Wordless Wednesday Post

Happy Wednesday!  

And welcome to your weekly opportunity to do all the talking.

Use the image below to talk about absolutely anything that comes to mind.  GO!

Until next time,
~ Hasky

Speaking of Old Wives' Tales

Recently, a friend and I were discussing Old Wives' Tales. More specifically, we were wondering whatever happened to them.  These interesting little nuggets of advice and information that, at least when I was a child, seemed to materialize out of nowhere a million years ago. They made anyone who uttered them sound smarter and more capable as they offered solutions to poverty, illness, even interpersonal conflicts.  While each generation often takes the liberty of revising some of the more common classics, most of the Tales remain in tact, even to this day. Yet I so rarely hear them used anymore.  Is it because I am older now, and childless, and perhaps lack the two primary reasons Wives' Tales usually find their way into a conversation?  Without youth in my life - either mine or that of my non-existent offspring - am I just missing out on these little bits of wisdom as they continue to happen around me?

After my Wives' Tales conversation, I was inspired to come up with a list of the ones that I remember from childhood.  Wives' Tales my parents and grandparents, even a few of my teachers used to guide - and sometimes warn - me as I made my way through life's daily trials.  So, here are a few personal favorites:

• If you sit too close to the television, you'll go blind.
• If you swim immediately after eating, you'll drown.
• Bad luck will be yours if you: break a mirror, open an umbrella indoors, step on a sidewalk crack, or walk under a ladder. (Though you can reverse the bad luck by throwing salt over your shoulder)
• If your right hand itches, money is coming your way.  But if you scratch it, you will lose the money before it arrives.
• Three butterflies together mean good luck
• If you shiver suddenly, someone is walking over your grave
• If you bite your tongue while eating, you have recently told a lie
• It will rain if you kill a ladybug.

Do any of these sound familiar?  Do any of them sound believable?  (I ask because, at one time, several of them seemed perfectly sensible to me - which is probably why I have a salt-covered floor in my kitchen and a butterfly net on my back porch). 

Whether you call them Wives'Tales, superstitions, rules of thumb, or just words to live by, what are some of your old favorites?  Or some of your new ones?  And am I the only one who feels like these treasures have somehow made a gradual exit out of our daily conversations?  Sometimes I wish each day included a Wives' Tale to make me stop, think, chuckle perhaps, and possibly even consider an alternative approach to life once in awhile.  A Wives' Tale a day ... interesting concept. Maybe, as with everything else in life, there is an app for that  And if one doesn't yet exist, I'm sure it's only a matter of time before they make one.

Looking forward to your list!

Until next time.

~~ Hasky

A Non-parent's Dilemma

I am a non-parent.  "Non-parents" are very different from "people who choose not to have children" or "people who have decided to remain childless."  The non-parent identity (a hybrid adjective/noun/verb that reeks of "lack") clings to those of us who define ourselves (or are defined by others) according to the white space in our lives rather than by the tangibles.  Given my non-parent status, it is safe to say that I am not qualified to assess "good parenting" versus "not so good parenting" or "appropriate discipline" versus "way too lenient" non-discipline.  Which is why I try (though admittedly sometimes fail) not to offer parenting advice, engage in parenting discussions, or compare the behavior and disposition of one child to another.  Essentially, how others choose to navigate parenthood -- and sometimes even survive it -- is none of my business.

That said, I often struggle with how to respond when a child's behavior rises to a level that I find unacceptable.  This is especially challenging when said child's parents are present and seem indifferent to - or worse, amused by - the very behavior I consider problematic.  As a non-parent, I tend to think that these moments are nothing more than overreactions on my part.  I get that parenting is often a "pick your battles" kind of world, and I assume that the battles become less and less pickable over the years, until finally only the wars are worth fighting, and only the big stuff generates any kind of parental response.

