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I really want a tea cup. I enjoy a nice cup of Constant Comment from time to time. To me, tea is a drink best enjoyed when you can sit, uninterruptedly and leaf through a magazine or just look out the window while you inhale and exhale. A tea cup would be a nice reminder for me to slow down and take few moments to just be.
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When I first read this quote, I thought it was a good piece of advice, especially when you are in the middle of a heated discussion or argument with someone. Once the words are out of your mouth, it’s impossible to pull them back.
There’s been quite a bit of “You’re not my sister,” and “I’m never going to play with you again,” going on lately between Mo and Co. I wanted to write about how we’ve been talking to the girls about hurtful words and kind words, about how they should think before they speak to us and to one another because disrespect won’t be tolerated.
Then I thought about how even though we drill these lessons into our children as they have been drilled into us, there are those among us who haven’t had the benefit. I thought about the times when people have said unkind things to me or about me. I’ve never been one for witty answers and snappy comebacks when faced with hurtful japes. I’m totally unprepared to defend myself; I’m just so taken aback over what’s just transpired. The older I get, the more baffled I am because I’m constantly left wondering, “Really? Why is this still happening?”
About a year or so ago, I was at a community service project with several members of my sorority. We were at an inner city elementary school, talking with at-risk children about fire safety. As part of the program, the closest fire station to the school had promised to come by with a ladder truck for the kids to explore. The several firefighters would be on hand to show the kids their equipment, answer questions about fire safety and talk about life as a fire fighter. It promised to be a really good program.
The kids were attentive throughout the sorority demonstration about smoke alarms and how to find a central location for your family if your house caught on fire. They started to get excited when the fire fighters came in to let us know they were all set up outside. We all packed up our things and headed to the parking lot. The kids raced ahead with a few of my sorority sisters, while several of us wrapped up our supplies and headed out. One sorority sister, whom I’ll call M, fell in step with me as we walked towards the lot, amicably chatting about nothing. As we approached the door, one of the firefighters, held the door open for us to pass through. I went first, saying “Thank you,” and then M followed behind me. The young guy let the door close and jogged off to where the rest of his crew were standing. Apropos of nothing, M says, “He probably held the door open for you because he thought you were white.”
What?
I can remember actually coming to a halt and turning to look at her because I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I can’t tell if she was trying to be funny or if she was serious. Of course, there is truth in humor, so I’m sure it was a little of both. Even now, I still wonder what made her think that what she said was alright or that it would be well received? My gut tells me, she wasn’t thinking since she said it in the first place. I tried to follow her logic (if there was any to be had) and see it strictly in terms of Black and White:
–> Black women at a predominantly Black school with a group of Black kids.
–> Predominantly White, all male fire crew
I’m not connecting the dots here. How did she put it together that given these variables, an act of courtesy was done strictly because of. . .of what? I don’t get it.
By the time I had processed what she had said, the fact that I heard it correctly and so forth, she was already talking with some other people and I was floundering for an appropriate response. That response turned out to be no response at all. I had nothing to say. In part, too much time had passed (in my opinion) between what she said and when I was ready to reply. To walk up on her after the fact, now with an audience of other sorority members, and discuss it seemed like folly. Could I have called her privately and talked about it? Sure. Did I want to? No, not really. I mean, I was angry and I was hurt. But I realized, here is a woman who, must see me as a threat of some kind. Why would I waste my time and energy trying to mollify her when she would rather make jabs are me? If I look at the big picture, how was I doing before I met this woman? How will I be doing if I were to just remove her from my social circle? Fine on both counts, let me tell you.
Many would argue that the above situation was a prime opportunity for me to stand up for myself or to make an insensitive clod aware that words can hurt. I know that, but the paralysis that comes over me when something like that happens (and it has happened quite a bit) prevents me from doing so. I’ve had people tell me that I need to be prepared, that I need to have a list of comebacks ready on my tongue. I can’t go through life with my guard up and a sharp word ready to loose all of the time. That’s tiring and impractical. And just like when two kids are fighting, it’s always the kid who throws the second punch who gets caught. I don’t want to be the one made to look like a hysterical, can-take-a-joke, tight-ass.
No one likes being disrespected. How you choose to respond to it is up to you. My experiences have taught me to really weigh my words before I speak. I don’t know what private battles someone is fighting daily, nor do they know mine. We tell the girls to think before they speak, often times because they start launching into a story filled with, “uh, um. . .uh. .uh”. Really though, it’s laying a foundation for being courteous and respectful to others.
I wish someone had done that for M.
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I think I used up all my good ju-ju making those Valentine Cards the other day. I was deep in the throes of the calm before the storm. I’d beaten back the cold just enough that I was starting to feel better, but I shoulda known, that old nastiness was going to rally one more time. I got too ambitious and now, I’m back to my mouth breathing, chapped nose, dry coughing self. I shoulda known better, but really, I have never been one to take a break even when it’s been foisted upon me.
Craig and the kids still managed to reap the benefits of the break in my sick day. Dinner was homemade crab cakes (a.k.a crabby patties). Too bad my taste-buds have mutinied. They looked really good and I doubt the leftovers will make it much past this afternoon. I’m pretty sure I saw Craig heating up a few to have at breakfast!
