Wednesday, April 30, 2008

55 Strawberries, 9 Years, Gratitude Check

5:00 am - I arise and start melting chocolate in a double boiler.
5:10 am - I finish my coffee.
5:15 am - I am done with my coffee and begin dipping 55 ripe, crimson red, luscious local, coastal strawberries into dark chocolate (a little heavy cream added for gloss).
6:00 am - I walk into my son's room with a card, singing "Happy Birthday."
6:01 am - Not morning person son screams "STOP SINGING!".
6:02 am - I depart son's room after gently placing the card on his nightstand.
6:30 am - Present dressed son with scrambled eggs, bacon and maple & brown sugar Cream of Wheat he requested for his birthday morning breakfast. He eats Cream of Wheat only.
7:30 am - Drop son and older daughter off at school.
7:45 am - Make deposit at bank.
8:30 - 9:30 am - Spinning class in which I simultaneously try to calm and balance my physical and inner self while planning out the rest of my (son's birth)day while listening to "I LIKE TO MOVE IT MOVE IT" over the gym class speakers.
10:45 am - In shower while toddler watches Caillou on Sprout, neighbor calls from work and asks if I can get her daughter from school because she is cold and just finished STAR testing and wants to come home.
10:45 - 10:55 am - Before leaving the house, sweep up crushed Goldfish crackers and an unmentionable ...thing... my toddler decided to crush into the carpet.
11:09 am - Leave junior high school with neighbor's daughter, on my way to son's classroom.
11:14 am - Pick older daughter up from Kindergarten classroom and ask teacher if she can join us in my son's classroom for the chocolate covered strawberries I made at 5:00 am.
11:17 am - Arrive in son's classroom, sing Happy Birthday without getting yelled at, take pictures, hand out strawberries to students, get coaxed into making white chocolate covered strawberries on the last day of school.
11:30 am - School dismissal.
11:35 am - Son gives left over strawberries to his "bro's" in the next class.
11:45 am - Back home. Too tired to make even chicken dinos. Order pizza for son since it's his birthday. Get older daughter ready for her friend's birthday party at 1:30.  Leave voice mail for husband "PLEASE GET HOME EARLY I NEED YOU HERE!"
12:13 pm - Decide to plan the rest of my day - including one baseball practice, one t-ball game, a celebratory dinner at my son's favorite restaurant and hopefully a drive thru stop at Starbucks for a doppio - while blogging.
12:15 pm - Pizza delivered by a young kid with a KORN belt buckle. Tell kids to clean up rooms or they get no pizza.
12:17 pm - Son dictates what is watched on tv.  It's his birthday, no one argues (for once). Husband calls and says he's held up at work. Go to Plan B, I usually have one.
12:21 pm - Emotional, physical and mental status check: Gee, my day is pretty charmed. My life is pretty good. I am exhausted - everyday seems to get busier as I squeeze more things into it - but is that my biggest complaint? Definitely not. But I know enough to know even the happiest people wage silent wars in the background and inside. But they are still happy, I note. Follow Plato's advice. Be kind to everyone, including myself, and emphatically to my son. He gets a pass on everything except beating up his 6 year old sister. Nine years ago I was gifted with this little guy, and began my parenting journey. I remind myself that it is exhausting. I say a quick prayer that it never, ever ends. I did all that in one minute? No wonder I'm tired.
12:29 pm - Concede to my sensible self, wrap up my blog and start on the dishes. At least I got to write a little today, even if it was just my blog. As I fall asleep tonight (can that be right now?), I will map out my writing schedule for tomorrow, my day off from the gym, no practices, no games, older kids at school, just me, my laptop, the laundry, my toddler, and Caillou. Make myself a note to send out bills.
But today, what is left of it, Happy Birthday to My Son, Happy Every Day, to me.



Posted by Sam at 12:37:24 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Gotta Cook (and an Egg Salad recipe)

When our phone has rung before 7:00 in the morning, besides jumping frantically upright and saying to my husband "Somebody died, somebody died!!", I'm mentally in another place besides half-asleep doomsdaying...I'm already in the kitchen cooking to placate the effects of the imagined disaster.

When I know someone who has fallen ill, had an accident, or just a routine cold, I'm ashamed to say my first response - even before I ask "Are you alright?" - is "Do you need me to make you dinner?".

