A Spark

I have been a writer ever since I penned a story in 2nd grade about my uncle being hatched from an egg which was left by aliens on my grandmom's doorstep. I was seven then and everyone in my family raved about what an imaginative yet accurate portrait I had painted.

It wasn't until my senior year at the University of Michigan that I actually took a creative writing class. I hoped it would force me to write the stories that were already swirling around my head.

My professor, Gabrielle, was a 30ish grad student and a super talented writer uninterested in coddling her students. She was serious about the need for learning the mechanics of writing, but also open to breaking the rules once you understood what the rules were.

When I sat down with her in a private conference to review my work, she said of my short story, "This is something. This is really something."

I was stunned.

"There's a big writers' contest coming up and I want you to enter this," she continued. "You need to go home and polish it, because the deadline's next week."

I raced through the Diag with a grin from ear to ear. It was a legitimate stamp of approval. I had never considered submitting my work anywhere up until that point.

But, a week later, I did just that. And, although I did not win a coveted Hopwood Award, it didn't matter. I was thinking in a whole new way.

The last week of class, Gabrielle invited me to come hear her read from her manuscript in front of a large audience of her grad school peers and professors. Hers was a remarkable tale which documented everything from her lesbian relationship to her part-time job as a stripper at a blue collar joint on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. I was floored.

After graduation, I wondered what had become of Gabrielle. Then, I heard through the grapevine that she opened a restaurant, Prune, in the East Village to rave reviews. Next, she was writing a column for the New York Times Food and Wine Section. Then, shockingly, she married a man and started a family. And, finally, recently, her memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter: the Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, at last, debuted.

I have been waiting for this memoir since I heard her early musings in Ann Arbor in 1997. Gabrielle is wildly talented and her tale is worth your time so I hope you check it out.

I thank Gabrielle Hamilton for being the first objective reader to say to me, "This is something." And, I thank her for showing me the vast possibilities.

I don't think I'll be opening a restaurant in this lifetime, but who knows about the rest.

Merry Go 'Round

One month ago, my son didn't want to ride the merry go 'round. He wasn't feeling well on that particular day.

"Mommy, carry you," he kept saying, pulling at my leg. I held him while standing for the duration of the carousel ride, not an easy feat.

But, the other day, he was fired up about the merry go 'round back at the Please Touch Museum. He told me he was ready to ride his own horse.

I placed him up high on the painted wooden saddle and fastened the seat belt. His big brown eyes looked up at the top of the carousel, at the painted horses next to him, and rested, smiling at me. The merry music began blaring from the speakers and we were set in motion. I held onto him so he wouldn't be startled by the start of the ride, but he was fine.


He rode up and down, holding onto the pool, laughing aloud. This was his first time on the merry go' round all by himself.

I thought about a family friend, "Drew," who was deathly afraid of merry go' rounds until he was nearly 9 years old. "Stacy, please take him and show him it's not scary," my dad urged me once at the Ocean City Boardwalk. I was about 10 years old.

I hopped onto the horse next to Drew, who was a ghostly shade, and rode backwards, switched directions mid-ride, stood up on the horse, then reached precariously off the ride to grab a golden ring. Drew laughed and laughed and was no longer afraid. "Now, you have to teach him to ride a jet ski!" my dad laughed as we climbed off the ride. "His mom is afraid of EVERYTHING - and she has made HIM scared of everything too," my dad whispered to me as we strolled along the boardwalk. She later died of cancer and I often hoped Drew was not shaken back into the mindset of fearing the ride.

My little boy squeals with joy as the colors fly by, the music peaks with intensity. I watch his face with such pride.

The past few weeks have been far from a merry go 'round for our extended family. It's been a terrible roller coaster ride, with death-defying turns and no end in sight. Our beautiful two year old niece is in the front seat, her health hanging in the balance. While her incredible parents cling onto her with unyielding strength and love, we've all been along for the ride. We all want her back on a more serene ride. And, thankfully, in recent days, there are glimmers that our niece has her sights set on the merry go 'round once again.