This is all to say that, over the past few weeks, I have become aware of a new family in my apartment complex.  I usually see the mother and all five of her very young children walking and playing and splashing around in their kiddie pool when I pull into the parking lot or walk to my mailbox at the end of the day. The children are adorable - dark hair, big beautiful eyes, full of life and excitement ... the kind of life and excitement that often presents itself in the form of yelling. Everything. REALLY LOUD.  No matter what time of day or what level of urgency (i.e. "I'M SITTING ON THE SWING!" warrants the same volume level as "I FELL AND I'M BLEEDING!")  At these moments, mom is always - without fail - talking on the phone or buried in an Ipod or a book while her kids experience life right in front of her, yet so far removed from her presence.  I often wish she would just sit and watch them, but then the "non-parent" in me yells "It's none of your business.  Move on. There is nothing to see here." And on I go.

But last night was different.  Because last night, as my dog Beckett and I strolled through the parking lot, one of the children, the littlest girl who looks to be about four years old, screamed "CAN I PET THE DOGGIE?!" as we passed their driveway. 

"Of course you can," I responded quietly, modelling the volume level I hoped she would imitate. "I'm going to hold his harness, though, because he's very playful and I don't want him to jump," I added.  Yet before I could grab Beckett's harness, the child came bounding toward us with her arms stretched wide screaming "DOGGIE! DOGGIE! DOGGIEEEEEEEE!" which, of course, resulted in a barking, cowering Beckett.

"It's ok," I assured her.  "He just gets scared when it's too noisy or when you move too quickly."  I looked at the mom, who stood half watching, half reading whatever on her Ipod was more important than her barely-out-of-toddlerhood child.  "Here, I'll hold him so you can meet him if you'd like," I added.  By now, the little girl stood rigid in front of me, both arms folded, a dirty look on her face, a glare beaming out of her big, brown eyes.  She didn't seem scared at all.  She seemed ... angry?  Was that possible? 

"NO!" she snapped suddenly, answering my silent question.  "Now I don't WANT to pet him!"

Yup, she was angry.

"He's a stupid doggie and I hope he dies," she hissed before pivoting on her tiny flip flops and storming back up to her mother, who by now was looking at me with a "Kids ... what can you do?" kind of expression, complete with exasperated shoulder shrug.  Here's the thing: Don't ask questions - not even in the form of nonverbal facial expressions - that you don't want answered, lady. 

"Um, excuse me," I was more official now as I walked up the driveway toward mom and her suddenly-less-cute tot.  I bent down to the little girl's level and addressed her directly, in front of her mother, who was now, finally, completely engaged in the situation, and looking both worried and curious about how this rare confrontation of her child was going to play out.

"I'm sorry if my doggie scared you when he barked.  But he is a doggie, and he likes it when people are gentle with him and come up to him slowly." The little girl was quiet now, staring at me as if I  had several heads, none of which she cared to look at, and none of which she dared to look away from. 

"But calling him names and saying you wish he was dead are not going to stop the doggie from barking or jumping.  Only talking to him softly will help him do that."  And then I finished with: " And I would be very sad if anything happened to my doggie."  Then I waited.  I don't know what I was waiting for.  Part of me was waiting for her to tell me she wished I would die.  Part of me was afraid that, even in my attepmt to be gentle, she would start crying because someone had finally taken an interest (in the unfamiliar form of adult authority) in her behavior.

After a few minutes of staring at one another, the child looked away as I stood to walk back to my apartment, saddened by how effortlesly she had laid a death wish on my dog, because I knew she had no concept of what that even meant and no understanding of the power of words or the finality of what she had said. 

As I clicked my signature "Come" noise in Beckett's direction, I heard a soft voice ask "Does he like little girls?"  I spun to face the child again, because I couldn't believe she was capable of producing such a bearable volume level or such an innocent, genuine question.

"You know what?" I asked, as I bent back down and looked directly at her.  "I don't know.  He is never around little girls.  Or little boys.  It would be really nice if he could meet you and have a little girl friend, though.  What do you think about that?"

At that moment, even as a non-parent, I saw what parents mean when they describe a child's smile as "lighting up the world."  She smiled the biggest, brightest smile and walked over to me, put her hand on top of my hand, which was resting on Beckett's back, and said "I could be his first friend."  And then, before I could respond, she bent down and kissed Beckett's head.