When someone tells me there is a get-together, party, or gathering of people to celebrate something, before I even check my calendar to see if I am available, I unconsciously ask, "What can I bring?", and I am most definitely not volunteering to make goody-bags.

I want a reason to cook. I want to put food - lots of it - in front of people and get feedback.  I am always hoping other people have brought their culinary specialties so I can acquire new fabulous recipes to add to my repertoire.

I'm a culinary martyr, opportunist, and worker bee.

Why is that, I wonder. Is it ethnic? Let's see, I'm a WASP, also Jewish, baptized Greek Orthodox so there is no way to tell. Is it genetic? Good question, because people in my family transport casseroles in Pyrex dishes as well as send 'In Sympathy' cards. Inconclusive. Is it media-influenced? Maybe, I love when Daryl Hannah, in the movie Steel Magnolias, says "It's in the 'Freezes Beautifully' section of my cookbook and I want to make something for their family that freezes beautifully!"

Right now I have chicken in the slow cooker and also eggs hard-boiling, and why? In case I can be useful, I guess. Because it's something I do well, I suppose. Because it's easier for me to deliver to someone shredded chicken with mango-chipotle barbeque sauce, and a side of mango salsa in Tupperware than it is to look them straight in the eye, let down my defenses, and say, "Incidentally, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, you've gotten to me."

I just have a problem saying things like that.

But if you're hungry, sick, really like food, or planning an event, I'm your huckleberry.

EGG SALAD
6-7 eggs, hard-boiled
1 tsp. mustard powder
1 tsp. coarse grain salt
1/2 tsp. white pepper
1/2 tsp. cayenne
1/2 tsp. paprika
3-4 tbsp. mayonnaise (you may like less)
1 tbsp. yellow mustard (I do this because hubby likes to go heavy on mustard)

Mix all ingredients, except for hard-boiled eggs, together.
Dice hard-boiled eggs.
Add to mayo-mustard-spice concoction.

The Egg Salad can be scooped onto lettuce leaves (I prefer Romaine or Butter Lettuce), into hollowed out tomatoes, and of course spread in between bread slices (French Bread works well, it's inviting). It'll keep up to 4 days in the fridge, if it lasts that long. Egg Salad is very comforting, and to keep up or regain your strength, protein is essential. 

Be well =)
Posted by Sam at 11:01:20 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Friday, April 18, 2008

Sunshine Induced Insanity & Artichoke Pesto

I can't stay inside today, just can't. It's prematurely summer here. And it's Friday. Signs of seasonal, sunshine induced insanity are everywhere, I've been listening to recent reactions.

This past Saturday, my girlfriend Yesenia told me that I had to boss my wisteria around or I would get no bloom. "Listen, you give me the billowy purple blossoms I long for, the ones like I see in Sunset or Southern Living magazines, or I'll rip you out from the ground, you understand me?" I felt crazy saying that to a plant, but it felt good.

Last night, Matt Vasgersian, Padres announcer said, "If we are here 17 innings tonight, I am going to eat my hat." When I woke up this morning, saw that the game had gone to 22 innings (longest in 15 years), my husband asked me, "Do you think Vasgersian ate his hat?" 
"No, I think Mark Grant [the other Padres announcer] probably ate Matt Vasgersian," I replied, to which we both laughed, simultaneously, no subconscious was that was a stupid joke? discomfort, just the type of laughter shared by two people who know each other very well.

During dinner yesterday, my daughter, Zoe said, "Momma, I just can't stop eating this food whatever it is, I know it's healthy and good for me because it's green so can I eat it all plllleeeeeeeeeeezzze?" Watching her down that artichoke pesto - comprised of pine nuts, parmesan, and olive oil wrapped around and through whole wheat penne - I bounced a bit on my tippie toes with a wooden spoon in my hand. I am winning the battle against sugar and helping to build a healthy little person. I let her eat it all and my husband was so pissed.

I don't care how silly things look or sound sometimes.  Feeling good is good enough. I forget how good the sunlight feels warming my skin after windy, overcast days. I am always surprised at how sweet artichokes can be, especially the ones I grow in the vegetable garden besides my bedroom.  I drink in my children's appetite for life, and food, and this is why I spend so much time talking to botanicals and toasting pine nuts.

These are the things I am supposed to footnote in my script. These are the gifts I asked for as I rubbed my belly, bursting with baby. These are the things I'll remember as the sun goes down.

I can't stay inside today, I need more.

