>Shakin’ and Bakin’

>
After 2 months of a blessedly uneventful start to middle school, today, he forgets to lock the house.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. And, as usual when my child downloads alarming information, Mommy-mode kicks in, and my focus is on allaying his fears so that he doesn’t trip on the stairs as he climbs into the bus.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You have a great day, ok?”

My next-door neighbor, who works from home, does not answer my call. He is a sound sleeper.

I decide to take my chances, until I remember that we replaced the hinges on the side door a couple of weeks ago, and it still doesn’t shut properly without careful attention.

Visions of my cat-eating dog, loose, and free to eat what she may, viciously flash across my brain, complete with dripping, red background…

Patricia answers on the second ring, as she carefully negotiates the car-rider lane in front of the school.

“Sure!”, she answers without hesitation, as I envision two potentially horrific scenarios.

“Um…What do I do if they are out?”, she asks, with a voice that tells me she is measuring traffic in an effort to make a turn.

“Stay in your car!”, I almost shout, as I imagine my friend, who is violently afraid of dogs, dealing with the blood-dripping cat-eater.

My phone rings, again, as she climbs the driveway in front of my house.

“The door is closed, honey.”, she manages, in a tight voice, not yet given to relief.

I tell her where to find the key, and, my pathetically frightened friend braves the door, and the pouncing, barking, cat-eating dog on the other side of it, as she inserts the key, and finishes the job…

And, tonight, I bake, in thanks.

While I don’t always enjoy cooking, I do enjoy baking, and, especially baking for a reason, and, particularly, baking for other people.

Tonight, I got to do both. I strapped on the IPOD, and cinched up my apron, as I pulled out recipes I had settled on earlier today.

I am baking “Butterscotch Blondies”, courtesy of Alexis Stewart of “Whatever” on Sirius radio,(A guilty pleasure that makes my daily commute doable.), and, “Pretzel Yummies”, a recipe I’ve made only once before, but which is requested on a weekly basis…

I had a great night! Below, I’ve included some pictures, and samples of music that accompanied me along the way. Come have fun with me!

My resident taster…

“Butterscotch Blondies”, fresh from the oven…

My crumb-catcher…

Coating for the “Pretzel Yummies”

“Pretzel Yummies”, complete

Presentation is everything…

The total package…

Baking is hard work…

And my music….

Knitting, through crochet…

We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

>Knitting, through crochet…

>
We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

The five of us shared a two-bedroom duplex. The morning I parted the drapes to see a worn, herculon-covered couch adorning the muscle-car crowded front yard of the unit across the street was the first hint that, in my haste, I had, perhaps, not chosen the best of neighborhoods in which to raise children.

Practicality reasoned that moving was impossible giving our subsistence on financial aid and a part-time salary. And still, on my way home from school, or work, or both, I often detoured through the winding lanes of suburban subdivisions.

One house, in particular called to me. She sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of several gracefully curved streets behind towering pines, as though shy. Someone had, regrettably, slathered her in brick-red paint, which explained her reticence to be on display, and yet she stood. In the early morning, a thin fog caressed the pines, allowing her some dignity. As afternoon burned, worn gray shingles bore the brunt of the heat and the pines cast long shadows on her weathered face. In the black of night, she shone, as banks of unfettered windows bore witness to the lives she sheltered while lighting a set of weathered thirty-year-old handprints cast in the concrete walkway before her.

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

A hallway bath whose wallpaper had begun to unfurl in complaint, was stripped, sanded, and painted in a textured, earthy brown. Thirty year-old mediterranean tile was salvaged to complete the room. It is warm, inviting, cozy, and welcoming.

My youngest son spent a week with his sister in a neighboring town. While he was gone, his room was transformed to reflect his maturity. School colors adorn his walls, and his love of sports and music is reflected throughout.

The browns of the bathroom flow into the adjoining hallway and the border above my head reminds me, “All Things Grow With Love”.

In three days time, my oldest son had transformed the rooms facing the street by swabbing crimson on the walls. I marveled at his carpentry skills as he measured and sawed through the sweat dripping from his Arian forehead, to create a chair rail for my dining room.