As I got up to leave, I noticed that mom hadn't blinked in almost five full minutes, though she, too, was smiling.  I don't know if she was smiling because the little girl was finally calm, or if she was as touched as I was by the ability of a child, of her child, to show compassion, to admit that perhaps she had been wrong, and to open herself to the possibility of connecting to another living being (in this case both Beckett and me).  But whatever it was, I allowed myself to step into this unknown mother's world for just a moment - not as a parent, or as someone who had earned a full time membership in that world, but as someone who had seen a child in need of guidance and who had, despite mom's presence, provided what guidance I could.

I imagine the little girl and all her siblings will be out playing tonight when I take Beckett for his post-dinner walk.  Mom will probably be engaged with something electronic while her kids have once-in-a-lifetime experiences right in front of her distracted eyes.  But I also know that Beckett and I will stop by just to say hello to his new little friend, because even as a non-parent, I know that sometimes life isn't about picking the battles or fighting the wars.  Sometimes, life can be as simple as E.M. Forrester's suggestion: "Only Connect."

Pot Shots

Today I’d like to talk about marijuana.  I’ve never smoked it.  Never sold or purchased it. Never had the desire to be around anyone who used it.  Still, over the years, it has often intrigued me that we have more words to describe this odd substance than we have for love.  Or happiness.  Or friendship.  But whatever you call it –  pot, muggles, bash, dope or giggle smoke – it is what it is.  It is a drug.  An illegal drug.  Hardly a vice-less prude, I generally have no interest in or issues with people who make unhealthy choices for themselves.  It’s really none of my business.  As long as the effects of such stupidity don’t impact me in any way.  So you see where I’m going here, right?  How often do we say or do anything without somehow impacting another human being?  Yeah, my point exactly.  And all this to say that, despite my utter lack of interest in pot and all things pot-adjacent, after reading the news this week, I realized that I hold some pretty strong opinions about our friend, the Grim Reefer. 

My first anti-pot crusade came at the beginning of the week, when I took to Facebook with an angry post about the California Grandma whose pot laced cookies almost killed her three year-old grandson.  After the child’s family was unable to wake him following an unusually long night’s sleep, they began to suspect that the child “got into his grandmother’s stash of chocolate-chip pot cookies, tucked away in a garage refrigerator.”  Grandma’s best defense was a cancer diagnosis and “a doctor’s recommendation for medical marijuana to treat her pain and help her sleep.” But as with all stoner responses, Grandma’s explanation left a few gaping holes for me.  Like, exactly what kind of “doctor” recommended that this woman manage a terminal illness by obtaining an illegal substance?  Did adding criminal charges to her list of obstacles seem like a useful antidote to fatigue and nausea? I mean, come on. Lots of people call themselves doctors these days, and a certificate of completion from the local Ganja Hut isn’t exactly going to hold up in court.  And if all these “home study, magical tonic-selling” doctors were truly curing anything, I am sure the Associated Press would have put out an article or two about that by now.
I think what really amazes and horrifies me about this particular situation is this single, unchanging reality:  kids are sweets-seeking missiles.  They will sniff out --and immediately stuff into their mouths - absolutely anything that resembles a cake, a pastry, a piece of candy.  Or a cookie.  A chocolate chip cookie. The sweet of all sweets. And the fact that these particular cookies were “hidden” only increased the likelihood that this little boy would consume them.  Because kids love a challenge. They love anything that seems forbidden. Or off-limits.  Or designated for someone else.  I often think if you prohibited kids from touching the vacuum cleaner and the washing machine you would come home to an immaculate carpet and neatly folded piles of freshly washed clothing every day of the week. Anyway, I digress. Though I encourage you to put my suspicion to the test – just for kicks - and let me know if it works.  You can thank me later.

Now as for this little boy, how was it not a given that he would intuitively know that the fridge in the back of the garage was where all the good stuff lived?  The big people food.  The sugary treats that are sometimes allowed, in small quantities, but only after dinner or on special occasions.  Imagine being a three year old and finding such a pot of gold.  Imagine realizing you could plunk your little body down on the cool garage floor and cram forbidden cookie after forbidden cookie into your tiny mouth without having to eat all your broccoli and peas first.  Hell, I’m 38 and even I want in on this deal.  Well, minus Grandma’s secret, leafy ingredient, of course. The secret ingredient that this barely-out-of-toddlerhood child, left unsupervised in a garage long enough to get stoned out of his mind, consumed until he fell asleep. 

