of fallen comrades. What started as a salute to Vietnam soldiers now encompasses other wars, like those in Desert Storm and Iraq.

About 100,000 Harleys infiltrated the streets of Washington, D.C., and on Sunday morning they rode. They rode with American flags trailing behind their motorcycles, they rode with POW and MIA flags fluttering in the wind. They rode with pride, with the memory of their brothers. They circumnavigated the Mall, thousands and thousands and thousands of them, the noise from their pipes bone-rattling loud, and I couldn’t NOT cheer.

image © Matthew Whatley, used with permission

I cheered in memory of my own father, remembering the stories he told me about the unwelcome retaliation he received for being a soldier. How he, as a Navy SEAL, returned home to endure people spitting on him as he walked through the airport in his fatigues. I cheered because these are people who served our country so long ago, who fought so that I, and so that others I do not even know, could have freedom. They fought so that others might not live under oppression. They fought, and they deserve our respect.

I did not know that I would stand in the road, so close that my hair would whip around my face, and shed tears with each passing veteran.

But I did, unashamed.

(The entire set is available on Flickr.)

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It's been a couple years since I've made a New Year's Resolution (more on that later), mainly because I find myself making resolutions throughout the year - why save them up for one day? Plus, that's kind of overwhelming. I'd rather amortize them throughout the 365 days.

This year, however, is different. This year, I'm making a resolution.

You see, I get frustrated living in Dallas because I'm not the typical Dallasite.

1. I rarely hit the mall on the weekends (hate the crowds)
2. I don't dress in the trendiest fashions (I prefer classic styles, styles that -- while super-cute right now -- won't cause me to cringe when I flip through photos several years from now)
3. I don't visit the latest and greatest "hot spot" bars in the city (which is probably also the reason I don't ever know what to order at a bar. I can count on my fingers the number of drinks I know by name, and prefer to order a drink that goes something like this: "I'd like something pink, sweet and fruity, and I don't want to be able to taste the alcohol." And then I bat my eyelashes and smile sweetly. It often works, but every once in a while a disgruntled bartender flares his nostrils and rolls his eyes at me)

I do, however, love to explore. And I'm beginning to think that the reason I dislike Dallas (in favor of San Francisco, for example) so much is because I don't know what all the city has to offer -- even though I've lived here for twenty years. I haven't taken the time to explore its nooks and crannies, the way I explore cities when I'm on vacation.

Over the last year, I've taken my four-year-old nephew to a few attractions around town - we've gone to the Neiman Marcus Children's Parade, visited the 20-foot interactive snowglobe at Willow Bend, examined dinosaur remains at Fair Park and explored the train display at North Park. I still want to take him for a ride on the Tarantula Train (a train that runs between Grapevine and Fort Worth Stockyards).

And so this year, I'm resolving to Get Out There.

For example, I've only visited the shopping district at Lovers and the Tollway once - ONCE - and that was only to eat at a burrito bar. I'd like to poke my head in the shops and see what that area has to offer.

When I was researching the Tarantula Train, I learned that Grapevine has a pretty cool little downtown area and some of the best wineries in our area (which should seem obvious, given the town's name).

It's been years since I've visited either the Stockyards OR Sundance Square during the day. (Often, it's at night before dinner or a performance at the Bass.)

And I've never been to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas.

I'm making a list, checking it twice. I want to discover Dallas the way a tourist might discover Dallas - after all, it is the city I live in. I should know what the city has to offer.

With that in mind, what do you know about Dallas? Where should I visit? What MUST I do? What have you done and loved? Where are your favorite dives?

I'm begging you to flood me with your ideas, because right now my list is awfully sparse.

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My family got our first computer in the early 1980s. It had a hideous quad-panel Windows system and came with a programming book that taught us how to code in DOS to create swirls across the monitor. And though it was low-tech compared to today's standards, it was the most amazing thing we'd ever seen. (Technologically speaking, I mean.)

Soon we graduated to playing family Quest games - namely, King's Quest, Space Quest and Police Quest. (And guess what?!? Roger knew how much I loved those games and got them for me last Christmas! The games have been reprogrammed to work on Windows XP. Long live 1985!) Then there were the educational programs, like Macon Beavis Typing. (Or was it Beavis Macon? Whatever.)

Ever since then, I've been (a) obsessed with inserting two spaces between every sentence I type and (b) traumatized by having to push the Shift key opposite the letter I'm attempting to capitalize. Does anyone actually use the Shift key on the right? Because I can't be the only one who feels this way.

In my new job I'm being re-programmed to use only one space between sentences, and it's almost killing me. How do I conquer this? For now I have turned on that little paragraph-icon key so that I every time I hit the space bar it inserts a mark. And then I painstakingly look for double marks and delete one of them. By the end of the day my nostrils are flaring and I can begin to see permanent creases across my forehead.

So I'm taking a survey: Do you insert one or two spaces between sentences?