My little boy brings me back to this ride, here and now. He says to me, "Dah so fun, Mommy!" The merry go 'round spins around and around, he rides his horse up and down, the colors spin by in a dizzying dance, the music rises and falls. I lift his little hand and kiss it. "Yes, love, the merry go 'round is the best!"

License and Registration, Sir . . .

Here's a snapshot:

Me, skipping out of the toy store carrying my best boy.
My best boy carrying a new green Thomas the Train named Alfie.
A teenage clerk trying to keep our pace, carrying a shiny new tricycle.

We pass by school children in uniforms and it hits me that in a few years, he will be THAT age. No longer THIS age, where he's debating which he will drive first: the train or the trike.

"Happy birthday, buddy boy."

"How 'bout da' scooter too?" he asks. "Scooter" could have been "backhoe," "gondola," "bulldozer" or a dozen others. He is a transportation savant and often has dreams about driving the ice cream truck.

"Maybe when you're bigger, okay? Today, we're going to ride your new tricycle!"

"Good idea, Mommy!"

Enjoy the ride, baby boy . . .

Rock Out Wit' Cha Crock Out

Some (or rather, none) of you have asked how my culinary skills have progressed recently. It's now been approximately 19 months since I've been on eternity leave and in that time, you'd think I would have mastered something other than how to defend against a toddler's headbutt or conquer a Mount Everest-sized pile of clothes in need of laundering. You'd think I'd be a natural in the kitchen.

And you'd be dead wrong.

I STILL cook unidentifiable objects and pass them off as chicken breasts.

I STILL substitute when I don't have the correct ingredients at my disposable. "Can I use Swiss Miss cocoa mix when a recipe calls for cocoa?"

I STILL use my husband's simple phrase, "It's not . . . terrible," as my barometer of a meal well cooked.

But, recently all that has changed.

I had the brilliant idea that a crock pot would change my life. The commercials on TV said so. And I totally bought in. I decided to purchase one for the annual Biscardi Christmas polyanna. I figured since I thought it was a great gift, someone else would too.

Only once the polyanna began, I had second thoughts. As I watched one of my brothers-in-law open a box revealing a large plastic "PIMP" cup, I realized I needed to take matters into my own hands. The chance of me randomly picking a gift better than that shiny new crock pot was slim to none. So, I opened my own gift and feigned excitement.

"Hey, I just saw you wrapping that gift 10 minutes ago!" one of my brothers-in-law outed me. I didn't care.

The Biscardis, they know how to cook. They didn't need this bulky appliance cluttering up their kitchens. I was confident that if Obama himself came knocking on their doors, they could wip up a meal fit for a president in seconds. I, on the other hand, could possibly host Bo Obama, the family dog.

Needless to say, I was the grinch who stole my own Christmas polyanna.

Now it was time to get crockin'.

Here is the thing about a crock pot. You just SHOVE anything and everything into the pot and let it cook. Oh, wait a minute! That's what I've been doing for years! This was the perfect appliance for me.

The beauty of the crock is that your meal comes out perfect no matter what you do! (assuming you've put in ingredients that mix well together and/or followed a recipe).

Clearly, I need a recipe and the internet is chock full of crock pot recipes. I am fairly skilled at penning a shopping list, driving to the market, and racing through the store and check-out 20 seconds before a toddler meltdown.

My trouble with the crock pot is that I still need to handle raw poultry and meat. In years past, I donned surgical latex gloves when picking up raw brisket or ground beef. My crock pot has somehow given me the confidence to go bare-handed, but it still makes me want to barf.

Yesterday, as I was cutting chicken, I realized that I say, "Ew, yesh, ew," throughout the entire process. And, it's a real process because I like to cut off anything that looks remotely suspicious on the bird. So, if a recipe calls for 2 lbs of chicken, I need to buy about 4 lbs because the rest of it I want to chop off, shove down my garbage disposal and never think of again.

Once the chicken was cut yesterday, I was golden. I added chopped onion, chopped celery, cream of chicken soup, gravy, seasoning and I was ready to crock and roll. I put my crock pot on "low" and let it cook for 5 hours. After that, I added some carrots, baked some biscuits, and I had a Betty Crockeresque meal ready for my husband and son.