ARTICHOKE PESTO
 (rough estimates)
1 jar of artichoke hearts, in oil (do not drain the oil)
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts
1/2 cup parmesan cheese (not the powdered stuff!  I use Grana Padano)
Dash coarse grain salt
1/2 bunch Italian parsley

Add all ingredients in a blender or Cuisinart. Pulse, pulse, pulse until smooth. Pour over pasta or eat with a baguette. It's really that easy.




Posted by Sam at 12:02:38 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, April 17, 2008

You May Not Say "Project" To Me, Got It?

I dislike projects.  I rebel against structure.  I want to do my own thing, according to my own spontaneous, random whims, and the only deadlines I can handle are the ones I set for myself (not even those).

So it drains my creative energy and sometimes even joy measure when I have to do a report with my kids for school, or when the hall closet becomes so packed with items that it barely shuts.

Nevertheless, I acknowledge the way the world works, which is why I have posted on my fridge a long but realistic to-do list. Item #1: my son's Earth Day report.

We have to travel to four regions; desert, mountain, ocean, and river valley to observe, photograph, and describe in paragraph form 20 indigenous plants and animals. We've known about this since last September. We're (almost) halfway done with it now (Earth Day is on April 22nd). I guess we have to apply some structure for the next few days, some focused intention, and ignore any whims that dare creep into our time accounted for days.

Damn.

But I accepted it, I did. I plotted out the next week in my day planner, I embraced the projects with gratefulness and an "I'll feel so good when it's done!" attitude, even though I waited until the kids went to bed before complaining to my husband, "WHY do they have so much homework, do the teachers think we have nothing else to do?" Poor little me.

Then the report got postponed....by 3 weeks! 

I am so self-absorbed I thought I was being rewarded for maturely encouraging academic diligence. Truth is, I despise projects as much as my kids. What kind of Mom am I, excited that I get to avoid the hard stuff for three more weeks? What kind of Mom am I, I have preferences? 

I guess I am who I am. I guess I've stopped beating myself up about it. I think, we all get along just fine, and I submit as often as I look a gift horse in the mouth.

About the only project I like right now is my life. I don't mark it my day planner because it just has a way of happening...and it's probably the only project that holds my interest.
 


Posted by Sam at 12:10:04 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

You Had Me at Nutmeg

I am determined to make Thai food at home that tastes similar to - no, better than - the Thai food I get in the restaurants.

I've eaten Thai food for years, I've watched Food Network Thai specific shows, and I've read Thai cookbooks. I know my subject matter, and I know how to improvise. And I get lucky sometimes.

But for years in the kitchen cooking Thai food, I experienced let down after let down, or missing ingredients that left the wrong after taste lingering, and fear of culinary failure that kept me from completing a fantastic Thai dish.

I decided it was time for that to change.

I stood at a local organic market last week in the Asian foods aisle, and as I looked at all of the different ingredients, I could feel a great entree being born in my mind. I could buy Pad Thai sauce, of course, but that is a short cut I didn't want to take. I could wait until I was more prepared, come to the store with a list of ingredients from a downloaded recipe, but I didn't want to wait that long to savor Thai flavors. The only concession I was willing to make was to buy Thai seasoning in a bottle, like I do when making a pasta sauce with Italian herbs, or Herbs de Provence with roasted chicken.  That's not really cheating. 

So I read the list of ingredients on the Thai seasoning blend...sesame seeds, chili pepper, coriander, onion, red pepper, shrimp extract, garlic, cinnamon, nutmeg (NUTMEG!!), lemon oil.

Into the shopping cart the Thai seasoning went.  I love nutmeg, I get absolutely drunk from the scent of it, and I add it to anything I can, except for maybe my Special K Red Berries in the morning. But I have considered doing that.

So confidently, I attempted the Thai signature dish that was destined for me and a new family recipe.  When I took the boneless, skiness chicken breasts from the package and placed them in the slow cooker, I did something I don't normally do...I measured what I added and wrote it in recipe form. I owe my amiga Karrie a Thai recipe, and I felt I needed to be precise.