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There is something about me – something deep within me that believes all things and hopes all things that are for the greater good. There’s something about me that faces reality, cocks my head to the side, and then examines that truth from a different perspective. A perspective of hope. Of trusting beyond hope for what seems insurmountable. I dream of big things, of the unlikely, of miracles, even. I do believe in miracles, because my life is full of them. I’m a walking testimony of everything that is good in this world, despite the evil that lurks…waiting. And tonight I was reminded of that good.

When I saw my brother’s name on my caller ID, I didn’t think anything of it. It’s not common for us to call each other and chat, aside from the occasional question about plans to get together. With Thanksgiving approaching, I figured he was calling about our plans for the holiday. Which is why I was surprised when he put someone else on the phone, without much of an introduction at all.

In fact, when I first started talking to the child, I didn’t even know who it was. And I do mean “it” – I wasn’t even sure if I was talking to a boy or a girl. At first I thought my brother was at my sister’s house and had decided to put my nephew on the phone. And then the little girl told me her name was Lexi. The name plundered through the accordion files of my mind – I had heard that name on several occasions before. I even recalled repeating it to myself, long ago. Was that his next door neighbor’s daughter? Why was I talking to her?

And then she started telling me things she knew about my childhood. Stories that had been written in hot Texas summers and cemented in the minds of my cousins, my brother and myself. It occurred to me who Lexi was: the daughter of my oldest cousin, Rachel. Rachel was more like a sister to me than a cousin. I had always looked up to her. She was someone I had shared my room with for several months while she was in high school and I was in middle school. Rachel. My heart fluttered. Could it be? I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly thirteen years.

Thirteen years since her father, my uncle, had died.

Thirteen years since our families had a falling-out over something that my teenage mind couldn’t understand. I still don’t.

Thirteen years of life, of memories, of time lost.

I had written her letters that went unanswered, never knowing why. I still don’t.

My brother, while traveling near her home on business, spent his evenings searching for her.

He found her.

Thirteen years later, and her voice sounds just the same. I can picture her freckled face, her straight button nose, her high cheekbones, her arched eyebrows. My ears get hot, a lump forms in my throat, my face flushes. Before I can prevent it from happening, my forehead wrinkles and lips purse. My bottom lip juts out, tears spill from wells in my eyes. Something in my heart feels broken.

I’ve wanted to talk to her for so long. I’ve wanted to reconnect for more months than I care to count. I wondered if I, too, was being written off with the rest of my family, punished for an argument from so long ago, an argument that I wasn’t even a part of.

If marriage to my husband has taught me one thing, it is that it’s okay – healthy, even – to articulate exactly how I’m feeling. And so I did.

I told Rachel that I missed her. Hot tears fell. My voice cracked. She missed me, too. Her voice cracked. She asked if my hair was still long. Long, and curly, I replied. I told her I married three and a half years ago. Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks. I wished that she had been there for that.

We talked for forty one minutes. The phone beeped, then disconnected. I stared at it, willing her to call me back. Call me back. Call me back. Call me back.

She did.

The battery had depleted and she had to run outside, climb in my brother’s rental car and plug the phone in to continue the conversation. We talked for another forty nine minutes. I cried the entire time.

I mourned the loss of our relationship. I sobbed because she was found again. I can’t stop crying, off and on, off and on, and now I’m not even sure why. I have high hopes for redeveloping our friendship. I dream of the day our families are reunited. But for now, I’m content just knowing that she’s still out there, thinking of my brother and me, telling her children about the fun we used to have together.

Miracles happen every day. Even if they don’t occur to me, or to you, they still happen.

Tonight was mine.

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My in-laws arrive today from South Carolina, which means that for the past several days I've been in a list-making frenzy.

I've made chore lists (clean, clean and clean, because we're turning our study – remember all the boxes? – into a proper bedroom). And I've made grocery lists ($141 later, I think I can feed an army. Albeit a very small one. Maybe just a platoon.).

Caddo Lake

I've made activity lists (including picnicking at and paddling around Caddo Lake). And after planning meals, I'm fairly certain I'll need an elastic waistband after this weekend. I'm most excited about the meals and have appropriately hung the final list on our refrigerator. I'm a little obsessed with good food and excited that their entire stay with us is going to be a culinary delight. To wit:

We're planning on tender, juicy steaks that will melt like butter in our mouths, spicy Tex-Mex, because there's no better place than Texas to get good Mexican food (except maybe Mexico itself), Roger will be barbequing ribs that are robust and tangy and fall off the bone, but still have little crisps around the edges (we got the recipe from my brother-in-law, and believe me: they're well worth the hour-long wait), and then there's my most recent cuisine infatuation, Indian. I've sacrificially sampled three new Indian restaurants in the past couple of weeks, just to be sure of our selection. Granted, there are dozens more to try, but I figure they can wait until next month. (Good news: next month begins in only four days.)

All this to say, we have a very full weekend ahead. One that I hope will not involve the tipping of canoes. (I'm looking at you, Dad.)

