The luckiest monkey in the world

The Old Woman died three and a half, nearly four, years ago.  And, I've pretty much been in a really bad mood since.  Last month, The Old Man was placed in a facility, not too much unlike the lab, for old humans.  It isn't an ideal situation, but it was the best possible option. His health is such that he can't care for himself and refuses to assist family members in caring for him.

I was talking to the oldest child of the Old Folks the other night, and after our conversation I realized how lucky I am that the Old Folks found me/gave me a home.

The Oldest Child characterized the Old Man as the "most emotionally disconnected" person he'd ever met.

My perspective is wholly different.  The Old Man, without a doubt, loves me unconditionally.  He is always happy to see me, and affectionate.  (When he was a bit younger and stronger, would greet me with a hug that would lift me off my feet.)  I have always known that the Old Man was my greatest cheerleader and anything I thought I should try to do, he had complete confidence I could accomplish it.

I'm sad that the children of the Old Man experienced their relationship with him differently.  And, given his advanced age, I suspect there won't ever be a moment when they are able to experience him as I have.

Having the opportunity to realize how much I'm loved as well as reconcile any "difficult" relationships is just one more way I'm the luckiest monkey in the world.

Rant, rant, rant, rant, rant . . .

My favorite line in the movie "Harvey" is something like " Mother always said there were two types of people in this world: those who are oh so kind and those who are oh so smart.  After 35 years, of being smart, I recommend pleasant."  

I'm trying, really, to be pleasant.  Although my current situation has me wanting to set the record straight with every fiber of my being.  

The other day, I was speaking to someone who has tangential power/knowledge of the work I do.  She was singing the praises of Problem Child, listing her positive attributes and I quietly said "no, she wasn't" and this person, who I've kept in the dark about the reality that was the nightmare of Problem Child, said "well, I'm sure she could say things about you."

OH DAMN I want to tell her EXACTLY why I would say that Problem child wasn't "wonderful" and "so very organized."  But, I'm also trying to tell myself to take the high ground.  That I survived the experience should be enough.  That it's petty at this point.  That I should be pleasant rather than right.

It is better to be pleasant than right?  Right? 

At least I know that the Old Woman would applaud me in my keeping quiet, thus far.  

Resolutions

I've posted before that my usual New Year Resolution is to have a hot krispy kreme.

This year, I made the realization that not only did I marry the Old Woman (seriously, the Phenom is more and more like her every year) but also I'm turning into her.

The Old Woman would have fits that we had too much stuff and just start throwing things away.  You'd have to have a keen eye for anything missing and be prepared to dumpster dive to retrieve it.

This year, my resolution is to bring a bit of order to my house and at least once a month throw a way a trash bag o'crap from the house.

I filled up a trash bag o'crap in the bedroom this weekend.  I've also ordered some shelves so I can add a bit more storage to get the clutter under control.

When I start taking Phenom's plate away from him while he's mid-forkful, I'll know I really have turned into the Old Woman for good.

In the mood to have a cry

Thanksgiving was the Old Woman's favorite holiday.  Before they changed the date, it would sometimes fall on her birthday, which was a double bonus.  More than Christmas, not being the religious type, she wanted her family around for the feast and opportunity to spend time together.

She always made quite a feast.  I'm always amazed when I see other peoples' tables and there is MAYBE one green vegetable and 3-4 starches (potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, rice?).  The Old Woman's table was a study in the bounty of the garden.  We often had 5-6 vegetables plus a veggie tray.

Always, on her table would be two small, very old turkey candles.  Many years before, when her #3 son was just a tiny child, they were shopping for thanksgiving foods and he picked the two little candles up and asked if they could buy them.  They cost $0.15 for the pair, but being farmers, that was too much to spend on something they couldn't eat.  She had to explain to her little boy that they couldn't afford to buy them.  He fished around in his pockets, and came up with 15 cents that he'd saved from finding pennies and other dropped coins, and said that he could buy them for her.  The sweetness of his generosity and not understanding their poverty meant that the turkeys became a cherished part of the family celebrations.