That said, not everyone agreed with me when I assigned a rather offensive adjective to Granny Ganja, and even I admit that cancer is a pretty compelling excuse for just about any behavior that brings about relief.  Still, not a good enough one.  Not in this case. Even so, in the spirit of lightening up, of not battling my way through every situation with some relentless determination to be “right” all the time, I let my unpopular characterization of this elderly woman go.  And yet, something about the situation still weighed on me.  Something that seemed related to the pot and the endangering of this child, but that ran deeper and that I couldn't quite identify. 

Then I saw this morning’s headline: “Illegal Marijuana Dispensary Found Selling ‘Baked’ Goods in Restaurant Back Room,” and suddenly, it clicked.  A much different scenario than the innocent child falling victim to his doobie-rolling grandmother’s crime-chip cookies, this article spotlighted the Farmer’s Daughter restaurant in Sacramento, California, an establishment known for its friendly service, its menu variety, and the 80 pounds of marijuana in its back-room dispensary. 

Wait, it gets better. 

After eating their “perfectly normal” meals, patrons of the Farmer’s Daughter knew to ask for “the house baked goods, which consisted of cannabis-prepared desserts, lollipops, pastry balls, an assortment of things you'd eat."  I realized, as I kept reading, that it wasn’t necessarily the pot that was throwing me off.  After all, people talk about it like it’s the “legal illegal drug” these days, using phrases like “It’s only a joint” and “He used to do drugs, now he just rides the yellow submarine once in awhile.”  I’ve learned to live with what has become a pretty universal pot desensitization, since I sense that my aversion to it places me in the minority. 

But what was eating at me was precisely the fact that this whole marijuana situation wasn’t really about marijuana at all.  It was all about … eating.  Cookies and brownies and lollipops and assorted baked goods.  Forbidden foods and hidden foods and sneaking food and hoarding food.  Gone are the days when people simply hid in bathroom stalls rolling joints, sucking the reeking substance into their bodies, filling their lungs and holding their breath before blowing the stuff out into my no-longer-fresh air.  (At this point, my asthma and I would like to insert a retroactive “you suck” to everyone who did that in the 80s and 90s.)

In this fat/calorie/carb/weight/size/measurement/pound-obsessed culture where we starve all day and binge all night and log endless hours on the treadmill or sink into days-long depression on the couch, where we make enemies of our mirrors, enemies of our bathroom scales, enemies of our own bodies … why in the hell are we throwing pot, the drug known to cause cravings and those oh so famous “munchies” into the most fattening trigger foods on Earth?  On the one hand, I admire the entrepreneurial idea of saving time by providing the munchies-inducer and the munchie in a single item.  On the other, aren’t cookies and cakes already hard enough to eat in moderation?  Aren’t we just asking for trouble by filling them with the one addictive ingredient guaranteed to make us want more and more?

Anyway, this is where my point seems to end.  Maybe I need to think about it longer. I know I won’t change my position on drugs of any kind.  Ever.  For any reason.  I know I will always land hard on anyone who endangers a child – intentional or not, you don’t get to make avoidable, life-threatening mistakes with children and wipe them away with an apology.  But maybe pot-filled foods are the wave of the future.  I’m not just talking about the “pot brownies” that have been around since the 60’s, here. I’m talking about a whole new wave of trendy Food Network shows dedicated to the cause – A Ganja Thanksgiving feast, A Blow Bruch, A Roll Your Own Taco Joint party.  Where will it end?  And how will we explain to our children why it is that Grandma and Grandpa always moan “I love you, man” after a plateful of “happy pancakes,” or why great-aunt Mary’s potholders aren’t used to hold the pot full of potatoes on the stove? Or why, every time daddy goes to the local "burger joint" for dinner, he comes home hungrier than when he left? 