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Some of my favorite childhood memories involve baking goodies with my mom, or decorating tins upon tins of Christmas cookies with my grandmother. It's no wonder that I've turned out to be the sort of cook that I am: the sort of cook that rarely bothers to measure ingredients, the sort of cook who'd rather wing it and pray for the best. I watched as they whipped up silky batches of mashed potatoes and juicy, fall-off-the-bone roasts and perfectly salted homemade popcorn, the kind made in the iron skillet that burst from under the lid as it grew more and more fluffy, begging to be released into the giant wooden bowl for our consumption.

For the past few years I have been making birthday cakes for my family and friends, a tradition passed down to me by my mom. I've taken it a step further, incorporating candies for texture and dimension and dominating the icing, bending it to my will.

Both my niece and my nephew celebrated birthdays over the past two weekends, and I commemorated their special days with special cakes of their own.

My mom with Annabel

Annabel, my niece, turned one. Her motor skills aren't exactly fine-tuned yet, so I thought cupcakes should be the order of the day. That way she could eat her cake – face first or fingers first, it didn't matter – and we could, too.

Each cake was double the width of a traditional cupcake
(Click to enlarge)

I made butterflies, dragonflies, bumblebees and ladybugs. I used icing for decoration, sour straws for texture, M&Ms candies for the ladybug dots, licorice rope for the antennae, jumbo sprinkles for the eyeballs, edible glitter for a little shimmer and giant sugar crystals just because I could. Who doesn't love giant sugar crystals?

CLICK THUMBNAILS FOR LARGER IMAGES

Bumblebee


Butterfly


Dragonfly


Ladybug

Chase, my nephew, turned four. For the entire month leading up to his birthday, all he could talk about was a shark cake.

Chase, The Birthday Boy

I scoured the Internet and didn't turn up much, so I created the shark myself. Or, I should say Roger helped me create it, since he drew up the blue prints for the shark. Something about being a guy and watching too much of the Discovery channel made our shark a little fearsome.

Snaggly-toothed shark
(Click to enlarge)

For the shark, I decided to make two separate cakes: a white cake for the ocean, a red velvet cake for the shark's body. That way, when you cut into the shark, it would look like blood. And if there's anything a four-year-old boy wants to see, it's blood.

Bloody!
(Click to enlarge)

I made the red velvet cake in a loaf pan, so that we could carve it into the shape of a shark. I used the white tips of candy corns for its teeth, and smoothed icing over its body for a sleek look. Roger cut a licorice wheel into the shape of a fin, which we connected to a toothpick and then covered in icing before attaching to the shark's body.

Leaping out of the water
(Click to enlarge)

All the cakes took a loooong time to make, but it was so worth it to see the reaction of the guests at each party when they stole their first glance at dessert. It was so worth it to watch Annabel grab her dragonfly by the handful and squeal in delight when her fingers pressed through the mushy icing. It was so worth it to see Chase's eyes light up and turn to me in wonder when the first cut was made into the shark's body.

These are new memories in the making, not only for the younger generation of my family, but for me as well.

Comments and questions regarding these cakes and others can be directed to jes(AT)chirky(DOT)com.

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For the past couple days I've been trying to figure out how to sum up our trip to San Francisco. In a word: Fabulous. It was more than everything we thought it would be, if that is possible, since we had high expectations. And if you told us that we had to return tomorrow or never again, I think we might both head straight home, pack up everything we could possibly fit in our collective suitcases, and go.

I can't possibly renumerate to you the number of times my thoughts drift back toward our few days there, how often I send silent pleas to God in hopes that Roger will be offered a position soon, how frequently I've found myself on Craigslist looking at apartments, or how many times I've redesigned in my mind's eye what our moving announcements might look like. I am already planning weekend trips to Muir Woods and picnics to nearby beaches and the places we'll take our family when they come to visit. The problem is that we don't even live in California. Yet.

And that's why I want to give you a little piece of advice, Internet: If you've never visited San Francisco, don't. She'll seduce you like a kid in a candy store. She'll overload your senses with the sights and sounds and smells of her city. She'll give you just enough to leave you full and satisfied, but you'll still find yourself wanting a little more. And just when you're starting to get the hang of things – maybe you're finally pronouncing Haight correctly (note to Non-San Franciscans: it rhymes with "late," not "kite") or perhaps you've finally figured out which bus line to take without first asking every driver whether you're getting on the correct vehicle – she'll turn you out to make room for more visitors. As you walk away from her, your shoulders hung low, you'll discover that you're already trying to figure out how quickly you can return.

And perhaps that is the best way I can sum up our trip to San Francisco. We're stuck in limbo, asking ourselves how quickly we'll be able to return.

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I never had allergies until I lived with a roommate who owned two cats. And then another girl moved in, with two more cats, which made the human to cat ratio in our home about four times higher than I could withstand. For the past seven years I've blamed my allergies on those cats, though I counted myself fortunate that my allergies were limited to only one short season. Recently, I learned that I was wrong.