Covering the unfortunate brick-red façade took a little more time, but, at last, she is complete. Bathed in a rich khaki that compliments her brick, she sits gracefully on the lot, and Chinese red double-doors provide a ready welcome.

The yards, too, have been transformed. Tropical plants shade the patio while providing color, and outside the sitting area, an English-style garden blooms wild, and free. Farther up the landscape, our vegetable garden yields tomatoes, squash, eggplant, cucumbers, various herbs, and an assortment of peppers during the summer, and fresh leafy greens in the winter.

I loved her, on sight, and knew I could restore her to her original beauty and grace. She has returned the favor by cradling my family and providing a warm and welcoming haven for all who come here. This house has become our home, and I am grateful…

>Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

>
In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

Good music played, softly, and all manner of utensils were in attendance, from salad forks, to dessert spoons. It was to be served family style, and southern, from it’s menu to the cadence in the conversation.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

Several different answers compete in my head, ranging from the acidly sarcastic, “Well, why didn’t you SAY so! Of course, I’ll slave over a hot stove for hours, as long as YOU are there.”, to, “Well, I don’t know, I kinda had plans…”, to what eventually stammered from my mouth on a wave of trepidation, “Ok”.

I seasoned the chops, and moved about the kitchen in time to personally chosen music piped in through the tiny speakers in my ears. I peeled potatoes, before chopping them into boiling water, and I searched my pantry for a known favorite; crowder peas.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“Cooking…I’m frying chicken. I was wondering….do you dunk in the egg first, and then the flour, or the other way around?” Cooking questions are not unusual. All my boys cook. I insisted upon it.

“Wow! You are brave!” I said. “I don’t even fry chicken. Well, I will, after I’ve beaten it to a pulp, so that it’s flat, and I’m sure the inside will cook. And, of course, I spice it up and add a little parmesan. I’ve got that recipe. You want it?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

A picture of my beautiful son, wrapped in an imaginary apron, filled my head. His face shone, like the sun, as his beautiful Native American girlfriend entered the house after a long day of crunching numbers.

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Years of Sunday dinners had left my son with an obligation to provide. And, as his love labored, he stayed behind and created an environment of caring and nourishment, with no thoughts to traditional roles, or pride, or selfishness.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

>Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

Beach Music

The roads she knew like the back of her hand. The sign post, signalling a necessary turn, blessedly flashed in her consciousness just long enough to inspire action and, just as quickly, her mind returned to her escape.
She had kept her promise to herself. One duffel, three-quarters full of denim capris and cotton t-shirts, 2 pairs of flip-flops, bras, pajamas, and swimsuits sat, solitarily, in the back seat; her only nod towards health and beauty, the twin bottles of shampoo and conditioner, suntan oil, and sunblock. A madonna-like smile of satisfaction flitted across her full lips as she thought of what she had left behind; the jewelry, the make-up, the perfume, the lap top.
Reaching towards the dash, she grasped her cellphone as yellow-painted lines measured her progress.
“Dad? I’m here.”
“Good! Pick me up across from the “Painted Fish.” His words fought for room between ragged breaths that told Randy her father was out for a walk.

