irish breakfast

This is the beginnings of something I need to finish, a dozen scenes from a trip to Ireland in 2005, made all the more exotic because it was my first travel break from children in several years. Sorry to break it off in the middle, but it's unfinished. Amy, Myrna and I hosted two of the groom's friends in a traditional thatched cottage that was quite drafty and rustic-- Con offered the nightly dose of Dylan songs, complete with guitar and harmonica, and I'm hoping he shows up soon for the fame and fortune that will be his in America. I was the only married one, and far older than anyone else in the bunch, and I was happy to take my role as food problem solver, once I got the hang of roughing it.

The warped griddle would have none of me. The eggs cooked unevenly on the sputtering butter, while I cursed electric stoves.

”Hey, Con? If you had to pick between slightly overcooked eggs and slightly undercooked eggs, which would you prefer?”

“Homecooked eggs, Denise! I have a choice? Undercooked, definitely.” Great: the eggs were officially done, then. The toast was not-quite-burnt in the oven. Perfect. At least we had real butter, today, and I snagged ground coffee from The Brides’ Family, at the cottage next door. Runny eggs, blackened toast, and real coffee, not bad for day five.

I arrived in Ireland with specific instructions from the Groom: drink three times more water than you think you might need, as this helps with jetlag, and sleep on the plane as early as you can. I tried, but I was so excited! I arrived at five a.m. in Amsterdam, my first time off of the continent of North America, and I wandered happily, calculating Euros and enjoying real coffee and real bread, served on real china. I wrote in my notebook—sleepless is nothing. Inconvenience is nothing. Hunger and discomfort are nothing at all. I am alone, traveling, responsible for no one but myself, and everything, everything is good.

It was mid-winter dark, and too early to see any sights, and my two hours free didn’t seem like much. I purchased a magazine and a set of Van Gogh puzzles for my children. I ate breakfast. I eavesdropped on café conversations. I simply felt alive—I thought of all the years I was single, all the airports I’ve traveled. I breathed slowly, drank slowly, pressed the croissant crumbs with my finger and gobbled up every tiny bit. Free.

Dublin airport seemed like a bus station in comparison, tired around the edges. I walked through customs and into the bride’s family, huddling near a minibus and waiting for me. I’d never met them, but I hit it off with an elderly couple, adopted aunt and uncle it seems, and a cousin. And we were off. December rain, winding roads, countryside green and full of rural scenery. Children were battling with parents, adults were battling with carsickness. The bus stopped a number of times for bathroom breaks, and we arrived in the beautiful middle of nowhere, at a set of cottages in the middle of a pasture. I pulled a whiney bunch of half a dozen children into the gravel circle for a game of Frisbee, and another of tag, and whatever entertainment I could devise, making myself a hero by simply behaving like a creative parent. Glad I didn’t bring my family along. I had a choice. Where were the bride and groom? We had no working phone, no keys, twenty of us, pacing, some grumbling louder than others.

Then she arrived. Christine long ago swore off her youthful habit of pleasing everyone, but her spirit puts everyone at ease, if they let it. Black hair, black eyes set in porcelain skin, and a smile to light the world. People don’t forgive her foibles merely because she is insanely beautiful, that’s not it, but she is insanely beautiful in that regal way that makes a whole countryside better, acceptable. In her presence, it seems everything will be alright. And people do forgive her everything; how could they not?

Christine unlocked doors and set the sleeping arrangements, and people grumbled because they are her relatives and they’d been traveling for two days, some from New York, some from Florida. Some had a stomach bug, and were quarantined to rest. And I got to stay with baby Naimh, playing patty cake and distracting her from the family grouchiness.

“I’ve not told anyone, but you’re staying with us,” said Christine. I lit up, not to have to sleep near children or The Italian Relatives. “And I’m wondering if you’d like to go to bed right now.” It was two p.m, and the answer was yes. I set up shop in Naimh’s nursery, on a futon, and slept for six hours. I woke to darkness in an unfamiliar house, pitch black night. I wandered downstairs and showered, with no trace of people, anywhere.

forgetfulness

I am still working at that short Lenten meditation for my church newsletter...

Forgetfulness is such a deeply-imbedded part of my nature that I forget others do not suffer the same. Forgetfulness is a good trait in a reader—I can pick up the same novel after just a few years, and I recall characters, but nothing of the plot.

Perhaps it’s my forgetfulness that draws me to stories of time travel and time loops. I love the movies Back to the Future and Groundhog’s Day, and my daughter Madeleine is named for the author of A Swiftly Tilting Planet. In time loops, the protagonist must reach recall a future event, at the very time he is absorbed in the present moment: he lives in two different times. He must remember to change a few small things—and then all of human civilization will be saved, or at least a romance will be saved. But everything will be different.

And perhaps my fear of forgetfulness makes Memento the most crushing movie. The protagonist cannot remember how reality fits together, nor his place in it. He can’t remember who is on his side and what version of the story to trust. It’s both a terrifying story and a terrifying metaphor, to be lost in a story that can’t be deciphered.