It was perfection.

Nobody was poisoned.
Nobody was making a bowl of cereal as a "2nd dinner."
Nobody was saying, "It's not . . . terrible."

It was delicious.

And, I'm declaring it right now, on this 9th day of February, in the year 2011: I can officially cook.

Thank you, glorious crock pot.

YOU COMPLETE ME.

A Bris and a Funeral

Within the past week, I've received the best and worst kinds of news.

A friend's baby was born.

And a cousin died.

In the past four days, I've attended a bris and a funeral.

A bris, welcoming a new baby into the world. A funeral, saying goodbye to a man whose life was cut way too short.

We looked at the perfect newborn, with spiky red hair, and rosy cheeks, bundled up in a white blanket and we blessed him and thought of everything that awaits him in his lifetime.

And, we looked at the casket, and listened to the words of his 6 children (most of them teens), now without their father. We thought of everything that he had done, all of the lives he had created, shaped and touched in his short lifetime.

The moyel at the bris talked of future milestones that this beautiful baby boy would experience.

And the rabbi at the funeral talked about all of the milestones this middle aged man had experienced.

The proud parents stood side by side, wiping tears from their eyes. They said the baby was named after a dearly departed family member.

The grieving children talked about how their dad made time to take each one of them on their own vacation with him every year. They read letters and emails he had written them, telling them how proud he was of them. He had written to one son on his 21st birthday, "You're good at basketball, but you're sick (great) at life! That's the most important thing, to be sick at life!"

The bris ended with great relief and joy; the funeral, with great despair and sadness.

Next week, there will be another bris, a new baby born, and another funeral, a life extinguished. It goes on and on and on and on.

One big circle.

So, knowing that we're on this brief journey, what are we to do?

In the words of my dear cousin:

"Be sick at life."

And In This Corner . . .

The lights are dim, the TV bright. "Ni Hao, Kai-lan" is on and Kai-lan is teaching my little boy how to say "thank you" in Mandarin.

He's sucking his thumb, but I can see from his eyes that he's smiling at her too. He's debating whether or not he wants to take his thumb out to practice his Mandarin. He opts against it and flips his stuffed monkey around by his raggedy right ear, flicking his finger back and forth.

I close my eyes
and
all of a sudden
something
someone
slams into my head
with HIS head.

On purpose.

I want to say "No, No! No, thank you" in Mandarin, but it's too late.

It's a WWF tournament.

In my bed.

"No headbutts!" I yell, (in English), laughing. "Headbutts!" he repeats, smiling his trademark devilish grin.

"You're troubl-icious!" I tell him. "That's it! I'm changing your middle name."

He jumps on top of me and hovers over me, menacingly. "Ai-plane ride!" he screams.

"No, ai-plane rides, Coo-Coo," I say. I toss him on his back onto the bed.
His hair is mashed on one side like a deranged Justin Bieber and he's right back up, smacking me in the face with his baby paws.

"Hey!" He giggles uncontrollably. "Heeyyyyy!" he mocks me. I flip him on his back and flips over in 2.1 seconds. He attempts a second headbutt.

"No headbutting!"

I level him again and he starts coughing/laughing.

I grab his sippy cup from my bedside table.

"Okay, calm down. Take a sip," I tell him, holding it up to his mouth.

Great, I think. What kind of idiot stops the match to hydrate their opponent?
It's like I'm Apollo and Mick at the same time.

He's hydrated. He's back. He's like El Nino ripping through my bedroom.

He bounces up and down on the bed.

"Sit dowwwwwwwwwwn!" I yell, but it's too late. He flies off my bed and lands on the back of his head. On the floor.

I scramble and pick him up. He's crying and I'm almost in tears.

Great, I think. What kind of idiot cries when his opponent gets knocked out of the ring?

We wipe away his tears together and get cozy back in bed. "Come on, let's watch Kailan," I say. He's clutching his monkey in one hand, he's got the thumb in his mouth, his feet covered with a blankie. He's curled up in my arms and all is right in the world.