What I turned out was a Thai dish I was proud of, that I liked more than any Pad Thai I have ever purchased, and albeit a long list of ingredients, something I am going to make for years to come.  It is just as good cold as it is warm - hubby took it for lunch the following day and ate it like a cold noodle salad - it is low fat, and most of the work is done by marinating and the slow cooker.  I would call it Slow Cooker Thai Chicken (boring) but I like to call it, You Had Me at Nutmeg. Because that was not the source of my inspiration, but concreted my intuition. Nutmeg is synonymous with euphoria for me, each time I taste or smell it, it's like falling in love. And perhaps what was missing from my previous attempts at Thai food was nutmeg, an ingredient I never anticipated, but brought all of the flavors together harmoniously in the end. In fact, I think there should be a day named after nutmeg, and the vanilla bean too (and a holiday for chocolate, but that is another blog).

So here is the recipe...enjoy.

YOU HAD ME AT NUTMEG Thai Slow Cooker Chicken
For the marinade and cooking sauce...
3-4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
(2) 14 oz. cans coconut milk
Zest and juice of 1 lime
1 tbsp. fish sauce (yes, I know it stinks, use it anyway)
1/2 tbsp. dark soy sauce
2 tbsp. Hoisin sauce
1 tbsp. Thai seasoning (see ingredients above if you can't find a bottle of it)
1/4 cup miso paste
Coarse grain salt, a dash

For the final dish...
1 package rice noodles (the thick ones) cooked according to package directions
1 cup unsalted peanuts, smashed
2 tbsp. fresh ginger, minced
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 bunch fresh cilantro, chopped
1 cucumber, julienned or grated on cheese grater
3 carrots, shredded or grated on cheese grater
Red pepper flakes to taste (I used about 1 tsp.)
2 tbsp. rice wine vinegar
2 tbsp. Hoisin Sauce
3 tbsp. sweet chili sauce (if you can't find any in the store, here is a link to a recipe...http://www.recipezaar.com/120670)
1 tsp. sesame oil
Juice of 1 lime

Optional: scrambled egg, bean sprouts, dried shrimp

Marinate chicken overnight.  Add the chicken plus the marinade into the slow cooker.  Cook on low setting, 8 hours.  When done, shred chicken using 2 forks.

When chicken is shredded, place in bowl and add: ginger, garlic, red pepper flakes, sesame oil, rice wine vinegar, Hoisin sauce, sweet chili sauce, and lime juice. Mix well. Set aside.

Cook rice noodles. When done, drain noodles and place in serving dish. To keep the noodles from sticking, you may want to add a little seasme oil or canola oil to them. 

Add chicken mixture over rice noodles.  Top with cucumber, carrots, peanuts and cilantro.

And as Sandra Bullock as Sally says in Practical Magic...
...Throw salt over your right shoulder
Plant lavender for luck
and fall in love whenever you can...


Posted by Sam at 17:31:47 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Just Off The Horizons

 






Have you ever been drawn to something, but unable to explain why (and don't you love it when that happens)?

As long as I can remember, I have been drawn to the Islas Coronado, or, the Coronado Islands, which sit off the coast of Baja California but are visible from all over San Diego. Twenty-five kilometers south of San Diego Bay, these four islands are part of my memory, daily vision when I am lucky, they say home to me, and usually appear when I need to see them. Even on a smoggy or foggy day, I can see the rugged outlines of the Islands off the coast, and my breathing slows or stops at my delight. On clear days, like today, I can see their cliffs, vistas, landscape, and I can sketch them with my eyes closed; in the sand, on paper, or in my mind.

It was 98 degrees in my neighborhood today, so my family did what any sensible people would do; we headed for the beach. It is always 10-20 degrees cooler at the shore. San Diego has a peninsula named also for Coronado, immediately to the south is Mexico, and the islands are their province. But I feel like they are mine, I do. Today we went to Coronado Beach - home of the Hotel del Coronado - and the islands were right there waiting for me.

The four Islands are; North Coronado Island, Pile of Sugar Island (it looks, indeed, like a pile of sugar), Central Coronado Island, and South Coronado Island. During Prohibition, booze was smuggled and exchanged off the coasts, and there was even a casino on South Coronado (South Coronado Island even has what is named "Smugglers Cove", isn't that name just fictitiously perfect?). There were a lot of boat wrecks back then, and fishermen have reported seeing bodies, coffins, and ghosts on the Islands. But it's not the colorful history of the Islands that draws me to them. It's that thing I can't explain...deja vu? Don't know. The fact that the beach is improved with their presence? For sure. The fact that I love them so much but will probably never get to touch them? Getting warmer.