Another way she made holidays festive was her special cut glass collection of drinking glasses.  They were acquired, one at a time, with green stamps and grocery store promotions.  No two were alike and the were all vibrant colors and featured various designs.  Most of us had a favorite we would claim, holiday after holiday.  Mine was a deep purple glass, which I recently "rescued" from the Old Folks' home after the Old Man moved west.

A few years ago, the Old Woman insisted that I stop coming home for thanksgiving because she feared that I would be utterly lost once she was gone if I never had the chance to make my own traditions first.

Now, my tradition is largely to stay at home, make a non-traditional meal, and cry over losing her.  I'm pretty sure she'd disapprove.

But, to not bring you down too, here's a picture of rosemary gougeres I made to nibble on.  This year, I'm doing a beef tenderloin roast with coffee chile rub, twice baked potatoes, spinach sauteed with shallots and garlic, parker house rolls, and a pumpkin pie.

Well, that is one bit of tradition from the Old Woman; getting up early and making a pie first thing.

A nice distraction

So, the anniversary of the deaths of my friend and the Old Woman are coming up.  Well, the anniversary of my friend's death is today, roughly.  Since he committed suicide, we aren't entirely sure of the exact timing.

But, since they died within the same 12 month period and the anniversaries are roughly a month apart, I have this nice, prolonged, funk I get into starting mid-August.  Fun times for everyone around me.

Earlier this month, I received a family heirloom I'd been promised over 20 years ago by the Old Woman: her chiming mantle clock.  Last weekend, I cleared my mantle and set it up.  I love it and find peace when it chimes each quarter hour.  (I give props to the Phenom because I suspect it drives him crazy but he knows enough to say he likes it.)

Last month, I came up with a fairly far-fetched idea and passed it by my friend's father.  He thought there was some merit to it, and has been helping me with some details on his end.  Well, today . . . on the anniversary of my friend's death . . . I have learned that the project is probably going to happen.  In other words, I've been given a packet of very official papers to complete.  I need to double check the dates I was given, but there may be a book in the near future.

This isn't about money . . . I suspect we won't see a dime.  But, this is about keeping his legacy and memory alive.  This is about making sure people don't forget him.  It's about appreciating his talent.

Where I show my own Sheldon Cooper side.

I was a speaker at a local association of some group of professionals tonight. I arrived early to set up my presentation materials and chat with the event organizers.  As we made small talk, I found that I made mention of various research articles I'd read .  I quipped that I read a lot of research on a variety of subjects.  It's the monkey-nerd in me.

Well, here's what I read tonight.  Dating research. I find it interesting because the Old Woman taught me rules for dating.  It was very important that I present myself as respectful of my companion's wallet.  Of course, now I realize that there is also some bizarro link between men spending money on dates and the expectation of sexual returns on the investment.  She never explained it to me in those terms, but I get it now.  (And, it is wrong and we need to fix this notion in our culture.)   Primarily, I was taught that I should inquire as to what my companion was planning on ordering, and then order something less expensive on the menu.  I was also taught to by pass the extras like apps or dessert.  (There is always homemade cake at the house, why don't you invite your young man in for a bite?)

In college, I had a bad beau who convinced me that being a feminist meant I should pay for our dates.  (Somehow, there was still an expectation of sexual favors.)  Then, I started offering to make dinner for our date and let my companion contribute by paying the cover at a club or for a movie.  (Even with this actually equal arrangement, I still ended up some dude sitting at my kitchen table and declaring that he could have sex with me.  He explained that once he bedded a person, he granted them the nickname of their first initial and he'd never slept with a M (M for monkey) before.  Seems his logic did not factor in the possibility that he would be shown the door before dinner hit the table . . . which is what happened.  I'm not a prude, but I do not hold with such foolishness.)