Without warning, his head moves towards me like a boulder flying 60 mph.

Great, I think. What kind of idiot would continually risk life and limb by sitting this close to a wild, unpredictable, bull?

A mom.

Fearless.

Fabulous.

Champion of the world.

Throwing Stones

The tragedy in Arizona has rocked the nation this week and now it seems as though everyone is throwing stones, trying to make sense of what is clearly senseless violence.

In the days after the massacre at Columbine, I wrote down my thoughts which are very similar to my thoughts today.


What Remains

Two boys enter, eyes wide
will their plan go off?
a hail of bullets
snap bang pop
are they fireworks?
screaming madness
chaotic masses of teenagers scramble
duck
hide like soldiers
hunted like animals
boo, laughs the gunman, as a bullet splatters a brain
cuts short the life of a star athlete
a popular student,
a boy
a friend
somebody’s son
hooting and hollering
who’s the next target?
who believes in god?
who’s to be spared?
can they get them all?
thousands of lives shattered in agonizing moments
frantic voices whisper desperate pleas
last loving words into cell phones
images flashed over airwaves
millions hear dark voices
"I hear the gunmen,
help us please! i’m calling from under my desk"
a teacher lies bleeding
"hang on hang on," his students cry
a final look at his children and he
lets go
camera crews in the midst of chaos
is this a primetime movie?
no, it’s breaking news, breaking news: "Bullets ring out at another American school"
call in the analysts, the shrinks, the gun owners, the priests, where are the goddamn parents?
a boy shot in the head hurls himself out a second floor window
a girl screams out the pain of the nation
"he put a gun to my head"
are they animals?
villains?
Satan worshipers?
neo-Nazis?
or mentally ill boys?
somebody’s child becomes a murderer
others are left like rag dolls in twisted horror
tears, questions, and no answers
lost dreams
children who never grow out of their teens
pointing fingers
parents cry out why? how could this happen here?
who’s responsible?
the day after, a child goes off to school
"am i safe, mom?" he asks
thousands of moms lie
secretly cry
pray
hope
for a better day.

4-24-99


And one more thought on the political circus that has overshadowed the terrible events in Arizona. This one, from the Grateful Dead:

"Throwing Stones"

An installment in The Annotated Grateful Dead Lyrics.

Picture a bright blue ball, just spinning, spinnin free,
Dizzy with eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky,
Brush in some clouds and sea,
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from space,
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of grace
Is the human face,
But afraid we may lay our home to waste.

There's a fear down here we can't forget.
Hasn't got a name just yet.
Always awake, always around,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Now watch as the ball revolves
And the nighttime falls.
Again the hunt begins,
Again the bloodwind calls.
By and by, the morning sun will rise,
But the darkness never goes
From some men's eyes.
It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets,
Staking turf, dividing up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat,
It's you and me.
You and me.

Click flash blade in ghetto night,
Rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley, roll them bones.
Need that cash to feed that jones.
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

[Bridge:]
Commissars and pin-stripe bosses
Roll the dice.
Any way they fall,
Guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray,
Selling guns 'stead of food today.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Heartless powers try to tell us
What to think.
If the spirit's sleeping,
Then the flesh is ink
History's page will thus be carved in stone.
And we are here, and we are on our own
On our own.
On our own.
On our own.
[Instrumental]

If the game is lost,
Then we're all the same.
No one left to place or take the blame.
We can leave this place and empty stone
Or that shinin' ball we used to call our home.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

[Bridge two:] Shipping powders back and forth
Singing black goes south and white comes north.
In a whole world full of petty wars
Singing I got mine and you got yours.
And the current fashion sets the pace,
Lose your step, fall out of grace.
And the radical, he rant and rage,
Singing someone's got to turn the page.

And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing just leave well enough alone.
But his pants are down, his cover's blown...
And the politicians throwin' stones,
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And it's all too clear we're on our own.
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Picture a bright blue ball,
Just spinnin', spinnin, free.
Dizzy with the possibilities.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.