For the past couple of weeks my eyes have itched – a tickly itch I couldn't ignore – right at the hairline of my eyelashes. Initially, I assumed I had developed a sudden mascara allergy, so I threw away my favorite mascara (How could I have been so stupid?) and I switched brands. (Seriously. The stupidity. Sometimes it overwhelms me.)

When the allergy didn't dissipate, I threw away my contact lenses, certain that a new pair would solve my problem. It didn't. That is why this weekend, in a moment of desperation and against my better judgment, I asked my mom for advice.

She told me I wouldn't like her answer, which meant that I already knew what she would say. (Remember the late-night incident of 2006?) It involved one of two ingredients: baking soda or apple cider vinegar. I groaned. Not skipping a beat, she told me to dilute a tiny bit of apple cider vinegar in water, and then use a Q-tip to rub it along each of my eyelids. I looked at her like she was crazy, knowing that the vinegar would sting like the claws of a thousand feral cats dancing across each of my delicate irises. (Like TNT, I Know Drama.)

Weighing my options, I decided that the vinegar blend might be a better route than I had previously taken, especially if my original course had me on the path to throw away the rest of my makeup. That's why two nights ago, when Roger watched me retrieve the vinegar, he began to lament: "Great. That's so sexy. Tell your mom THANKS A LOT for making me lie next to a human-sized dill pickle all night long."

From the bathroom, I rolled my eyes and opened the bottle. The stench hit me like a Mack truck slamming into a brick wall. I considered how much of the vinegar I should dilute, remembered how desperate I was, and decided: None. When I do something, it's never half-hearted. I am the Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor of home therapy. I take my vinegar straight up, full strength, none of this pansy-footing around with diluted liquid. I dipped the cotton swab directly into the bottle and swept the wetted cotton in a circle around my eye.

And then I died: It felt like red-hot coals were searing my cornea.

It's been only two days, and my eyes are back to normal. And now that I've purged my makeup bag of its mascara, it's time for me to visit the Mothership at last (and I'm taking suggestions).

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When I was in seventh grade, my mom brought home a jar of capers from the market. I had never heard of capers, which look like pickled peas – and ironically, they are pickled, but they're not peas. Capers are tiny flower buds from a caper shrub (either pickled in vinegar or brined in salt), and when you think of it that way, don't the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? My mom always taught me not to eat berries off of bushes, LEST I DIE – and as I rotated the jar in my hands I realized why she had purchased them.

Attached to the jar was a small fluorescent sticker that advertised the product for only seventy-five cents.

I can see myself now: hand on hip, hip cocked out to the side, impossibly frizzy hair. I laughed, teased my mom, and then asked her what she would cook using the capers. She didn't know, she said, which only instigated more teasing.

For that, I would like to apologize, Mom. I finally understand the joy you take in grocery shopping, and even more so, I identify with the exhilaration you feel when you find items not only on sale, BUT ON CLEARANCE.

I understand this because the genes I inherited from you have matured, and I am the same. I am you, and it is not my worst nightmare, like my twelve-year-old mind used to believe it would be. It is a privilege that I'm like you. And one day, I am sure my own children will release high-pitched giggles and tease me incessantly when I purchase a container of corn smut, or whatever new food I find at the store and decide to bring home.

Since then, my mom has always kept a jar of capers in her pantry. Maybe it is a reminder to herself to always be on the lookout for new, exotic foods to try. Perhaps it serves as a reminder of my brother and I. Or maybe she's still trying to convince me that she actually cooks with capers. (Maybe I'll just stop speculating and call her to ask.)

Jes: "Mom, do you remember the time you bought those capers?"
Mom: "What? No. What are you talking about?"
Jes: (exasperated) "Mom. You can't not remember."
Mom: "…"
Jes: "Mom!! I've teased you about that for the past fifteen years! How can you not remember?"
Mom: (playfully) "Maybe the teasing was so painful I blocked it from my memory."
Jes: "Whatever."
[Refresh her memory. Laugh.]
"Mom, why do you keep buying capers?"
Mom: "I keep thinking I'll figure out something to do with them."
Jes: (clickety-clack, clickety-clack)
Mom: "Are you typing? Jessica Lynne…"

I've eaten capers in several dishes, all prepared by an executive chef and not by my mother, and lo: they were good. So, for my mom, who taught me to love all types of food from every different culture, I give you this recipe: Buca di Beppo's Chicken Saltimbocca, quite possibly the best dish on the restaurant's menu. (And finally, a recipe that involves capers!)

About: THIS DISH
The word "saltimbocca" means "jump into the mouth." This recipe is aptly named, because this delicious dish (pounded with Prosciutto and massaged with sage) seems to fly from your plate to your mouth.

About: CAPERS
The flavor of capers is piquant and lemony. Capers add pungency to Mediterranean dishes like pasta sauces, pizza, fish, meats and salads. They go well with olives, arugula, anchovies and artichokes.

