Confessions of an egocentric foodie

Here is a photo showing what my child does to grapes. He doesn’t eat them. He gnaws them. He mauls them. He ravages them, and then he leaves the sodden, damaged goods behind. Or, better yet, he offers them in their semi-destroyed state to me. As if. He does this to a number of foods, and honestly, it’s a step in the right direction—at least he’s interacting with the food. There are so many foods he won’t even touch. Slowly, ever so slowly, he’s expanding his edible repertoire, but M-A-N is it taking a long time.

And I try not to take this personally. But for some reason, I do. You see, I’m a foodie. I love food. I love to make food, to eat food, to read about food. I’m the annoying person at parties who’s always trying to get a recipe. I’m the one who then sends those recipes to disinterested people (at least I used to do this—I’ve kind of given up lately.) The person who constantly tries to tell you about different dishes, or foods that are healthy, easy to work with, low in carbs? Yep, that’s me. I’m even more obsessed now that I have to watch the glucose levels. And I struggle to understand it: How can this child, my offspring, not love food as I do?

I know, he’s just a toddler, they have no appreciation of fine cuisine. It’s typical. It’s a control issue. They hate change. Blah, blah, blah. I know. But he’s MY child!!! How can he not love food?

I guess this reveals a lot about not just my interests, but also my pushy personality. I’ve been accused in my life of being too forceful, of wanting everyone to like my way best. Perhaps that’s true; supposedly, this obnoxious trait runs in my family. I honestly don’t believe it for an instant. And besides, my way is best—people should be able to see that, right?! (I’m teasing, people. Come on.)

But seriously, when I think about it, we all get a little bit defensive if people don’t love what we love, be it lasagna, a band, the girl down the street, a character from a favorite movie... It’s silly, but I run into that sort of behavior from so many people that it must be a pretty common human shortcoming. You can go ahead and deny it if you want, but it’s a rare man or woman who can remain completely unemotional about the things he or she loves—especially when those things are openly held in low regard by someone else.

Still in denial? Think of something you really like. And think of someone who mocks that something, maybe to your face, maybe in a smugly subtle way. Can you say in truth that it doesn’t bother you at all? I can’t. Call me small; I’ll call me honest.

The tastes of battle

All three of us are now battling some form of the cold that invaded our lives last week. That’s right, an entire household, paralyzed by rampant, mutant germs that have infiltrated every corner and cranny, spreading their badness. And the ongoing illness has reminded me of something I recall each time I battle a malady: Sickness has a taste.

There’s the foul, sour taste of unwashed mouth, of tongue that’s welcomed only tea and chicken noodle soup for days on end with nary a sighting of a toothbrush. And there’s the dry, bile-tinged taste of a ravaged mouth that’s been trying very hard to keep stuff from coming up into it, stuff that has no right traveling upward instead of down and out. The taste I’m recalling now (because I’ve been cruelly reminded) is the taste of sore throat and chest ailment—a strangely metallic flavor. Where is that coming from? Metal? Huh? But it’s true. The minute something goes awry in my chest and lungs, that’s the taste in my mouth.

Makes you wonder what’s going on down there, in the depths of your amazing body, as it fights this fight against evil germs. Can you picture the white blood cells at a rally, pepping each other up before they take arms against the germ? It’s crazy, really, when you think about it—and especially crazy because our bodies are always doing some kind of battle, even when we’re healthy. While we’re totally clueless, feeling fine, going about our business and even neglecting ourselves as so many of us do, all the components of our intricate and awesome bodies are still working to keep a good balance: making sure there are just enough germs to keep the defenses in good shape, being certain that the bacteria we need are in good supply but aren’t getting too cocky… I’m no doctor or scientist, but I’m still rendered speechless when I ponder all the wonderful things going on inside me at any given time. Even looking at the monitor as I type this, thinking about the image going into my pupil, being reflected somewhere on the back of my eyeball, images being sent to my brain via millions of tiny nerves… It could really freak me out if I dwell on it for very long.

So, I’m hopeful that we’ll all beat the current bug. It can’t last forever; even at this moment, forces are being assembled to kick its bum out of my and my family’s bodies for good. And then they’ll regroup, those marvelous forces, and prepare to do battle again when the next enemy enters the scene via an eye or nostril.

Our pastor said something that stayed with me yesterday: he said that, after pondering the Earth and everything in it, that he “didn’t have enough faith to be an atheist.” He’s so right. If I think about even my own eyes, ears, hands, body in general, my origins inside a womb, for Heaven’s sake!—all I can see is an amazing designer behind every detail.

Looking forward to healthier days—hopefully soon.

