Soundtrack of our Love

Our friends, toasting our happiness

Everyone danced their butts off

When M and I got married, we tried really hard to keep things in our budget while still keeping it personal and meaningful.  It seems that a lot of the time, the more meaningful your little touches, the more the price goes up.  Or, possibly worse, the more time you have to put into every single detail.

A perfect example of that is our solution for place cards.

We only did a small amount of arrangement when it came to seating charts.  We designated tables, but let everyone choose their own seats at their table.  To tell them what their tables were, we made them CDs with personalized labels.  The labels had their name, their table name (our tables were named after our favorite local restaurants), and of course the track list.

A portrait of us I made for the reception

It was a CD of "our" songs.  And a pretty awesome one at that.

We included songs that reminded us of each other...
"The Man I Love," as sung by Sarah Vaughan and "The Girl I Love (She Got Long Black Wavy Hair)" by Led Zeppelin

At Cape Reinga in New Zealand

Songs that played a role throughout the history of our romance...
"Can't Keep My Eyes Off Of You" by Frankie Valli, "Beautiful Freak" by Eels



Songs that were about the wedding and the honeymoon itself .
"My Kind of Town" by Frank Sinatra, "Island in the Sun" by Weezer

Kissing on the rooftop

Songs that described our plans for the future...
"Come Rain or Come Shine" by Billie Holiday, "In My Life" by The Beatles



Songs that described our love...
"Can't Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe" by Barry White, "Asleep and Dreaming" by The Magnetic Fields




Songs we loved to sing to each other...
"Such Great Heights" by Iron and Wine, "God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys



And songs that played a role in the wedding itself...
"When A Man Loves A Woman" by Percy Sledge, "Wild Horses" by The Rolling Stones

There will never be enough ways to say "I love you."

I love my husband.

He is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.

And each time I hear a track of the twenty or so songs we gave to each and every one of our wedding guests, I am reminded of the happiest day of my life.



...and I hope they all hear those songs, and think of the day with even a fraction of the love and joy that went into it.

Happy Valentine's Day.  May your lives be filled with love.

...and may you dance until you're pretty sure your legs are going to fall off.

Re-Learning How To Eat

I can't eat them, but I can still ROCK a pie baking contest!
(More on that particular topic in a blog to come.)

I promise you, if you read all the way to the end of this litany of food woes I will give you a recipe.

Despite what Aunt Genocide might say, I am typically a very healthy eater.

Aunt Genocide's opinion is thoroughly skewed, because whenever I cook for her I consider it a "special occasion," and as a result she gets "special occasion" meals.  Which tend to include a lot more butter and the like.

Typically, as a vegetarian and fair weather CSAer, I eat a diet that would impress most nutritionists.  I do- I'm a big believer in eating your colors, I LOVE beets and brussels sprouts and lentils and kale (which I would TOTALLY eat for dinner tonight if I had any beets), I've managed to turn my meat-and-potatoes husband into a salad and cabbage soup loving veggie eating machine (except for brussles sprouts and beets and asparagus- but nobody's perfect.  Yet.).

My restricted diet is killing me.

You see, I have this weird microscopic type of gall bladder disease.  No stones, no huge infections, just malformation on a microscopic level.  The only treatment for it is removing the gall bladder.  But, of course, nobody removes the gall bladder of a pregnant lady unless its actually going to kill her to leave it in.

So, instead of treating my gall bladder disease, I must avoid my gall bladder disease.  And that means not eating foods that your gall bladder helps you digest.

What does the gall bladder do?  It produces the type of bile that digests fat.

...now, I already ate a pretty low-fat diet.  I did.  I didn't cook with a lot of butter (except for Aunt Genocide), I saved french fries and the like for similarly rare occasions, and I avoided anything that looked "gross and greasy," like bad pizza or chimichangas.  My favorite date night cuisines are sushi and Ethiopian- both INCREDIBLY low fat restaurant food.  If I *really* needed to pig out, to feel gross and greasy and truly indulge in the disgusting yet delicious stuff that is fatty food, I'd get breaded mushrooms or onion rings.  That happened maybe twice a year.  I also gave myself a pass for Channukah- where the thing that makes a food "traditional" for the holiday is that it is fried in oil.  Seriously.

That said, I was adamantly opposed to "lite" products.  They trick you with a lack of flavor, and rather than eat a small amount of something fatty (say, a tablespoon of sour cream in your big bowl of borscht), you need to eat A TON OF IT to get the same kind of taste.  In which case, you're eating all sorts of other junk you didn't need.  So I ate regular sour cream, regular cream cheese, regular mayonnaise... I just didn't eat very much of it.  And when the entire fat content of the big bowl of borscht you're enjoying is in the one tablespoon of sour cream you've mixed into it, despite having full-fat condiments, you're still eating a low-fat dish.