CHICKEN SALTIMBOCCA

INGREDIENTS
4 (5 ounce) chicken breasts
4 thin slices Prosciutto ham
1 tablespoon fresh sage
3 ounces (1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp.) olive oil
1 ounce (2 Tbsp.) all-purpose flour
5 ounces (2/3 c.) artichoke hearts, quartered
1/2 ounce (1 Tbsp.) capers
4 ounces (1/2 c.) white wine
2 ounces (1/4 c.) fresh lemon juice
2 ounces (1/4 c.) heavy cream
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon salt

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Lightly salt chicken breasts.
2. Sprinkle chicken breasts evenly with chopped sage.
3. Place sliced Prosciutto on top the chicken and pound it into the breast until the thickness of the chicken measures approximately 3/8-inch.
4. Heat olive oil in a saute pan.
5. Lightly flour chicken pressed with prosciutto.
6. Place chicken in heated oil, Prosciutto side down.
7. Brown one side, turn and brown the other side.
8. Drain off excess oil, and deglaze with 4 ounces of white wine.
9. Add artichokes, fresh lemon juice, cream and butter and cook until sauce is thickened.

On a large platter, place chicken breasts topped with sauce and garnish with capers.

Serves: 4

Source: Chef Vittorio Renda, Buca di Beppo

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My mom is notorious for her shopping skillz. To wit:

1. Several weeks ago, she called me and asked me to go shopping with her for jeans. I jumped at the chance because she never shops for herself and I wanted to witness it. I walked away from the mall with two very large, very full, very heavy bags of clothes. She walked away with one small(ish) bag.

2. A week and a half after that excursion, she called because she was out shopping again. Apparently she had run into quite the sale, and wanted to inform me that she bought me several pairs of underthings, and did I mind that she couldn’t find any nude-colored bras?

3. This weekend she unloaded on me two boxes of Special K cereal and one pair of quite fancy kitchen shears.

I’ve always loved shopping with my mom because she has a nose for bargains – if there is one to be had, she’ll find it. Which is how I ended up with one pair of freakishly large underwear.

Continue reading "The One In Which I Discuss My Underwear In Too Great Of Detail" »

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When I was in 3rd grade, I would brush my hair from the crown of my head to just below my ears. My ears marked the location where my hair inexplicably morphed into a knotted maze of locks. This barrier prevented my brush from going any further, so naturally, I stopped brushing.

I would literally pull my brush out of my hair, horizontally, and just start at the top again, repeating the pattern until my hair, for the most part, was brushed. (What more can you expect from an eight-year-old?)

After listening to me yell and scream one day after attempting to brush through the tangles, my dad loaded me into the car and promptly drove me to a hair salon. He plopped me down in a large leather seat and gave the stylist these instructions:

"I want you to cut her hair off above the tangles. ALL OF IT."

She looked at dad, and then at the tears in my eyes, and then at him, and then gave in to the more threatening of the two of us.

Dad.

I don't remember her washing my hair and trying to detangle it. I only remember sitting in the giant leather chair, covered by a long plastic bib, watching the scissors cut through my gnarled tresses.

The kids at school said I looked like a mushroom, and I did. I hated that haircut, and at the time thought my father was the meanest man alive for causing such a thing to happen.

It was a moment in my life that was marred by trauma. And that trauma would follow me into adulthood.

Apparently, I still haven't learned my lesson. I still go too long between cuts, and every few months when I break down crying to Roger because "Iiiiiiiii hhaaattteeeeee mmmyyyyyyyy haaaaaaaiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," we both know it's time for me to get a cut.

Yesterday marked eight months since I last cut my hair. My personal record is two and a half years – can you imagine the tangles and the stomping and the yelling? – and last night when I visited my stylist, I had forgotten how closely a simple haircut resembles the feeling of freedom. The burden is lifted, hallelujah!

I sank into her chair and began our session by apologizing:

"Rhonda, I just want you to know that I haven't washed my hair in five days because when I wash my hair, that means I have to brush my hair, and when I brush my hair, I have to deal with the tangles. And I just can't contend with the tangles."

(She stared at me.)

"So you have my full permission to just cut a tangle out when you're trying to comb through my hair. Really. It's okay. I would do the same thing if I were you."

By the end of the evening, ringlets were scattered across the floor beneath me – but none were chock-full of tangles. I've finally found a hair stylist in Dallas willing to work through my tangles, willing to teach me how to keep my hair long and luscious, willing to be patient with my hair when I can't bear to cope with it any longer.

And then I realized: like father, like daughter.

(Plus: a purse full of free samples. Score!)

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This morning my eyes popped open at 5:45 am. I couldn't stand it anymore - I just had to get in the kitchen and start on the Thanksgiving turkey.

Is anyone else as excitable about cooking as I am? We need to meet. Wanna be neighbors?

I hope each of you have a delightful Thanksgiving - a day filled with good food, gracious friends, loving family, and full hearts. Speaking of, what are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?

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Tomorrow morning, for the third year in a row, I am cooking the turkey for Thanksgiving. Doing this each year reinforces the fact that I Am An Adult Now, an adult who should not try to take a nap while my mom washes the dishes. She tries to help reinforce that fact wherever she can, sometimes in the form of pots banging together above my head.