The cycle of the liturgical year provides its own time loop—because I grew up in non-liturgical traditions, sometimes the cycle’s turning catches me off-guard. Wasn’t it just Christmas? How can it possibly be time for Holy Week again? I forgot it was coming, and then Lent simply appeared after Ash Wednesday.

Liturgy is a string tied around a finger, a reminder to “remember into” that strange future and out of that strange past, remember who we are and where we are in this story. God offers the same grace in each telling of the story: God creates, God redeems the creation because of great love. At least, that’s how the Book reads. In this story, however, it is we who must remember to change one small, important thing: we must be mindful, to listen for what we need to hear this time around. We don’t know how, but the Christian story says we will be joined with God in the end of this long, long season of ashes, where we live absorbed in the present. We don’t really forget that Jesus did the work for us—but on the other hand, don’t we all forget? We forget every day. We get absorbed.

Ash Wednesday and Lent and Holy Week are our opportunity to remember that it is God who made us and not we ourselves. We are dust, to be certain. Some days I feel more dusty than others. And somehow we are also the dear children of God, made to be so by the resurrection of Christ.

Remember who you are, and don’t forget. Listen carefully. Don’t forget.

winter fantasy II: brendan's dream

I can't see his eyes, but look at the happy smile... Oh, for the fans back home in Indiana, that's called a "boogie board." It's a shortened, lightweight version of a surfboard-- on a wrist-leash so you don't lose it, as you can see from the picture.

With only the tiniest bit of skill, the average mortal (i.e. even me) can catch a wave and ride all the way to the beach. Children scamper off for the next ride, while adults wonder how to wrench themselves from the wet sand.

Brendan has his dad's natural athleticism and his mom's determination to catch a wave, a good combo for a boy living by the sea. Of course, the ocean won't be warm enough until July, so there's still a few months to wait.

winter fantasy I: madeleine's dream

sick house

“I can’t possibly drive us to pick up Madeleine,” I gasped to Brendan. “I look green and sick.”

“No, mama. You look um-pletely reg-a-lur,” Brendan insists.

“Not sick?”

“Tired a little, but not sick.”

“Well I feel sick.”

“But you look reg-a-lur. Just the same. Get in the car.” Brendan and I have spent the last two days together, and I’ve gotten used to him bossing me around. Usually I remind him he is not the boss and may not speak to me in that tone, but this time he’s talking sense. I get in the car. Someone needs to pick up the girl. We visit a drive-up for the first time this calendar year, to fortify ourselves with hot chocolate for Brendan, and hot cider for my blazing throat.

And we drive. Brendan is sick enough that he doesn’t ask a single question for the twenty-minute drive. We make the turnaround as quickly as possible, and he doesn’t ask a single question on the way home, either.

I stayed home yesterday to nurse Brendan through a cold, and silly me, I caught the cold myself. I managed to find Madeleine a playdate after school, feeling satisfied to keep her away from our sickhouse—now of course her playmate is home with the throw-up flu today. I’d be nervously watching for symptoms, if I wasn’t too sick to care right now. It’s just a cold. Just the aches. Just the sore throat that won’t end. Just something.

The funny thing about parenting while sick? I do the exact same things as when I’m not sick. Empty the dishwasher again, move the laundry again, make dinner again. Same tasks, but without much joy. I daydream of my mother, feeding me toast and tea, changing the cool cloth on my head, and of sleeping, sleeping, sleeping until I feel better. Not for me—not today. If she were alive I would call her to elicit sympathy—but there is no one to call except other moms, who know this story well and live it everyday.

I’ve gotten a lot done this week, strategizing to publish my writing, talking shop with other writers, proposing stories, writing publishers. I’ve uncluttered vast swaths of my condo, one section at a time. Four bags of paper to the recycling, two boxes of stuff to the thrift shop, hunting down hand-looms on eBay for a friend, and teaching children to weave. I’ve given my cat a stringent refresher course on using the litter box, at the price of a few nasty blood-lettings. Even in weather below freezing, I’ve gotten kids out to play for a bit of fresh air, almost every day.

And last night we ate chicken pie for dinner, one of those miraculous combinations of leftovers, a pie more delicious than all its ingredients. I’m feeling very smart, now, that I baked two pies, so the spare pie is tonight’s dinner. My imagination exited hours ago, but that buttery crust and the mashed potatoes on top will taste just as good tonight, with the chicken, carrots and peas in gravy. It's not quite chicken soup: it's glorified chicken soup.

The children have the nerve to ask me what’s for dessert. I don’t know. I’ll make it up as I go along. Just a few more hours and we will all be in bed, with me dreaming of my mother, toast and tea, and them dreaming of another day at school, if we can only manage to all be well tomorrow

winter comfort food: hot cocoa

Brendan stops pushing his little trucks across the floor when he hears the bounce of the soccer ball on the stone terrace at street level. It’s been a long damp stretch of weeks when we’d normally have snow, but the weather has merely been cold, and precipitation has been rain or sleet. So his brows raise and he scampers to the window. I’m trying to train our cat to sit in a chair with a human being, which can only be achieved by scratching his chin so much that Satchmo closes his eyes, so that he forgets his skittishness for a few moments.