When I started dating the Phenom, I was pretty burned out on dating and cynical about the whole arrangement. (The dude above contributed his share.)  We really were dating more as placeholders and a social arrangement rather than some monkey/human mating game.  This meant that I made the decision to stop playing games.  I started ordering what I actually wanted to eat (of course, still being respectful of the cost . . . no massive steaks or lobsters . . . but no more side salads with a shared plate of fries either.)   Dates would be negotiated for shared interest as well as expense.

And that was 26 years ago.  We still negotiate dates.  We still work to make sure that neither is taken for granted.  And, we still have great fun on dates.  In fact, just last year, a cabbie in NOLA asked if we were in town on our honeymoon, because we clearly were having fun being together.  We said yes.

Never say never

My cooking style evolved based on what I am curious about, and what I can get locally.  I have always liked foods that are particular to one culture or another.  I make a lot of Asian inspired foods as well as cajun/creole dishes.  We don't eat a lot of meat in our house hold, and the Old Woman generally reserved meat for company.

Oddly, I don't make the foods I ate at the Old Woman's table.  For the life of me, I cannot make a good pot roast.  I blame the lean meat that just isn't as good as what she got.

I have never tried to compete with the Phenom's mother's cooking.  She did teach me how she made biscuits.  And, although I more or less do exactly what she taught me, the Phenom insists that my biscuits are nothing like hers.  I do regret that I didn't claim her cookbooks after she died.  (I let the Phenom's aunt take them.  I didn't find a treasure trove of hand written recipes or a notebook with her favorites collected. . . I would have claimed those.)

Lately, the Phenom has been bringing up how much he misses fatback on the table.  It was, apparently, a staple in his childhood home.  Fatback was not only NEVER served at the Old Woman's table, but she would have screamed at the suggestion of it. (Much too unhealthy.)

Today, at the grocery store, the fatback was in a location that I noticed it.  Honestly, I have no idea if I've ever seen it in the store before.  I'm sure I have, and ignored it.  But, I bought a packet of the stuff.  I put about half of the packet in a cast iron pan over fairly low heat and turned it a few times.  I had the Phenom look at it and tell me when he thought it was "done."

Tonight, dinner was turnips with their greens, new potatoes, and for the Phenom, fatback.  (I had sliced radishes from the garden.)

The Phenom said the fatback was as good as his mother's; the highest possible compliment.  I understand that memory will taint taste.  I'm glad he liked it.  I hope he eats what is left in the fridge.

Juvenile delinquents

The Old Woman had particular ideas about how one ought to act.  She believed that one went out of their way to insure that company was comfortable and felt welcomed.  Alternately, she believed that if you were a guest in someone's home, you acted as if every detail of your stay was wonderful.  If the bed was lumpy, or the food terrible, you plastered a smile on your face and with all sincerity exclaimed your night to be restful and the host a skilled cook. (And, you never show up as a guest empty handed.)

She was also concerned that her children, and I, grow up to be contributing members of society.We were expected to devote our talents to the betterment of the planet.  She would not have tolerated any of us becoming petty criminals, felons, or politicians.

To this end, she had some pretty specific rules designed to insure that no child (or monkey) raised in her home should be a juvenile delinquent.

One rule was that the plastic containers certain foods came in were not to be on the dinner table.  Milk was generally poured into glasses and placed at the place of the person (monkey) drinking it.  If there were need for milk to be put on the table for second servings, it was always poured into a pottery pitcher or earthenware jug.  There was always a pitcher of ice water on the table as well.

And, the plastic container that margarine or butter was purchased in could not be put on the table.  Slinging the plastic tub onto the table demonstrated a lack of care and attention to detail that could ONLY end in switch blades, underage drinking, and running for public office.  She had a pottery dish that the tub fit into so that you could not see the tub.

She would probably be disappointed in the slovenly way I tend to my own table.  I do put a water pitcher on the table, but I also put the butter tub on the table.  BUT! When I do put the butter tub on the table (even the fancy butter from the local dairy), I always, and I mean ALWAYS, admonish the people (monkeys) around my table to not grow up to be juvenile delinquents.  There is a standard, after all.

Funerals and Fads

It is gearing up to be a food weekend.