Anyone want to come over for Thanksgiving? I dare you to take a nap.

My mom is practically a goddess in the kitchen. I grew up not with a few favorite dishes, but with an arsenal of cuisines and meals my mom had created over the years. I am so thankful that she introduced me to so many different types of foods, because it helped me become the woman I am today: one who eagerly eats chicken feet (with talons!). That said, I am not a picky eater. I maintain that I will always try anything once, including pig intestines, particularly if I don't know what I am eating before it goes into my mouth.

The first year I made the Thanksgiving turkey, I was somewhat nervous. My mom had only requested that I bake a small turkey, about 8 pounds. Meanwhile, she made an enormous honey-baked ham to use as back-up in case my turkey tasted like an overcooked piece of tar. You know the meat I'm talking about: the kind that you chew and immediately wish you hadn't put in your mouth? The kind that you regret putting on your plate because how will you get it off without eating it and without your host noticing that you couldn't swallow one more foul (fowl? Ha!) mouthful?

When I arrived at my mother's home that morning, she was delightfully surprised that the turkey was golden brown rather than charred black. It smelled perfectly edible, and when she cut into it juices ran down the back of the small bird's body. By the end of the day, guests were picking the meat off the bones and commenting on how delicious it was, how perfectly moist it was, how in their 76 years of life they had not eaten a turkey as good as that one.

I shot my mom a smug look and a raised eyebrow, the look that I've trademarked over the years, and she beamed with pride. Her daughter could cook. And when I told her the recipe came from a local radio DJ, she didn't believe me.

The next year I used the same recipe to roast a 17 pound turkey, and the turkey turned out equally well. This year, I am making a 22 pound turkey. TWENTY TWO POUNDS. That's, like, the weight of my nephew.

I'm all about minimal work, fool-proof recipes, and impressing people. And this recipe for our annual Thanksgiving turkey (courtesy of the Kidd Kraddick in the Morning radio show) has it all. Whether you're looking to showcase your mad cooking skillz while entertaining a house full of guests or you just want your mother-in-law to adore you, read on for the recipe. But chef beware: keep a large supply of pillows on-hand. That tryptophan will seduce turkey eaters into slumber every time.

Continue reading "Thanksgiving Turkey" »

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Roger and I are beginning to plan for parenthood, and are wondering: How much longer should we wait? How old should I be?

(Current age: 28.
Current years of marriage: 2.5.
Current number of pets: 0.
Current loads of laundry left to do at home: 3.)

I'm depending on you, Internets, to help me run my life.

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I think Roger has begun eating grapenuts cereal just to spite me. He went to the store, found the healthiest cereal possible, and eats a bowl whenever I eat ice cream.

I thought a good solution to the problem would be just to sprinkle a few grapenuts on my slow-churned chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce.

The grapenuts were so crunchy they nearly chipped a tooth, but weren't alltogether horrible when paired with my dessert.

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This weekend I…

…and determined (yet again) that GAH: I need to move out of Dallas. The rest of the world is just too beautiful.

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Not many people can make a smooth segue from a cute little snuggly baby-kuns to a man marrying a goat.

I'll do it here for you:

This guy? In Sudan? He was caught having sex with a goat. And then he was forced to marry it.

Quick! Cute picture of my niece to soothe you!

(Annabel is as shocked by this story as I am.)

What - that wasn't enough? You want more? Of the story? Gah, dude. You're sick:

Sudan man forced to 'marry' goat

A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.

The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.

They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.

"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.

Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat. [Sounds like a bit of pre-Valentine's Day lovin' to me.]

"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".

Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.

"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper.

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/africa/4748292.stm
Published: 2006/02/24 16:40:00 GMT
© BBC MMVI
[italics mine]

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Are you totally bored of looking at other people's kids on the Internet?

No?

What about other people's pictures of other people's kids?

What? You're confused?

Whatever.

Me too.

But look at this:

(One hour after she was born)

My niece!

Annabel was born Monday afternoon, September 11, 2006.

She's sweet as pie and I love to gobble up her tiny dimples and pinchable baby cheeks. Her thighs are always swaddled, so I haven't been able to munch on those yet.

Technorati: baby, babies, birth, parenting, child

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When I was single, I promised myself that when I was married there would be certain things my husband would never know:

1. He wouldn't know that I bleach the little hairs on my upper lip.
   
2. He wouldn't know sometimes smelly gases escape my body.
   
3. He wouldn't know that, when I'm sick, I stuff tissues up my nose and let them hang there because I'm tired of blowing my runny nose.
   
4. He certainly wouldn't know that, in moments of desperation, I revert to my mom's secret ingredient: apple cider vinegar.

My mom is convinced that either baking soda or apple cider vinegar will fix or clean almost anything. When I was a teenager, she would mix a concoction of water and the vinegar, dab it onto a cotton ball, and sometimes chase me around the house trying to help me "dry up those pimples."