Just some thoughts ...

What do you think?


Full link to the Granny article: http://www.delish.com/food/recalls-reviews/restaurant-selling-marijuana
Full link to the Farmer’s Daughter restaurant article: http://usnews.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2012/07/03/12544508-grandmas-pot-cookies-land-california-toddler-in-hospital?lite

A Birthday Cake for Grandpa (From last night's Memoir Project/Bookmarks reading)

Last night, I was honored to read alongside several other local writers at the Arts Center of the Capitol Region's Memoir Project/Bookmarks event.  Curated by Robyn Ringler, a local writer, bookseller, and owner of Eastline Books in Clifton Park, NY,  the topic for this submission was "Food."  Seemed basic and daunting at the same time.  So I began sifting through some ideas - my food allergies and sensitivities?  Too common.  Eating disorders?  Too overdone.  My vegetarianism? Too trendy.  Finally, my memory took me back to age 13, where I found myself trapped in afternoon of cake baking with my little brother, Rick.  It was too wonderful not to write and submit.  So that was what I did.  And I was happy that others saw it as worthy of sharing last night.  The evening was wonderful, filled with so many diverse experiences and stories about food and its impact on our lives, from sad to nostaligic to funny.  And what we all had in common, regardless of our age or our topic or our tone, was our love of food in some form or another, as a vehicle into relationships with our loved ones, ourselves, our surroundings, our memories. 

To my friends and family who have supported my writing, many thanks.  I know you would have been there last night if at all possible, so I have decided to share the piece here. And I want to thank my brother, Rick, who read (and laughed) at the piece and admitted that it was as true as he could recall (a rareity for memoir writers to hear!). Rick inspires me in countless ways, and he literally inspired this story by living through the memoirable experience with me.  It is for him, and for the happy childhood memories we shared, that I wrote this piece.

A Birthday Cake for Grandpa

 “We’re making grandpa a birthday cake with peanut butter frosting,” I announced.

“We?” my grandmother replied.

“Yes.  We.  Rick and me.”

“Do you know how to bake a cake?” Grandma asked.   

“Of course,” I lied.  “Mom lets me bake all the time.”

I was thirteen. My brother Rick was six.  And our combined baking resume at that point consisted of popcorn, oatmeal, and Duncan Hines Double Fudge box mix brownies. But since Grandpa’s birthday fell during our summer visit that year, it was the perfect opportunity to surprise him. 

How hard could it be to make a cake?  And some frosting? 

Maybe my mother didn’t let me bake all the time, but I had certainly watched her mix flour and sugar and eggs together enough to know the process.  And what I hadn’t learned from my mother I had seen on the cooking shows at Grandma’s house.

“Do you think Grandpa would take you grocery shopping?” I asked. “For like … two hours?”  I aimed straight for Grandma’s Achilles: her love of shopping.  And since Grandma didn’t drive, Grandpa took her everywhere she wanted to go.

By the time Grandma and Grandpa backed out of their gravel driveway thirty minutes later, I was already churning a giant mountain of flour from the Hoosier cabinet into the largest bowl I could find while Rick gathered the last four eggs from the refrigerator.

“Four people equals four eggs,” he reasoned.

“Right,” I replied, handing him a small ceramic dish.  “Here, crack them into this.”

But as Rick cradled the eggs in his left arm to reach for the dish, the first egg fell.

Splat. 

Within seconds, egg number two followed. 

Thwap.

I stopped churning, grabbed Grandma’s favorite dish towel, and began chasing and wiping the yolk puddle fanning across the kitchen floor.

 Rick’s face sank. “Now we don’t have enough eggs for the cake.”    

“Two eggs are plenty,” I promised. 

Rick recovered and began cracking the remaining eggs into the designated bowl. “Now what?”

“We should start the frosting,” I instructed. “We need to boil Karo Syrup and sugar first.  That’s what mom does. After that, we can add peanut butter.” 

I threw some granulated sugar into a saucepan and added half a jar of Karo Syrup. Then I slapped the pan on a burner and cranked the temperature to “High.”

“High temperature will make it boil faster so we can finish in time.” 