Today was such a crisp, hot spring day that it was actually the first time I could see the vegetation on South Coronado Island. I had imagined - dreamed, even - that the Coronado Islands were island oases. Lush ferns, streams where wild, indigenous animals drank, waterfalls falling from collected pools of rain water into the Pacific Ocean from the steep, eroded cliffs.

That is not what I saw on the Islands today as I lay on the beach unable to take my eyes off them. I saw red dirt, the common variety. I saw brush, the kind that burns during Indian Summers. I saw steep rock formations on Pile of Sugar or Central Coronado Island - not sure which one I was looking at - but they resembled an accidental temple, kind of a rough Delphi, I suppose I was in the mood to worship. And I looked for the lighthouse - I know the Islands are illuminated and inhabited by a select few - but for whatever reason, I just didn't see it. Strange thing was, I noticed two horizons. Two lines, drawn over the edge of the ocean as I faced west. Why two, I don't know, but that is what I saw...duality I didn't expect.

While my husband and son practiced pitching, while my daughters played in the sand, I gazed at those Islands and wouldn't be coaxed from them. And when I stared long enough, I saw that Island Oasis.

That is when I looked away.

I noticed instead all kinds of things in front of me...the sand had an unusual amount of gold flecks within it today, the kind that stay on you even after you bathe. I wanted so badly to find an intact sand dollar, but found only pieces of broken ones. I gathered the pieces and made a little sand dollar puzzle, when I put it all together, I saw completion. And I went in the water so warm for April, doing the 'sting ray shuffle', so I wouldn't suffer a lash. I was intoxicated with the Islands but I heard the warnings of the Lifeguards about the big rays under the sand.

And if I were not so afraid of short fin makos and stealthy blue sharks, if the Islands were as close to me as they looked, but I know how far away they really are (they don't belong to me, or even my country), I would have dove in the water head first and swam towards them. I could handle the task for the reward of dahlias, gliding birds, and a solitary bay, even though the Islands also have rattlesnakes, cactus, and ghosts. Maybe not an Oasis, but intriguing still. We're all haunted by something.

Maybe someday I'll get out there to those Islands. I am not ready to give up my Oasis dream. My eyes always find them, their beauty and stillness comfort me, and just knowing there are Islands of the Coast of my city adds a little something to my one, sometimes two, horizons.

Posted by Sam at 23:18:49 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

3 & 348

Important things (well, to me) regarding baseball this week: 

#1: On Tuesday, 3 baseball movies were re-released on DVD:

Bull Durham (new special features!)
The Pride of the Yankees
Eight Men Out

I read about the releases in my local paper. There was an article on what makes these 3 baseball movies classics. Excited to get to the write-up about Bull Durham and read how one of my Top 5 favorite movies was described and possibly revered, I noticed the word "romp" used twice, and Annie Savoy, Susan Sarandon's character, called a "floozy."

If you call Annie Savoy a floozy, you just don't understand Annie Savoy.

#2: On another note, Greg Maddux got career win #348 this week. And so impressive to me are the 10 assists he's made in the two games he's pitched so far this season. The pitchers in the Padres current rotation are (amazing, but better adjectives are needed, lest I use the same word more than once) commanding and eclectic, Peavy's eyesight is 20/300, and look what he does. Chris Young is a 6'10 Princeton grad (wrote his senior thesis on Jackie Robinson, the Integration of Baseball, and racial stereotypes in America, while traveling from town to town in the minor leagues), and Maddux is...Maddux (I could go on and on about our pitchers but I'm still pissed about the Annie thing). 

In an article in the USA Today last July, Bob Nightengale said Chris Young is "Greg Maddux in Randy Johnson's body."

Now that is a much more accurate and responsible journalistic statement.


End Note...
("Anyone says anything bad about Millie and I rip his arms off," succinct quote from Crash Davis in Bull Durham...or, better yet, here's another Crash quote, "Think classy and you'll be classy" - this applies to writing as well as shower shoes.)

Posted by Sam at 13:56:54 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Monday, April 07, 2008

I've Got Thyme (and Roasted Lamb).

The thyme is high, but I'm holding on.

So, I did my spring gardening yesterday and today. Some spring times I end up with an abundance of butterfly attracting flowers, other spring times I realize all I have purchased was lavender. Every spring thyme, my husband asks me, "Where is the color?" Color, color, color. How about the medicinal or legendary properties of herbs? Some of them flower, you know.

I gravitate towards herbs, and they grow well for me. It's meant to be.