Continue reading "My Mom's Home Remedies, or Why I Ended Up With Cotton Taped To My Face Last Night" »

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When I was younger, I begrudgingly went shopping with my mom at yard sales. I likened it to hell because of the hot, burning sun boring down on the roof of the car, in which I undeniably slumped my body and crossed my arms in protest. I would stare out the window, watching my mother, hoping she would see how miserable and pathetic I was. I secretly hoped she would come to my rescue and say, "You don't want to do this, honey? Let's go to the movies instead!"

Rather, she would come to the window, knock on it, and crouch down to tell me in a sweet, motherly tone that I should at least roll the window down so I would have fresh air. She would invite me to come look around if only to get out of the hot car – had I known that was a ploy of hers to get me shopping, I certainly wouldn't have done it – and I would undoubtedly find a couple books or a skirt or some decorative item for my room.

When I was little, I hated those days. Now that I'm older, I cherish my memories of them. I still (albeit rarely) go yard sale hopping with my mom and I love watching her milling around, looking at someone else's belongings, whittling the price of a Pottery Barn mirror (great condition, original tag still affixed on the back of it: $69) down from the marked price of $10 to a mere $4.

From my mother, I learned the skill of bargaining. She is the reason that I prefer to shop the sale racks at the mall: if I only have $100 to spend, wouldn't I rather have 3 shirts, a new skirt and a couple pairs of slacks from the racks in preference to the one pair of jeans I could buy otherwise?

Continue reading "Now on my business card: Chirky, B.E." »

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The last few days have been weepy and awkward. I’ve felt the highs of joy, excitement and contentedness, and I have felt the lows of restlessness, sadness, numbness. And I have no tangible reason for my emotions.

And, no, I'm not pregnant.

My family members are healthy. I have a nice (albeit sometimes boring) job. My husband is the most amazing guy I know – I’ve never felt so secure or so loved by another person.

Today, I am 28 years old. I do not know what the day has in store. I do know that, so far, my life has not been the culmination of prettiness and perfection that I once imagined as a fur-coat-wearing child. And yes, that was real fur, rabbit fur, because my grandmother knew what every four-year-old girl truly wants: pearls and rabbit fur and to prance around in her mama's stilettos and lipstick.

I’ve never been the girl who began planning her wedding before she completed Kindergarten. I was too busy trying to flash the “I love you” symbol with my fingers to all the boys, except I always held up the wrong three fingers: I chose to use the fingers that say, “I’ll have three cookies, please” or “I only want three of those magic mushrooms, thankyouverymuch.” That should have been my first clue that I would be a late bloomer.

Although I didn’t know whether I wanted tulips or orchids (and it’s a good thing a married such an opinionated designer, lest I still be standing with my florist, trying to “envision” the look of the event), I did know that I wanted to be a mom.

I’ve always loved to write, but never knew whether it could be a career. Beyond anything else, my heart’s desire was to be for my child what my mom was for me: the mom who played with me until I was old enough to go to school, who greeted me at the door when I came home from school, who drove me to all of my extra-curricular activities, who went on bike rides with me to pick blueberries.

I imagined that I would marry by the time I turned 26, which I did, but just barely. I imagined that I would have my first child by the time I was 28, which I … haven’t. Things just don't always turn out how we think they will. Roger and I are still probably several years from having children.

So here I am, contemplative and melancholy and perhaps a bit misty-eyed, maybe with a stomach too full of Mexican food and maybe I keep burping tortilla chips that are acidic and sting a little, and I’m wondering how the rest of my life will unfold. Will we get 100% out of debt? Will we have children? Will we buy a house and live the Great American Dream: The Mortgage? Will we have an opportunity to move overseas? Will Roger and I travel the world, visiting quaint villages and the purest beaches? Will our kids be at least manageable? Will we regret having children? Does anyone (who wants children) regret it later?

When I was young, I didn’t factor in the trivial things in life, like debt. And financial security. And my own selfishness. And now I’m a little confused about my pretty and perfect plan, because most days I wouldn’t want my life to be any different than it is (other than living in Dallas - I could take it or leave it).

It's a melancholy day. A day full of uncertainty. But a good day, at that.

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Written by Deb (mom to Chase, sister to Jes)

[Deb]

Recently, Jes and I committed to doing a mini-triathlon. Talk about exciting! When we first made the commitment I was pumped. I had big dreams of being seriously athletic and crushing all other competitors. Early one morning I got on my bike to start training for this portion of the race – my dreams were crushed in the first 2 miles. After twenty minutes of sheer torture through the hills in our neighborhood, I got off and thought to myself “what a blooming idiot, Deborah!” Was I too old for this, too out of shape or just too physically and mentally weak to gear myself up for such a big commitment?

Continue reading "My Sister – A True Inspiration - or at least strong enough to drag a body across the finish line" »

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This is the thing: I've never driven the boat from start to finish. I've really only driven it once it was already out on the lake, and even then, I only drove it at high speeds while dragging some unsuspecting soul by a rope.