This is a goof-proof recipe that I filched off of the container of crab meat. Four simple steps and you are on your way to a meal that puts warm summer breezes, sun-kissed sand dunes and the melodic lowing of a ship’s horn all within reach.
Epicure Crab Cakes
Ingredients
1 lb. Epicure crabmeat
1/2 cup crushed saltines (which I didn’t have so I used bread crumbs instead)
SN: I prefer my crabcakes with just crabmeat and seasonsing, but I’m not skilled enough in the ways of the kitchen to come up with some other kind of binding agent to hold the whole thing together. I tried to use a little bit of the bread crumbs at a time to see if less could do just as well as the whole amount. In the end, I used the entire recommended amount.
1 beaten egg
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/2 tsp. seafood seasoning (hello, Old Bay!)
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 tbsp. dry mustard
1 tsp. lemon juice
Directions
1. Remove all shells from crabmeat
2. Mix ingredients in bowl
3. Mix in crabmeat
SN: So in my haste to get dinner on the table, I just read the first and second steps. After I had picked through the crabmeat, I added the other ingredients right on top of it, instead of mixing it separately and then adding the meat to the mix. I don’t think that really affects the quality of the cake, but for you purists out there, note to self: read the directions in their entirety before beginning. That’s Cooking 101.
4. Shape into cakes and fry or broil
I ended up with eight nicely sized crab-cakes, which I put on a foil lined pan. Then, for added flair, I dusted them with parsley flakes and some paprika for color. They were under the broiler for about seven minutes. I didn’t flip them simply because I was afraid they’d fall apart during the flip, but they were cooked through all the same.
Dinner was mighty quiet last night, save for my coughing, since everyone was grubbing down on the crabby patties. These cakes are good enough to stand alone, but there are those of us who enjoy a good dipping sauce to go with. You can’t go wrong with a basic cocktail sauce or a lemon and garlic aioli, both of which are easily found courtesy of Google.
And you know what else is nice? With Valentines’ Day right around the corner, you can easily whip these up for your special someone, garnish them with chives or microgreens and serve them with a chilled white for a lovely dinner.
Happy Friday, y’all!
I’m back.
Sort of.
I mean, I’m pretty much recovered, but I feel like I’m playing catch up here. It’s not as though I just went MIA for a couple of days. Really, there’s no rest to be had when there’s stuff to be done. And in our house, there is always stuff to be done. There’s nothing funny about being sick, especially when you’re hacking and coughing and snotting all over the place, but I did have laugh-out-loud moment where I realized that I am truly no longer a kid who can curl up on the couch while my own mom brings me ginger ale and crackers (boo-hoo!). The other night, I sneezed about half a dozen times in a row. When I looked in the tissue make sure the last of my brain cells weren’t in there, I saw green snot.
My first thought? “Oh, I really am sick.” Typical mom response because as we moms know, if the nose runs clear, it’s all good. Green snot means automatic day at home and possible trip to the doctor. At least, that’s what it means when the bearer of the snot is of the toddler set. When you’re the responsible adult, you swig some ‘Tussin straight from the bottle and keep it moving. If I could roll around with an OJ IV drip, trust me, I would.
Thankfully, the girls and Craig have remained germ-free. I even got a slight respite when I defrosted a chunk of leftover lasagna from the other week. Oh! and my review of the lasagna! It was really delicious. I was skeptical of using cream cheese instead of ricotta, but true to my finicky form, I decided if I halved the amount of cream cheese required and just added more mozzerala, it would be okay. And it certainly was. The spinach was a nice touch and even the girls liked it. As a matter of fact, Coever liked the lasagna so much, she asked to have it for dinner two nights in a row. And get this. . .she ATE it. I’m still reeling over that one. I think I have my dad to thank for that. He told her that the spinach was grass [insert marijuana joke here], freshly picked from outside. She rolled that one around for about half a second before forking up spinach like she’d been doing it her whole life. I wonder what other veggies I can “re-name” so that she’ll eat them.
These days, the girls have been all hopped up about Valentine’s Day. Morgan’s class sent home a flyer instructing the parents to decorate a shoebox so that the children can bring it in for a Valentine’s exchange. Seriously? What happened to the days of making a little construction paper envelope at school? Or how about the kid decorating their own box? This parental involvement is killing me softly, I tell you what. I think the school decree to decorate the box was like a gauntlet thrown down. Either that or I am more feverish than I realize. If I have to get out my crafty kit to decorate the box, then I’m about to wreck shop on the Valentine’s themselves. No more pre-packaged, punch-out cards. I’m going full on craft-tastic. I only have myself and Pinterest to blame thank.
In truth, this project is pretty simple.
Step 1.
Find a willing participant. Once I showed Morgan what I had in mind, she practically threw my camera at me and struck a pose.
Step 2.
Have your subject pose holding their arm outstretched, their hand in a fist. We tried a couple different poses and decided to use these two.
Step 3.
Upload the photo to your editing software of choice and add your desired text.
Step 4.