This year, I ended up with endless thyme. I've got thyme in the front yard in rows, in the back yard next to basil, and thyme of the lemon variety in clay pots.

I found an Herbs de Provence mix - thyme, savory and lavender - and planted that in front of Alex's bedroom. I found an Herbs of Tuscany mix - thyme, sage and rosemary - and planted it in front of Zoe's room.  Around everything went cocoa mulch (I love that stuff - how do you improve upon the scent of lavender, lemon verbena, mint and rosemary? Add chocolate, that's how). For the first year, I also planted gardenia. These scents will waft in on the breezes, the herbs will help me conjure up some magic.

Whenever I have needed thyme, it's been there.  Whatever the season, thyme grew. When the lemon balm or kale withered away in the winter, thyme stays. Thyme has assisted me in soups, stews, salads, roasted meats, even cookies (that would be the lemon thyme - plant some and make tuiles!).

I am so thankful I've got thyme. Whenever I am lacking faith, whenever seasons hide their true nature or intentions from me, those cute little thyme leaves, woodsy scent, thick branches and deep roots divert my fears. The green thyme bunches I pick almost say to me "So, where's that butternut squash you mentioned earlier?" or "I've been here all along, baby."

Yes, I anthropomorphize my garden. So what? It's never let me down. I like that quality.

And twice in the last week, my thyme has paired with roasted lamb, potatoes, risotto, and oh, yeah, Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley, where my father lived as a child.

Here is the recipe for roasted lamb. It takes a little thyme, but so does everything else worth savoring, everything else worth it's wait.

ROASTED LAMB
(1) 3-4 boneless leg of lamb
8-12 whole cloves garlic
4 crushed cloves garlic
Juice of 2 lemons, and their lemon peel
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp. dried oregano
5 sprigs of thyme
Coarse grain salt and black pepper to taste
Special equipment needed: Microplane grater

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Wash and pat dry lamb leg.
Cut slits in lamb leg, big enough to slip in those whole garlic cloves.
Slip in the whole garlic cloves into the meat accordingly.
Microplane the lemon zest over both the top and bottom of the lamb leg.
Salt and pepper the top and bottom of the lamb leg.
Drizzle olive oil over the top and bottom of the lamb leg.
Now, to the top of the lamb leg, add oregano, crushed garlic, lemon juice, and thyme (either the leaves, or the whole "stalks").
Roast at 375 degrees for 1 hour, 15 minutes, or until internal temp is between 140-160 degrees.

...Don't discard the pan juices, save for a lamb stew with potatoes.
Posted by Sam at 19:03:39 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Sunday, April 06, 2008

You Can't Tell Me I'm Not in High School.

Last night was the Annual raising funds/adults only get together/let's all cut loose...thing put on by my children's Little League organization.

This year, for the first time, I went.

The party was held right in the neighborhood where I grew up, inside the banquet room of a golf course where my father played on the weekends when he wasn't teaching me how to drive, where my high school boyfriend played golf with his father when he wasn't playing baseball. Since I never liked golf, I think the last time I was actually anywhere near this place was 1988.

I went alone - my husband was in Vegas for his brother's bachelor party - and while I was getting ready, I put the tv on one of those digital music stations...80s music.  Setting the stage, as it were. The Fixx and Simple Minds escorted me into contmeplating this strange arrangement; somehow, someway, a gigantic portion of my 1988 high school graduating class still lives in the same neighborhood where we all grew up. We either stayed here in San Diego, or went to college somewhere and then came back.

I just think that is abnormal, especially in a city with millions of people. Weren't we all supposed to graduate, be matriculated into universities all over the world, then put down roots wherever our dream jobs took us? And if we didn't, why didn't we?

Those well-laid plans, those expectations. Gnawing at me, or smiling at me, saying "We went to school together!" (I'm sorry, was I supposed to go out and see the world?  Has it already passed me by?)

And now my children are attending the schools I went to with the children of people I went to those schools with. My kids are playing baseball with the children of my high school sweetheart's team-mates. I do not live in a rural mid-western town populated with less than one-thousand people, why the coming around again? What does it mean for me...me who tends to time travel based upon the needs of my ego?

What it meant, last night, was that a lot of my former high school classmates would be at the Little League fund raiser. Thinking on this - as I do not believe in coincidence - I started wondering if these events and community organization acquaintances were my comeuppance.