The small, red car inched along the beach road as she strained to pick her father’s form out amidst the scantily clad forms filling the sidewalks.
“Hey!” the voice came from the opposite side of the road accompanied by a raised bronzed arm.
Looking for a place to turn around, Randy prepared herself for words of recrimination. Her father had always been a demanding, exacting man, with no tolerance for mistakes, regardless of size.
As she pulled alongside, they shared a smile as a fellow walker congratulated her father for “catching a ride” with a “young chick”. As he folded his large brown frame into her small vehicle, Randy took in the white wisps dancing on top of his still leonine head. His plain white t-shirt, made shapeless by volumes of sweaty moisture, told her he had been walking for some time.
“I told you where I’d be. Didn’t you see me?”
It began.
Randy smiled, inside and out, as she realized she no longer felt the need to be drawn in, and answered “I’ve got you now.”, just before she changed the subject.
As they creeped along the mile between the restaurant and her father’s condominium, they discussed the weather, which threatened rain, and the crowds brought by Spring Break. He asked about her children, her sisters, and their co-workers. Randy was the only one of 4 children who had followed her father into the family business, a fact she knew delighted him.
As they mounted them, she gave thanks, once again for the concrete stairs leading to her father’s home, knowing they would help to keep him young. While he fumbled with his key, she took in the deck chair she had presented him as a birthday present 2 years before. He was a man who had everything, and most presents only made it as far as the top of his over-stuffed closet. Having chosen a gift he actually used, was an accomplishment.
A waft of synthetically cooled air greeted them as her father gained access to his home. Entering the kitchen, Randy, once again, admired the lustrous brown marble countertops, and complementing maple cabinets, chosen by her younger sister as she helped their father redecorate his antiquated kitchen. Stainless appliances completed the make-over, and as she surveyed them, her father reminded her of the travel magazine layout in which his kitchen had been featured. The remainder of the condominium remained as it had when her parents had moved in more than 10 years before.
Randy lugged the duffel towards the spare room as her father went to shower. Throwing the bag upon the cheaply, tropically draped bed she surveyed the room and found it unchanged. A wicker bookshelf tenuously held her mother’s favorite books. As she surveyed the titles, she found several of interest and made a mental note to ask if she could borrow them.
The fax machine in the corner and the open laptop beside it, were the only signs that her father still kept his hand in his business. Randy approached the computer and drug a single red-taloned finger across the mouse pad before deciding to keep her promise.
On the opposite wall a cacophony of photographs and children’s drawings competed with evidence of gambling earnings for her attention. On the far right, 4 quarters taped to a “sticky” note served as evidence that her father had won a golfing bet. Ten feet away, a photograph, tacked low enough to cause her to bend down to study it, portrayed her smiling sportscoat-clad father in a rare display of fashion, as he draped one arm around her nephew while someone captured his image as “Grandparent of the Year”. The wall was evidence of everything that was important to her father, and thus deserved a second glance.
Randy, determined to make the most of her 4 day sojourn, changed into her swimsuit, kissed her still steamy, freshly showered father goodbye, and headed towards the beach.
After an overcast morning, the sun had begun to blaze, making the temperatures more beach-like. Sliding her flip-flops off before reaching the sand, Randy stopped to fill her lungs with uniquely humid air and to listen to the waves that supplied it. Despite her father’s assertions to the contrary, the crowds were minimal and Randy was pleased.
Her feet slid with each step before taking hold in the powdery, white sand which she studied as she passed. Tire tracks told her that lifeguards had recently passed by and the whipping red flag warned of riptides, always plentiful in spring.
Stopping just yards from the surf, Randy peeled the aluminum chair from her back and placed her beach bag carefully on dry ground. As she pushed metal into sand, she quietly surveyed the changing colors of the water in front of her and welcomed the breeze that blew her hair away from her face. Several older couples paraded, in tandem, in front of her chair as she settled into it. Packs of scantily clad, brown-bodied girls walked quickly behind them, soon to overtake, and Randy remembered what is was like to be that young and unsure. She wondered if they had a destination, and remembered what it was like to walk like that. Unsure, yet brave. Feigning carelessness, yet so vulnerable. Careful to fit in, and desperate to stand out.
An hour passed as Randy vascilated between dozing and studying, too tired to think.

>Beach Music

>The roads she knew like the back of her hand. The sign post, signalling a necessary turn, blessedly flashed in her consciousness just long enough to inspire action and, just as quickly, her mind returned to her escape.
She had kept her promise to herself. One duffel, three-quarters full of denim capris and cotton t-shirts, 2 pairs of flip-flops, bras, pajamas, and swimsuits sat, solitarily, in the back seat; her only nod towards health and beauty, the twin bottles of shampoo and conditioner, suntan oil, and sunblock. A madonna-like smile of satisfaction flitted across her full lips as she thought of what she had left behind; the jewelry, the make-up, the perfume, the lap top.
Reaching towards the dash, she grasped her cellphone as yellow-painted lines measured her progress.
“Dad? I’m here.”
“Good! Pick me up across from the “Painted Fish.” His words fought for room between ragged breaths that told Randy her father was out for a walk.