First off, a friend made reservations for a seriously good tapas restaurant when I visit her next month.  The chef of this place (we've been before) is a James Beard nominee and worked at E.Bulli.

And, Saturday, I have a funeral to attend.  Southerners know how to throw a funeral.  I got the call earlier this week from the person coordinating the food.  Fortunately, the Old Woman supplied me with a copy of Being Dead is No Excuse.  My contributions will be a large, colorful salad with balsamic dressing/homemade croutons and a chocolate cake.  I'm going to make the chocolate zucchini cake that has been popular with my peeps lately.  The coordinator was pleased that it's a bundt because you can get lots of servings from a bundt. (Instead of walnuts, I put in a bag of mini choco chips. . . because chocolate.)

Tomorrow, The Phenom is going to take me to lunch.  A rare treat!  We'll swing by the wholesale grocery to pick up a disposable, lidded salad bowl and cake carrier.  I'm a little ashamed I don't have them handy . . . as any good southern cook should.  One need always be prepared to show up with a cake in the case of a death.  .

Lastly, I've been reading the Thug Kitchen Cookbook.  I spent many years being a vegetarian.  I actually enjoyed the creativity of the diet.  I even got smug about sneaking tofu in Phenom's food.  But, for health reasons, I've given up being a vegetarian.  This cookbook has rekindled my interest in vegetarian food.

So, I HAD to buy one of those super blender appliances to make veggie smoothies.  I have a large bag of kale/spinach and a pineapple in my fridge waiting for experimental smoothies.

One of the games the Old Woman and I liked to play was to list off all the wondrous improvements to our lives with the tweaking of just one little thing.  My skin would clear of acne, I would be elected the president of the student body, we'd win publisher's clearinghouse, etc.  I'm sure that a week of drinking kale/pineapple/frozen strawberry smoothies will make me the most radiant monkey, ever, with hair of pure silk.

Oh, and I bought a huge container of nutritional yeast and sprinkled it liberally on the pop corn tonight and told the Phenom it was "cheese sprinkles."  This is the problem with vegetarianism . . . it turns me into a lying monkey.

Chemist or bartender

My innate fascination with creating/mixing/tinkering made the Old Woman often comment that one day I might end up being a chemist or a bartender.  I'm pretty sure I've disappointed her because my tendencies run towards bartending.

My newest experiment is with home made vanillas.  I've made vanilla before with beans and vodka and/or whiskey.

This time, I've branched out.  I currently have pint bottles of vodka, whiskey, and rum with vanilla beans in them.  But I also have 1/2 pint jars of tequila and dark rum with vanilla beans.  The dark rum also has cinnamon, star anise, and cloves tossed in.  They are sitting, waiting, in the same closet I keep my stash of blackberry vodka.  In 4-6 months, I'll see what we have achieved with adventures in vanilla.

I'm thinking that the first recipe will be my standard lemon pound cake, only tweaked with lime and the tequila vodka.

Oh, and since it's Mardi Gras today . . . I had a nice shot of blackberry vodka to start my morning.

Humbug

I'm not religious.  In that I don't like religions.  If you want to debate the existence of a "god" or whatever, I'll bite (when in the right mood . . . or drunk . . . or high).  But, just as I see patriotism as dangerous, I see religious fervor as dangerous.  Yes, dangerous.  Way too many people have died with religious justifications in the minds of their killers.  Way too many people have been harmed, "othered", scorned, made to feel less human, due to another's religious wackiness.

The Phenom and I do not really celebrate Christmas. . . other than to use it as an excuse to go on a drinking walk-about in NOLA.  We don't put up a tree.  We don't decorate our home.  We don't exchange gifts amongst ourselves (save for airline tickets and buying the next round).

And yet, I have a pretty elaborate holiday ritual of making fruitcakes.  This year, I made 40 and at least 34 were claimed before the first raisin hit rum.

And, I secretly tear up over christmas music.

And, when I get a chance to watch a video alone, I always have to watch A Christmas Memory.