Print out the images using 4×6 dimensions.
Step 5.
Punch a hole or make a small X above and below the fist so that the stick of the lollipop slides through the card. I’d also put a piece of tape on the back so that the lollipop doesn’t slide out.
Forgive the quality of these images. I was trying to make dinner, take the picture, stop the girls from eating the lollipops, and bouncing from foot to foot because I needed to go to the bathroom, but of all the things going on, that one always takes last place.
I printed these out on regular paper, but I would advise using cardstock or photo paper. The weight of that kind of paper is more durable and less likely to buckle under the weight of the lollipop. I’m also considering uploading the prints to one of the many online photo websites (i.e. Snapfish, Shutterfly, Kodak Gallery) and letting them do the printing and cutting.
And guess what? In 5 steps, I have justified spending countless hours on Pinterest finding things to demonstrate my prowess as a craft-master. Everybody wins! Now. . .off to the bathroom!
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Uggggghhh. . .I feel like crap on toast. My nose is so stuffed up, I swear someone jammed cotton balls in there when I wasn’t looking. It’s so plugged, I can’t taste anything. That actually might be a good thing because my throat is so raw that swallowing feels like a dozen tiny swordsmen are sharpening their steel on my tonsils. I’m so tired because I can’t sleep because I can’t breathe. I’ve turned into a droopy eyed, dry-lipped, mouth breather. Let me go take some Tylenol with an orange juice chaser. Keep your fingers crossed for rebound for tomorrow.
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| Hilary with One L’s Charm Bracelet |
I don’t wear a lot of jewelry. My wedding rings, my watch and I’m out the door. I’m so rough on my hands, I’m afraid that I’m going to snag a bracelet or a ring on something and either rip the setting apart or lose the whole piece entirely. Still, when I’m feeling fancy or really want to dress up something as basic as a tee shirt and jeans, I turn to my charm bracelet that Craig started for me several years ago. The first charm was the round T& Co charm for a Christmas gift. The second was the little blue box because, who doesn’t like to see a little blue box? My third charm was the number 7, which holds special significance to me. My last charm was the apple which was given to me by Craig. Without getting too personal, let’s just say that after many married years, I’m still tempting to my hubs the way the apple tempted Adam and Eve. I think there’s room on there for one more, and I’ve got my eye on something like this:
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I promise, I’m not going to turn into one of those bloggers who, once they start popping out kids like Pez , they don’t have anything else to talk about except stretch marks, poopy diapers, and cracked nipples. I will say, however, observing the girls and their reactions to my pregnancy has been pretty hilarious.
So, the other day, we were on our way home from school when Coever announced from the backseat that come June, when it’s time for the baby to be born, I will, “go into the bathroom and poop it out.”
Her sister, also known as Fountain of Infinite Knowledge, said, “Uh no! When the baby is ready to be born, the doctor will cut it out of Mom’s tummy.”
If I hadn’t been doing 35 on a twisty road, I’d have banged my head on the steering wheel. Repeatedly. *Le sigh* Where to begin.
I opened with asking the girls what they knew about muscles in the body. What are muscles and how do we make them grow? No problem. They answered that like Ken Jennings on final Jeopardy. I went on to say that men and women have different muscles and that the place where a baby grows is a muscle unique to women called a uterus. I flicked my eyes up to the rear view mirror to see if they were still with me or if I needed to turn back to Absolutely Mindy on Kids Place Live. My girls were hanging on my every word, so I plunged ahead.
A uterus, I went on to explain was a muscle that was like a house for the baby. The muscle grew to accommodate the baby as the baby grew.
“And then they cut you open to take the baby out!” Morgan finished for me. She was delivered via C-section and has heard the story so well, you’d think she actually brought herself forth from the inside out.
“Well, sometimes a doctor has to make an incision to take the baby out because the baby is facing the wrong way or is in trouble and has to come out fast. Most of the time the baby comes out another way.”
“When you poop!” Coever announced! This girl and her poops, what is up with that?
“Not quite,” I went on, wishing that we were at home instead of hitting every single red light between the school yard and house. My brain was whirring and ticking as I thought on how to thoughtfully explain the whole uterus/cervix/vagina extravaganza that is natural childbirth. So, I went back to the uterus and likened it to a house where the baby lives until it’s ready to be born. “In order to get out of the house, what do we go through?” I asked them, pretty certain they’d get it.
“A door!”
“Right,” I said, gaining momentum. “So the uterus is the house and the vagina is the door the baby goes through to come out into the world.
Dead silence.
And then the plaintive exclamation from Morgan, “But it’s SO small!”
Nothing gets past her. Not a thing.
“Well,” I said, trying to wrap this up as quickly as possible, “that’s true, but after the baby is born, everything goes back to the way it was.” If you’re lucky, I added under my breath. Thankfully, we were wheeling up the driveway at that point, so I was able to redirect that conversation to more important things like the collection of backpacks, mittens, snack wrappers and other junk. Later on, when I was retelling this to Craig, I realized, better to have a conversation about how the baby was getting out instead of how the baby got in. We’re going to need more than an after school pick-up to discuss that one.