Otis

He sat tall, wedged between his two new brothers. His tongue lolled lazily from one side of his generous mouth, his ears perked, and his eyes sparkled and shone with a sense of adventure.
As I looked into my rear view mirror, he answered my gaze with a look that said “Hey, Mom, where are we going?”
We had just met.
Just over a year old, Otis was a live-wire bundle of energy. During his first week in our home, he led us on several long chases through the streets of our subdivision, and the one adjacent to ours, as he exercised his sense of adventure, and our unaccustomed legs. Several times during the chase, he would stop to smell a flower, or investigate an errant piece of trash and move nothing but the quivering tip of his large black nose until our pounding footsteps fell within a few feet of our prey. And he was off again, in a mad dash, that was, for him, a joyful game.
Blessedly, as he became more accustomed to his surroundings and more attached to his family, the game lost it’s lustre, and Otis settled into his new home.
Once acclimated, his manners were impeccable, and one only had to say “Otis, where are you supposed to be?” and he would back away from the kitchen table and just over the piece of floor trim separating the kitchen and den. Once there, he would slowly lower his hips and sit patiently until the meal was finished. His eyes, though, never left the crumb-strewn floor beneath my son’s ill-placed chair.
Otis never met a stranger. He loved everyone and everything, and elicited the same emotion in everyone he met. He was pure love.
Weekends were his favorite, as he waited patiently for the recliner to be filled as the football game started. Seizing the opportunity, he climbed slowly into the space reserved for him, and wedged his large body, long-ways, into the space. Then, lowering his head to his outstretched paws, he slept, peacefully, for hours.
He was a great gardening buddy, loping behind me around the yard as I pruned and planted. He sniffed every flower placed in pot or bed, and took great pleasure from the sweet, earthy smell
of freshly dug soil, while happily sharing in the digging.
It was during these times outside, and in the kitchen, that Otis was most attentive, studying my every move as though in preparation for the time when he would be asked to complete the task on his own. He, and he alone, was allowed to share my galley-style kitchen during cooking, as he stood, alertly, just out of my way, but close enough to scoop up any falling debris after I moved away. He loved Christmas cooking the most, and waited, patiently, for the crackling sound of a bag of chocolate chips being opened. Otis loved chocolate, and particularly chocolate chips. He stood, still as a statue, as I wrestled with the bag, nose twitching, and only moved when I held a single chip between two fingers and invited him to take it.
If anyone loved Eufuala as much as I, it was Otis. He began the trip at the window, watching traffic and taking occasional gulps of exhaust-filled air, but, very soon, he stretched out in the back of the SUV and succumbed to the lullaby sung by spinning wheels.
On arrival, he lumbered slowly out of the back and stretched, languidly, as his nose caught the scent of the water. The race was on to see who would reach the dock first. Once there, we stood in companionable silence as close to the lake as we could get, gratefully allowing her peace and serenity to wash away the road dust. We gave thanks to her when we arrived, and Otis always insisted on one last walk before we left, as if to assure her we would be back.
His grace and dignity served right up to the end, as he faced serious illness with remarkable aplomb. Despite significant weight loss, disturbing tremors, and piles of appetite reducing pills which included embarrassingly productive diuretics, he never lost his spirit or his will to live, outlasting most doctors’ predictions. He fought to eat, he fought to breathe, and through it all continued to spread his special kind of love.
The void he leaves is multi-faceted.
He was the only dog I ever knew who preferred to sleep with his head on the pillow. This came in handy on cold nights spent in a half-empty bed.
He appreciated a captive audience, nosing open the slightly ajar bathroom door, to stand in front of the throne upon which I perched, offering the sweet valley between his eyes for a nuzzle and a kiss.
He valiantly guarded the bathroom door as I bathed, and I prefer to think it was my safety that motivated him, and not the dog treat he knew was waiting in the kitchen.
He ended every night, before settling in on an assortment of pillows spread for his comfort, by coming to the side of the bed and placing his large head quietly next to mine in a request for a final rub and a goodnight kiss.
And, on unsettled nights when sleep wouldn’t come, Otis silently accompanied me in my wanderings of dark hallways. When, at last, I sat, he followed suit, giving me a look that said, “You know, if you need me, I’m right here.”