Unaware that the frosting was already in its initial burning stage, I grabbed the remaining eggs, a handful of sugar, and a pinch of baking powder and tossed everything on top of the flour mountain. 

Finally, it was time to mix.  Easier said than done, since Grandma and Grandpa’s old, four-story house was an electrical maze.  We couldn’t plug anything into the outlet by the pantry if the dining room lamp was on.  We couldn’t use the outlet by the front door if the television was playing.  We risked shrouding the entire house in darkness if we used the toaster or blender before turning off all the lights on the second floor.  And since Grandma had started a load of laundry before she left, we couldn’t plug anything into the kitchen outlet nearest the utility room without blowing all the circuits on the left side of the house.

I handed Rick the bowl and electric mixer and pointed toward the bathroom.  “Go mix this. Use the outlet by the toothbrushes.”

Rick hobbled away hugging the bowl in his arms, the mixer tucked between his chin and chest.

As I turned my attention back toward the stove, it was the crackling I heard first. 

Then, I smelled … something.

Then I saw the thick cloud of smoke rising from the front burner. 

 “SHIT!”

I lunged for the saucepan, gripped the handle, and dumped the bubbling black substance into the sink. Evidently, Karo Syrup turns to granite the second it hits cold enamel.

“SHIT!”

 “What happened?” Rick ran into the kitchen.

“I burned the frosting and ruined the sink!”

We stared helplessly at the hardening mass until a low buzzing interrupted the silence.

 “Rick!  Did you leave the beaters on?” I sprinted toward the bathroom while Rick followed.

“Oh SHIT!” I screamed as I entered the centrifuge of batter leaping from the beaters and splattering the walls. The mirrors.  The claw foot tub. I ran to the mixer and slammed the “off” button.

 “I think we still have enough batter for a small cake,” I persevered. Then I scooped the beaters and the much lighter batter bowl and headed back to the kitchen.  Finally, I emptied the mixture into two metal cake tins and popped them into a 400-degree oven.

Then I turned my attention back to the marbleized mess in the sink. 

“Find a hammer,” I ordered. “And a screwdriver.” 

While Rick searched, I grabbed the bucket of peanut butter and began spooning thick blobs into one of the few mixing bowls that wasn’t covered in batter. Or egg. Or white powder.  Peanut butter is pretty perfect on its own.  I’ll just dump some sugar into this and call it frosting.  Not only was I unaware of the difference between granulated and powdered sugar, I was also unaware that peanut butter frosting required the latter.   

“Frosting’s done,” I announced as Rick reentered with a hammer in one hand and a Philip’s flathead in the other. 

I motioned him toward the sink and positioned the screwdriver in his right hand, lining it up with the solid black substance now embedded into enamel. 

“Hold it tight,” I instructed as I raised the hammer and let it fall on top of the screwdriver with such force that my arms vibrated and Rick winced.

Our victorious, boiled opponent refused to budge. 

“Forget it,” I heaved.  "We’re running out of time.  And we still have to frost the cake.”  I threw the hammer to the floor and proceeded to pull the tins out of the oven.

At that point, I noticed that one layer was shallower and darker than the other.  And after several failed attempts to pry the smaller piece from its pan, I decided that Grandpa would be celebrating this year’s birthday with half of a one-layer cake.  Resigned, I gently cut the thicker layer from its pan and pieced it together on one of Grandma’s antique serving platters before slapping thick piles of sugary peanut butter all over its top and sides. The only thing left to do was set the thing inside Grandma’s domed cake holder and snap the lid shut.  I imagined everyone’s shock as I removed the enormous cover to reveal the tiny little disaster that appeared so large, so normal, so edible from the outside. 

At that moment, I heard what I dreaded most: the sound of my grandparents’ car crunching up the driveway.

“SHIT!” I yelled one last time before shoving the cake into my brother’s arms. “Hide this somewhere.”

As Rick bolted from the room and my grandparents entered, dropping their grocery bags and cases of soda to the floor, I summoned my most cheerful voice:

“Surprise!  You’ll never guess what we did while you were out!”

No truer words were ever spoken.