The Old Woman and I always watched this movie.  Now that she's gone, I cry over it.  Frankly, as I get older, christmas is more about being sad than rejoicing.

Humbug.

And time stood still

I've always had difficulty with estimating time.  I think, sometimes, it is related to my total inability to judge portion.  But, it probably has to do with long term effects with lab-induced trauma.

When I was a young monkey, I could give you dates of significant events.  But, if you asked me how much time elapsed between the dates, I couldn't tell 2 months from 6 months.  Even if I'd just rattled off the dates to you.

This condition exists today.  And, even though I know, intellectually, that I'm in error, I don't much care to fix it.

See, if you ask me about my recent bereavement . . . I will say "in the last year, I've lost two of the most significant relationships in my life."  Only, the Old Woman died over a year ago.  And, my dearest friend and buddy died in August.  They died within the same year of each other . . . but I think for a while yet, it will be within the last year in my own mind.

As this family oriented holiday approaches . . . I spend more time wishing I believed in heaven . . . because then I could imagine the Old Woman and my buddy together.  Then, I remember I don't believe in heaven.  And it sucks.

A Tradition of Non-Tradition

Thanksgiving was the Old Woman's favorite holiday.  The heavy work on the farm was usually complete.  And, sometimes Thanksgiving fell on her birthday.  (This year, it falls the day after what would have been her 92nd.)  But, she also really liked that there were no gifts to fuss and worry over . . . just food.  And, being on a farm, food wasn't a problem.

Quite a few years ago, the Old Woman insisted that I stop coming home for Thanksgiving.  Her logic was that I needed to create my own traditions . . . so that after she died, I wouldn't find myself utterly lost on the holiday.  It makes sense, right?  And, in the years leading up to her death, it was easy to see which of our friends and colleagues were hanging about for the holiday, and have a party.

Last year was the first year after her death.  I have no memory of what we did for the holiday.  Honestly.  I imagine I could look backwards in this blog or ask around . . . but right now, thinking about it, it's as if it didn't happen.

I've already started getting weepy about this year.  It didn't help that I watched part of a program on public television about thanksgiving traditions and damn! every single person referenced their grandmother in discussing their recipe or traditions.

So, I'm going for as non-traditional as I can get this year.  My menu:

Mexican Deviled Eggs (with jalapeno and avocado)
Grilled Tamarind Chicken Tacos
Homemade Refried Beans
Rice
Guacamole
Pumpkin Pie
Margaritas

We've invited a friend.  He has family in NYC, but doesn't know if he's traveling or not.  I'll get up early to make the pie. . . and that's where the tradition will end.  I may spend part of the afternoon rolling bourbon balls.

And, I suspect that this time next year, I won't remember this holiday either.  We can hope.

The old woman is laughing at me now

When we were in NOLA recently, I had "crispy goat" at my favorite restaurant.  I'd had the crispy goat on a salad before, but this was served with curried lentils and a salad of cukes/'maters/mint.  It was fantastic.  Possibly one of the top meals I've ever had.

Tonight, I'm attempting to recreate curried lentils.  I sauteed a finely chopped carrot and half a sweet onion.  Then added the curry powder a friend brought me from Germany last summer.  Then added lentils and a little rice and a quart of veggie broth.  Oh, and several grinds of a spice blend I bought in NOLA called Pirate's Bite . . . a very very hot blend of peppers.

I love the smell of curry.  I'm pretty sure I could make a perfume of it and wear it happily.  I might spend too much time licking my own wrists . . . but I'd smell good.

And, I know the old woman is laughing at me.  I seem to recall being served lentils at her table and comparing them to the waste of small rodents.  I'm pretty sure she's loving this form of revenge.

Okay, so maybe I did absorb something from the Old Woman

The Old Woman and I have very different approaches to life.  She worried.  I tended to blithely think that it would all work out, eventually.  She described herself as not just a "glass is half empty" sort of person but a "not only is the glass half empty but eventually someone will come along and empty it and I'll have to figure out how to refill it" kind of person.