I wasn't always a model child, especially around age 17. If I had known in high school that I would have to face some of these people later in my life, I would have behaved better. I swear, I would have. I am very sincere about that, so how about a do-over? Because these feelings are so unnerving! The do you think she remembers that? Or, do you think so and so will be there? 

Am I not a 37 year old mother of three, wife of the man I always dreamed of?

Evidently not. I'm a kid, scared to go to the dance alone.

You can't tell me I'm not in high school, with these stupid rampant emotions as I approach some imagined judgement by my peers, who might even feel the same way.

When I dropped my kids off with my parents - after Mom & Dad bought us all dinner - we switched cars. "Be home by 10:00," my father said. "Do you have any money with you, honey?" asked my mother. I took the keys to my Dad's car, his nice car, watched my parents wrestle my toddler into her car seat, and was already on the phone with one of my best friends as I pulled away.

"It's just a fund-raiser! What is wrong with me? Why do I care about all this visceral stuff?" I asked her. I carried on. I regressed many years in one conversation. She let me speak until I ran out of breath and things to say. I pulled into the golf course parking lot after working myself up fairly well. 

"I feel like we're in high school, having this conversation," my girlfriend said to me.
At this point, I drove my father's car into a lamp-post.
"Oh S**T! I just dented my Dad's car!" I exclaimed.
"We are in high school," she affirmed. 

I couldn't argue...
My parents gave me a curfew, and asked if I needed money.
I wrecked my father's car.
I'm illogically concerned with what other people think or remember.
I am certain there will be drinking at this party.
My girlfriend on the phone assured me that we would be friends always.
Yep, I'm in high school.

I tried for 20 minutes unsuccessfully to get the scuff off my father's front bumper. I stared out over that golf course at dusk (my girlfriend told me to breathe deeply and look up at the stars, it worked), I smelled cut grass, I listened to whatever birds I could hear calling, and I laughed at the irony of circles. 

I haven't changed at all since high school. I am not the same person I was 20 years ago.

Then I decided I really liked that contradiction.  Those illogical emotions evaporate as soon as they illuminate, but leave some dramatic, creative residue. The angst/excitement factor, the fear vs. the "that doesn't matter anymore" philosophy, they keep my interest. I smirk as a result of them. They comprise me...me, who still runs home and writes everything down; not in my journal or spiral, college ruled notebook like 20 years ago, but in blog, or into a column, maybe an essay. 

I've learned how to channel, create, and cope - even if I still don't know how to drive.

When I am not scared, and I watch the unfolding of things without needing to change them, I appreciate every moment and have faith in the universal order of every detail. Just like when I was a kid and only wanted to play, not stopping to worry about consequence.

You can't tell me I'm not still in high school.
Posted by Sam at 22:23:17 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, April 03, 2008

Do What You Love...

Do what you love, and the money will follow.  Have you ever heard that?  It's true.

Jennifer Brown, of www.jennifunny.com, just got a book deal with Little, Brown after 3 pub houses participated in an auction to get her upcoming young adult novel, Hero. Right now, she's living a waking dream, and I am so inspired by her; she is a colleague of mine at Mom Writer's Literary Magazine, www.momwriterslitmag.com.

I don't know how important money is in the process of dream-making to Jen - I'm hoping she's booked a fabulous vacation for her family and is possibly at a car dealership eyeing something with the highest NHTSA rating - but I do know that Jen has to write. I do know that Jen loves it. And I can imagine, recognition and making a living doing what you love is in itself a waking dream. So when the money follows, it gives you the means to keep doing what you love.

What a beautiful work of non-fiction.

Lightning strikes, wonderful things happen. The fairy tales we create as adults - once we know what it really is we want - do come true.

At a price, I know this - I took a break from the laundry and postponed my daughter's nap because I had to write this blog. If I want to write, something else is sacrificed. But if I don't write, I'm intolerable, and I feel like I'm ducking out on destiny. There is no perfect formula, only a proven alchemy of hard work and magic. As novelist Bob Mayer said at the SDSU Writer's Conference this past January..."Striving for excellence improves you. Striving for perfection demoralizes you."

There is an intersection somewhere in between excellence and fairy tales.  An intangible balanced point where art breaks through obstacles and shines brightly.

Do I believe in my own fairy tales? I do, I do.

Thanks and congratulations to, Jen. 

Posted by Sam at 11:36:00 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |
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