“Home-work," stuffitis and odd phobias

Here’s a photo showing the new color of the foundation of our house. Next to it is an old pic. The light blue was the pale, spiritless color we inherited; lively pea green is the new, warmer, more inviting shade. Next year’s plans include coffee brown shutters and repainted brown railings, etc. to match. AND finding a paint shade to match the brick, to cover up the sloppy, we-don’t-need-no-stinkin'-blue-tape paint job of the previous owner. (We’ll see if all this actually happens.)

Note: If you want to learn a lot about yourself—and the state of any relationships near and dear to you—start a home improvement project. ‘Nuf said. I’m proud to report that our marriage has now survived unemployment, freelance employment, 3 moves, 2 home purchases, a remodeled kitchen, and painting on the outside of the current dwelling.

Right now, Todd is trying to seize one of the last seasonable October days and clean out/reorganize the garage. It’s amazing the amount of stuff you accumulate. Things you forgot you had—now honestly, how pathetic is that? How can we have so much stuff that we forget what we have? It’s kind of an American sickness, stuffitis. And the regular cure for stuffitis can become a regular job: the job of minimizing possessions. Hence Todd’s activities this afternoon.

Any of you who know me are probably already quite aware that I love getting rid of stuff. Not throwing it away—I actually have a phobia about that, especially food—but just getting stuff out of my house and/or out of my life. It’s a heady feeling, lightening your personal load in this world. I’d suggest that all of you give it a try; the most reluctant of you should take the biggest load to the Goodwill. Or heck, in this convenient day and age, call Goodwill or its competitors; some of those charities will come to your house and take it from you for free! Can you beat that with a stick?

Anyway, I really do have some sort of mental issues about throwing things away. I can’t find an actual name for it, but I did learn while searching on Google that there is such a thing as “fear of throwing up.” Its name is emetophobia. Seriously. Are there any silent sufferers out there reading this, cowering in corners, clutching your antibacterial gel in hopes of evading the latest stomach flu germs? Come, step out of those dark places, drop the antibacterial crap and grab a sturdy bucket or plastic garbage can. Hold it high! Don’t be ashamed—it’s okay to hurl!

Okay. Enough silliness. Go clean out that garage or basement now. Go on, get to it.

Ma-Ma's necklace

On Monday evening, for the very first time, I wore Ma-Ma’s necklace.

Ma-Ma is my paternal grandmother. She died in February. In a year of staggering losses, I think I can honestly say this one has had the biggest impression on me. Next to my parents, Ma-Ma was an omnipresent person in my life; there have been many wonderful and influential relatives and friends, of all ages, but this lady impacted me in a big way.

So, donning her necklace was a big step. I felt a little funny about it; I’d seen it on her so many times. Anyone who knew her can probably picture it immediately: a long, slim strand of what appear to be small cream and gray freshwater pearls, with a tiny gold bead in between each pearl. It’s a pretty piece, simple, and its light weight tells me that it’s not very valuable in the eyes of the world—but it is to me. And having seen it around her wrinkled neck so many times, I just wasn’t sure if I was worthy. Was this the right moment? Did it look okay with my outfit? Should I leave it in my jewelry box for a few months longer? Perhaps it would be disrespectful to sport it so soon after her departure…

Then I pictured her, putting on the strand to come to a family outing, probably not even thinking about it once she’d worn it a few times. It was simply one of her favorites, not to be contemplated. A woman who’d been vain about her looks for her whole life, I believe she made a point in those last years of not really looking at herself, at the old woman she had become. (I know that I spend increasingly less time in front of a mirror, and that's probably good. I hope that not one of us who lives that many years—she was 2 weeks away from turning 100 when she died—will spend too much time gazing in the mirror, except to tell ourselves how well we've held up and to congratulate the reflected image on a life well lived.)

And then, I considered the occasion to which I would wear the necklace: a funeral visitation for my husband’s maternal grandma, who’d turned 90 in May, had fought the good fight for a few months, and who finally succumbed to absolute weariness. She was the Ma-Ma of Todd’s mom's family. She, too, held a family together through the loss of a husband, although she went on to help rebuild it with her second husband, while Ma-Ma never remarried. Todd’s gram, too, was the matriarch, an ever-present figure at family functions, a voice of experience and knowledge. Somehow, it seemed oddly appropriate that Ma-Ma’s necklace would make its second debut—on a different, younger neck—at such an occasion. It could be a nod, of sorts, from one great elder stateswoman to another.

Do we all, in time, achieve that special, precious patina of the aged? Is it a given, a right for everyone? Or is it reserved for a few unique, cherished, wonderfully worn people? I think you can guess my stance on this matter.

I only hope that I will wear the necklace well.

Random thoughts

I've managed to contract the kid's bug, in some weird mutated form, so I'm short on insightful thoughts about pretty much anything right now. Here's what I've been thinking about instead:

Why do we humans have so many different and frequently disgusting fluids, solids, and forms of mucus exiting our bodies at all times? I've been presented with some nasty, odd-colored nasal discharges from my son these past couple of days, and that's just the tip of the iceberg as far as unsavory discharges, from him or from anyone else. Makes you wonder how that seemed like a good idea when we were being formed on the sixth day and all that. This is definitely a question I'll have for the Maker someday...