She also had remarkable self control.  (As evidenced by the fact I never ended up in military school and/or the fact she NEVER ONCE hit me.  I'm sure there were times I vexed her to the point of wanting to just slap the ever-loving-monkey-grin off my face . . . especially with my fondness for rolling my eyes . . . but she always maintained control.)

One of her favorite things on the planet was chocolate.  Her favorite afternoon pick-me-up was a fine piece of chocolate, and sipping coffee over it as it slowly melted in her mouth.

But, to prove her point to me about self control, she gave up chocolate, once, for a full year.

She was right, of course, that it's often simply a matter of making the decision and following through.  Which is why this "diet" thing seems to be working . . . because one day I just up and decided to do it.  In the back of my mind, I've committed to one year for this experiment.  Next January, I will decide if it was all worth it.  But, in the mean time, my own rules include that I don't stick to the diet when vacationing, and there are days on which I declare to be diet free.  I also don't beat myself up for slipping.  I find I'm more likely to slip when I get tired or hungry . . . so I do try to plan ahead to avoid that.

Now, I've added in exercise.  It started with twice a week yoga.  But, I wanted to add in something more cardio focused.  So, I've downloaded an interval trainer and have decided that when I can, three mornings a week, I will get up early and run/walk.  I'd like to be able to run a local 5K next spring.

Realistic goals, being realistic about personal limits, and self control.  The Old Woman would be so proud.

Comforting

The Old Woman was a peace loving human.  And, she had very definite ideas about right and wrong.  And, oh my goodness could she keep a tirade going.  Most often they were directed at me, and aimed at correcting that in me which she felt needed serious attention.  (To be fair, monkeys are frequently naughty.)  Even after I ventured away from their home, into the world, I would still hear her voice.  I think humans refer to this phenomena as one's "moral compass."

Friends who have never met her, feel as if they know her as well as their own relations because of the stories and nuggets of wisdom I have stored up from her.  I suspect a couple friends hear not only their own mother's voices but also the Old Woman's in their heads.

I mentioned that after she died last year, the Old Man took a picture of her that was probably 40-50 years old of her (interestingly, one taken when she was already a grandmother and not one of her as a young woman) and had multiple copies made of various sizes and had them framed and has them all over the house.   I think my specific observation was that if any thing were to inspire her to haunt him, it would be the 16X24 framed copy of this picture that greets everyone as they come in the front door . . . and the many other copies throughout the house.

On my last visit, the Old Man gave me a 5X7 copy of this picture.  He'd made several copies and was making sure everyone had a copy.  I put mine on the fridge, about eye-level.  It is comforting to have her "present" in my kitchen to go along with her voice in my head/heart.

The Happy

The farmer's market is back in full swing!!  And, I'm so happy about it, I actually set an alarm for EARLY on Saturday mornings so I can get there before everything is picked over.

This weekend, for just shy of $8, I got green beans, potatoes, broccoli, shallots, and zucchini.

When I got home, I made some tamari rice and pulled some shrimp out of the freezer to defrost.  Later, I cut up maybe 1/3 of the broccoli, a handful or two of the green beans, and two of the zucchini.  I blanched and shocked the broccoli and beans.  Then, finely chopped one bunch of shallots and made shrimp fried rice.  Since I didn't have any ginger, I drizzled some hot chili oil over the salted and peppered shrimp.  They were sauteed quickly and pulled.  Then the veggies went in, and when they were almost cooked, the rice went in.  Just before serving, the shrimps went back in.  A little drizzle of sesame oil and a bit more hot chili oil and VOILA!! DINNER!  It may have been the best fried rice I've ever made.  The hot chili oil added just the right zing.

Tonight, I had left overs while I made green beans and potatoes for Phenom.  (Phenom, like the Old Man, likes green beans to be cooked soft . . . not the snappy, crispy green beans I like.)  I snapped a bowl full of beans and peeled/quartered a couple pounds of new potatoes.  I salted the water generously and then added a couple spoonfuls of bacon fat, and let it boil for 30-45 minutes.  After serving up a bowl for Phenom, I added a little bit of butter and a grind or two of black pepper.  Apparently, it was delicious.  It smelled good.