“It’s Isaac!” Brendan says, and Satchmo jumps as quickly as he can wiggle free, onto the big bay window where the horses stand in their wooden barn. Each is carefully saddled with a purple ribbon sash, and all are looking out the barn windows, out of our window.

“Ask if you can play.”

He is weighing his decision. Isaac is twelve, tall and confident. His new afro makes him appear taller, and shows off his dark eyes. Brendan caused a whole neighborhood scuffle a few months ago, by demanding to take back his whiffle ball and halting a huge ballgame. Sometimes Isaac has friends visit, also. Sometimes Isaac says no, which is his right. He is twelve. He doesn’t have to say yes just to be nice.

Brendan runs to the porch, calling, “Can I play with you, Isaac? Can I play?”

He returns from the porch. “He said yes, mama. But I don’t know. There are so many things I could do inside, too.”

“Go, you! The sky will be dark in just a few minutes. You haven’t played with Isaac in a few weeks. You don’t want to miss it.” Brendan puts on his coat and chooses his slippy-soled shoes—he’s dying to free his feet from the heavy thermal hiking boots he wears in case of snow and mud. “Stay where I can see you from the window,” I call. The “okay” trails off as he scampers down the steps.

I peek out the window just as Brendan snags the ball and Isaac greets him with a big grin, nodding at the small boy’s play. Brendan has learned a lot about soccer in the past four months, now that he is playing on a team in a league. And he looks taller and more confident, himself. I walk to the stove to scramble up a dinner.

Just the children and me tonight—Scott is tutoring, so I make kid-friendly foods. Tomato soup, a leftover baked potato cut in wedges and browned in butter, red pepper rings and slices of a delicious pork loin steak. For a treat, we will follow all the healthy foods with tortilla chips served with peach salsa (my favorite) and sour cream (Madeleine’s favorite). Three vegetables, a bit of protein, salty crunchy things, perfect. Dinner will require a lot of dishes but there’s very little preparation.

Madeleine peeks up from her book and looks out the window. “No soccer for me,” she said. “Wait, is Mariah coming out?” I watch her run for her coat and hat, and I turn off the heat under the potatoes and the soup. It will wait.
Madeleine and Brendan have known these neighbors all of their lives. Isaac and Mariah visited on New Years Day, the year Madeleine was born. They were each four years old that first winter we lived here. They visited often, as soon as Madeleine was old enough to walk and play toss. Madeleine’s first word after “mama” and “daddy” was “kids!” which she would shout out the window of our third floor perch. Brendan, born two years later, called them both “I,” then later “I and Ri,” with a fun mispronunciation sounding like “Ay and Wye,” also shouted out the window. Both children spent hours setting up Brio train tracks and eagerly gobbling my snacks while entertaining my little ones. I was sad when I needed to describe, later, that big kids need to play with big kids sometimes, and while they love us, they sometimes choose to play with others. Neither of those “big kids” has siblings. Both are endlessly affectionate and kind, especially for adolescents, but they are no longer an everyday part of our lives. We take them when we can get them.

So I postpone our little beggar’s feast of dinner offerings until it’s too dark to see.

When I finally call them, they run in the door, hurriedly washing hands and starting the tub running (in advance of a post-dinner dip). “Something smells YUMMY,” gasps Brendan. “I am one hungry mungry,” Madeleine whispers with her eyes wide. A candle-lighting, a table grace, and they tear into everything with great glee.

After our little supper, Brendan heads to the bath and Madeleine pulls the violin out for her practice.

“Just so you know, we want hot chocolate for dessert,” Madeleine calls, as she begins Ode to Joy.

“Is that something like ‘please?’” I ask. She nods brightly. “It’s covered,” I say. The pan of milk is already heating on the stove.

Heavy cream and maple syrup go into the whipping bowl on the counter. A quarter cup of sugar and a heaping spoonful of German cocoa go into a mug. The sugar and cocoa are mixed in the mug with a bit of hot milk, then poured into the pan and whisked. The cream whips into peaks after a minute in the food processor. A splash of vanilla goes into the hot pan and a dash of wintergreen into my mug and Madeleine’s, then I haul the dinner dishes into the dishwasher and sink. When the cocoa steams, I pour it in mugs, topped with big dollops of whipped cream and a last sprinkle of cocoa. Brendan already has donned his pjs and comes running. Madeleine’s violin is tucked back into its case. We gather around our candle and talk about our day for the length of one slowly sipped mug of chocolate.

Then it’s Madeleine’s turn in the bath, and Brendan makes his bed and practically falls into it. There is no time to choose tomorrow’s clothes—both children are tired from running and the cold evening air. They insist I “tuck them in,” which is actually me hauling their sleeping bags closer to the heads of their beds. It’s a silly request, but they won’t be asking me for this attention in a few years, so I oblige them with a hug and a smooch.
And it’s another day.

I’m having a long argument with winter, this long drizzly winter without snow. I’m having a long argument with the God who has gifted me with this love for writing, though no corresponding gift of income, as of yet. But I have no argument with my role as a parent these days. Whatever their needs and whatever the hassles, it’s a good season for parenting, for simple dinners and long mugs of hot cocoa drunk around the light of a single candle.