Thinking about mucus reminds me of all these hip, happening new viruses on the market, like MRSA; is there another Biosphere experiment in the works anywhere? Maybe they'll hold a lottery for the next lucky dwellers—let me know if you hear anything...

Speaking of living in a bubble, what will our morally upstanding media (cough, cough) do if Hollywood suddenly produces a successful teen star who miraculously marches into adulthood still sober, clean of drugs, free of a police record, and without an eating disorder? Oh, wait—that person will have been kicked to the curb long before he/she reaches adulthood. Too boring.

And since we're talking about the media, how must a soldier or fresh veteran feel after watching a broadcast of the news and finding that the war is usually not the top story? That's a slap in the face, eh? Thanks for fighting--just get in line behind Britney and her kids and the parenting coach, okay? What's that, you're handicapped and you need a chair? Geesh--you people sure are demanding.

Well, I can see I'm on my way to a rather corrosive little diatribe, so I'll stop now. In case there's any doubt, I support our troops and what they are doing. And I definitely feel most days as if Americans in general are pretty spoiled and rather superficial—not excluding me. But that's a post for another day.

Send us healing thoughts, please! Thanks.

Just touching base

Well, we've lost another older member of our family...so, the next couple of days will be busy with family commitments. Please forgive my absence while I try to think of something intelligent and insightful to share with you next time.

On a completely different level, we finished painting the foundation of the house a lovely warm ivy green. It really looks nice with the tan brick. I'll post a couple of pics next time. It was a rather arduous process, but well worth the effort.

And, Marcus has managed to catch another cold. : (

A musical feast—with a side dish of annoyance

Today the kid and I had a lovely opportunity to go hear a live musician who was performing an abbreviated set for little children, in support of his upcoming family album. A local radio station that we support was the sponsor and host, so I pre-registered, we waited with anticipation, and this morning we got ourselves together and drove there.

The performer, Ellis Paul (www.ellispaul.com), was a lively, gifted and patient entertainer who also happens to be a parent. That’s good, since performing for a group of 30-something preschoolers can be rather challenging. He did a fabulous job, sang some old Woody Guthrie tunes, some other popular kid tunes, and he did it all with just an acoustic guitar, a microphone, and an impressive ability to stay focused and tuneful in the face of madness.

And it did become a tad mad. The session was 45 minutes long. That was probably a bit too long for a number of the children gathered there. I must praise my own little guy; he was fully attentive for about 38 minutes, clapping, bobbing his head, really listening and looking at the guy and enjoying himself. Even when he started to fade during the last song or two, I was honestly right there with him—and our distraction was entirely due to the madness. We both have some anxiety issues when the noise and confusion levels are high, especially when there are numerous rowdy strangers around—which was the case.

Where is this going? Well, I just want to sing out loudly in favor of controlling your children. The radio station, God bless ‘em for trying this, asked in the registration confirmation that we bring only a blanket and our best listening skills. Okay—do good listening skills include jumping up and down on a nearby stage to hear the loud thump that the hollow floor makes? Is good listening illustrated by crawling around on the floor, standing, falling forward, nearly hitting a tiny girl in her mom’s lap, all the while growling loudly? Does good listening translate as running through the throngs of people who are seated on the floor, trying to see the singer and listen to his music? And let me make it clear that all this was happening while the poor fellow sang and strummed. I’m not talking about kids dancing; that happened too, and we were all delighted by it. Dancing to the music was not the issue.

I don’t want to be ridiculous in my expectations, because it WAS a roomful of kids under the age of 6. And yet, can’t we begin to set realistic expectations for behavior by controlling, and if necessary removing, the kids who are becoming bored and restless? When an audience member becomes louder than the performer, perhaps that’s a clue that the member in question is no longer interested and might prefer to be elsewhere. Perhaps he or she should be taken out of the situation, thus sending the message that such behavior is inappropriate in that setting and won’t be tolerated. Doesn’t the performer deserve that respect?

Then again, why would kids be any different from adults? I’ve attended countless public events, indoor and outdoor, at which I was appalled by the behavior of the audience regardless of its average age. And if the event is free of charge, as was today’s event…? Oh, my—those are, sadly, the worst examples of human behavior. Rudeness rules at free events. And that’s a shame—because for some attendees, free events are their only options.

Anyway. Am I being silly? Should I just relax and let kids be kids, as I’m so often told? And when does that adage become a hackneyed excuse for poorly behaved children? Let me know where you stand on this. Seriously.

And seriously, thank you thank you thank you to WYEP (www.wyep.org) for holding just such an event. Many more, please! Maybe you can rope off a holding pen for the more rambunctious fans next time…? Or not.