I have one more bunch of shallots left, so I think they will go into salad dressing later this week.  Perhaps some roasted baby zucchinis on the salad instead of croutons.  I love the farmer's market.

Indulgence that is probably a waste.

Every year, I buy myself one serious THING and then usually one totally frivolous item.  This year, the THING was this:

The grill with side smoker box for the monkey serious about learning to tame the smoke.  Technically, it's Phenom's birthday gift . . . and the Phenom benefits from my experiments.  Oh, and brine is your friend .  .  . especially brine with beer.

My frivolous item was a subscription to BIRCHBOX .  Once I decided which sort of box would be more appropriate for a monkey . . . I set about ordering.  Once a month, you get a little box of samples.  They are totally random, although there is some attempt, supposedly, to match some of the samples to your preferences.

Beauty products for a monkey?!  I love samples, what can I say?  Plus, this is how I keep my travel bag stocked.  I don't know if the box I got today was really worth $10 . . . but there are several items I think will work beautifully while I travel this summer.  And, as the Old Woman would say . . . you don't know what your favorite thing is unless you try new things.

I never much cared before now

Thank goodness Mothers Day is over.  I don't begrudge my friends who are moms their opportunity to spend a lovely spring day with their children . . . having a day off the normal schedule . . . something a little extra fun to celebrate being a family.  And, I really did like seeing all the pictures people posted on facebook of their moms, grandmothers, and even great grandmothers.

But, for me, Mother's Day this year was pretty much a pity party.  Which is weird because Mother's Day was never much of a deal before.

But, this year, Mother's Day was more like my own personal memorial day.  Actually, I think for many humans, Mother's Day is more like their own personal memorial day.

Breakfast made by wee hands are nice.  Homemade gifts with too much glue and glitter last a lifetime.  But you can't really appreciate the holiday until you can't have it anymore.

I'm certainly not unique.  I know quite a few people who experienced their first Mother's Day since the loss of their mothers.  I know a few women who lost their children, and Mother's Day is torture.  And, I even know some people who are, after years of waiting, are finally getting to celebrate being a Mom, which adds another level of bittersweet.  And, in New Orleans, countless families will never regard this day the same again.

Frankly, Mother's Day kinda sucks as a holiday for too many folks.

Gadgets

I've been able to return to sleeping, for the most part.  And, every day isn't consumed with horror over the last days of the Old Woman's life.  But, the ache is still there.  Today, when a store clerk asked if I had "big plans for mother's day?" I just said no, curtly, but what I was thinking was "she's dead, what would you suggest I do?"  But, I didn't say that.

Some times the grief sneaks up on me in the most inopportune times . . . like during yoga class or during TV shows or when I have something fun and cool and groovy I know she'd love.

Like tonight.  Tonight a friend brought me a surprise giftie. A whole set of them.

Interestingly, and unknown to my friend, I actually thought long and hard about buying some of these when I was vacationing earlier this spring.  I looked at them several times, before deciding I had enough gadgets.

And, now I have a whole set.

At the time I didn't buy them, I couldn't figure out how they could possibly work.  There didn't seem to be that much to them.  I think if the store had a demonstration version, I would have bought them.

BECAUSE THEY ARE AMAZING!!!  Really!  All you do is lightly press it on top of any container.  I tried it out on a pottery bowl.  AND IT WORKS!  But, then it lifts off with the lightest touch.

The Old Woman would have loved them.  She would have put them on and off every bowl in her kitchen.  She would have regarded them as something of a miracle.

She hated plasticware because she struggled to get the lids on and off.  The last few years, she would just leave the lids off containers stashed in the fridge because it was so hard to get them on and off.  (I bought her some with screw on lids, but those also created problems after a few washings.)  These babies would have solved her problems.   And, she'll never know about this super cool thing.  And, every time I use them now, I'll be reminded that she would have loved them . . . if she'd lived just a little longer.