So! When some friends said they wanted to go for a joyride on the boat this weekend, and I offered to drive, I had no idea it would be hazardous. Even though I did know the water levels were about two feet lower than normal. And even though my husband piped up with, "Hah – there's no way I'm driving my father-in-law's boat without lessons. I'm not stupid."

Continue reading "I kept hearing dad yell, "Turn on the bilge pump!" Except I didn't know where the bilge pump was." »

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Each time I stretch my arms, or scratch my back, or move my bra strap back into place, my sunburn rears its ugly head. I am constantly under the assumption that the fact that I don't have fair skin means I am invincible to the sun. Every summer I am proven wrong by the pounding rays and ridiculous triple-degree heat in Texas. I am surprised I don't have cantaloupe-sized tumors growing off of my cheek bones or clavicles.

This weekend Roger and I went fishing at the lake, and for several hours the biggest thing we caught was my Dad, who had leapt into the water after his rod and reel fell off the side of the boat. Dad was giddy when he retrieved his prize, and had I paid the price of Manolo Blahniks for my fishing pole, I would have been giddy, too.

The thing about fishing is that it's a very fickle sport. You can't generally control whether a fish will bite your lure, and if it does, you don't always catch it. For me, at least, it generally gets away, and as the day wears the size of the fish on my pole generally grows larger and larger. I suspect that's true about most fisherman. Which is why, when I actually caught a fish (I caught a fish!), it was necessary for me to document the event.

That fish? Totally bigger than it looks on camera. In fact, by the time I got back to Dallas it was 30 inches long. Or so I told my family.

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I love your eyes. I love how expressive they are. I love the perfect shade of blue with flecks of green and hazel. I love your tender, perfect skin that has not yet been marred with age. I love your eyelashes! Do you know that when you are older, girls will swoon over you, and wish that they had your lashes? I know this because I wish that they were mine.

Continue reading "Expressive Eyes" »

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This weekend I went to the lake and got to play around with my nephew all day long. Everytime I am around him, I just want to hug him and squeeze him and put him in my pocket to carry around with me. Sometimes I even go as far as to think that I want kids of my own, Right Now! No pregnancy or childbirth or adoption process - I command my future children to Appear!

Continue reading "Prepare yourself for the cuteness contained herein." »

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Special prize to the first person who correctly answers this: What about these pictures makes me laugh, thereby requiring that I post them?

Continue reading "Said the night wind to the little lamb, "Do you see what I see?"" »

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Saturday morning I tagged along with Deb and Nanni to take Chase to the movies. The theater was full of children, who each had hair that looked as though it had been combed with an egg beater. And lots of mommies. And a few daddies who had somehow gotten suckered into seeing Curious George.

Amazingly, the kiddos were relatively quiet throughout the movie. And by relatively quiet, I mean that the combined volume of a) children talking to themselves, or to their parents, or to their imaginary friends named Hannah and Trevor, and including those who b) shrieked when a monkey the size of their house was running around only thirty feet in front of them, that volume did not exceed the blaring sound coming from the speakers.

After the movie, we watched dozens of sleepy-eyed children scramble out of the theater and begin to run full-throttle around the theater lobby. In circles.

I watched them only for a moment, because when you see a face like this, how is it not possible for heart to leap within your chest cavity and for your insides not to explode like fireworks during Chinese New Year?

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When I was in middle school, or maybe elementary school, I hated washing dishes. My distaste for the task was so great that on one occasion I actually hid from my mom after dinner.

My childhood friend, Megan, was at my house, and we concocted this plan to hide in the bathroom after dinner. We cleared the table and successfully snuck away. I hid behind the shower curtain and Megan crawled inside the linen closet.

We were in there, whispering and quietly giggling, when we heard the door open. Someone flipped on the light, and then the door shut. I didn't know what Megan was doing, so I held myself as still as I could, and breathed as silently as possible hoping that our mysterious disappearance wouldn't be short-lived.

I heard pants unzip, and the quiet creaking of the toilet as someone sat down. Then, the sigh of relief. As I recognized the voice behind that sigh, my entire body tensed and I became afraid. If my dad caught me hiding in the bathroom, I would be in T.R.O.U.B.L.E. I finally decided just to wait it out, because How Long Could This Take?

The scent filling the air informed me that this trip might take longer than I originally expected, and after a full minute of absolute torture to my nostrils, my tiny and timid voice reached my dad's ears: "Daddy?"

Silence.

"Jessica, what are you doing in here?!?"

"Ummm" ... (long pause) ... "hiding from mom?"

An eternally long ten-second silence ensued.

"Dad, can I leave?"

"By all means, please do."

"Dad? Megan is in here too."

"Girls, get out!" he bellowed.

I don't know how Megan managed, but I closed my eyes and darted for the door.

Since that day, I've been traumatized. I am entirely unable to use the restroom in anyone's home without first checking behind the shower curtain. EVEN IN MY OWN HOME, EVERYTIME I WALK INTO THE RESTROOM.

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