But eating "low fat" is not the same as eating "no fat."

It's not a matter of, "Oh, I really shouldn't eat this ice cream!  It's so bad for me!"  It's more like, "If I eat this reduced fat yogurt, I'm going to spend most of my afternoon with stabbing abdominal pain, trapped in the bathroom."  (BTW- Did you know that most "fat free" yogurt contains gelatin, which isn't vegetarian?)

I've found that some very simple fats don't cause me a lot of trouble.  I can eat avocados without being in too much pain, and I've found that cow dairy fats are worse for me than sheep or goat dairy fats.

But sadly, my diet restrictions don't end there.

Eggs inflame the gall bladder.  I can't eat eggs.  And it's not a matter of avoiding scrambled eggs for breakfast, it's when there are eggs in something.  Like bread.  Or chilequiles.

Likewise, I have to avoid spicy foods (which I LOVE).  Spicy foods cause your stomach to produce more bile (hence heartburn), which in turn stimulates your gall bladder... which causes me intense distress.

ADD TO THAT the weird pregnancy aversions and assorted other diet problems- I've basically become lactose intolerant this pregnancy, and bread gives me heartburn through the roof.  Additionally, I've been having some candida problems throughout this pregnancy, so anything too sweet is automatically off the table.  I spent a week living off of frosted flakes (fat free!) with low-fat almond milk.  Boy, do I regret that.

So what is left?

The answer?  Not a whole hell of a lot.

Fruit, vegetables, small amounts of goat and sheep's cheeses, and a few varieties of protein.

I've been eating a lot of tofurkey and seitan.  They're remarkably low-fat.

That said, I love to eat.

I LOVE to eat!

Eating is one of my greatest joys.  I love eating, I love cooking, I love just looking at raw ingredients and thinking about all the amazing things I can do with them.

But this pregnancy, my eating has hit a wall.

Thankfully, I've been learning that there are *some* things I can still eat, some ways I can still cook, and some concessions I can make to *nearly* recreate my favorite pre-pregnancy dishes.

Take this moment for example: right now I'm eating a sandwich.  It contains avocado, tomato, sliced tofukey, and some sheep's milk Manchego cheese, all on sourdough bread.

I've found that the harder the bread, the less trouble I have digesting it.  I have no idea why that is.

I *can* eat, it just takes a whole lot more work than it used to.

With that in mind, I undertook the task of making Superbowl snacks for some friends who came to watch the game at our place last night.

The coup de grace at any similar shin-dig at our house is the bean dip.  I make a wicked bean dip.

Of course, usually, I do so with a variety of ingredients that I just plain can't eat right now.  So I endeavored to make a nearly fat free seven layer bean dip.

And it was, in a word, awesome.

While I normally abhore "fat free" versions of foods that rely on fat for their awesomeness, in this case it really worked.  The lack of flavor in the sour cream and cream cheese were made up for by using a more flavorful salsa (in this case, a roasted poblano salsa), and the big flaw with fat free cheese (its inability to melt properly) was completely hidden by the top layers.  Fat free refried beans are, quite simply, better than the other varieties.  I have pretty much always used them anyway, as the fat in refried beans is almost always lard, which is not vegetarian and is, frankly, gross.

So for your dietary and sports watching pleasure, here is my recipe for Almost Fat Free Eight Layer Bean Dip.

That mostly empty and extremely large blue dish was the bean
dip.  Somebody at our 4th of July party had the brilliant idea
to put it on top of our burgers.  Insanely awesome.

Almost Fat Free Eight Layer Bean Dip
1pkg fat free cream cheese
1 c fat free sour cream
2 15oz cans fat free refried black beans
2c fat free shredded cheddar cheese
2c flavorful salsa (for mild salsa, choose one containing fruit- you'll have a better balance of flavor)
1/2 c sliced black olives
1/2 c frozen corn
1 small bunch cilantro, chopped finely
4-5 avocados
1/4c lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400.
Layer one: Spread beans evenly in a casserole/lasagna pan- 9"x11" or larger.
Layer two: In a small bowl, combine cream cheese and sour cream until thoroughly blended.  Spread on top of beans.
Layer 3: Sprinkle corn evenly across the pan.
Layer 4: Sprinkle olives evenly across the pan.
Layer 5: Spread salsa evenly over dish.
Layer 6: Spread shredded cheese evenly over dish.  Cover as completely as you can.

Bake for 20 minutes.  While baking, prepare guacamole (only avocados, lemon juice, salt, and pepper)
Remove from oven, and add top layers.

Layer 7: Spread guacamole over dish- yes, it's piping hot and you're covering it in guacamole.  Yes, that will make the guacamole look gross.  Trust me on this one.
Layer 8: Sprinkle the cilantro LIBERALLY over the whole thing.  Normally, you want to put cilantro in your guacamole.  However, if you put it on top, it stays green, making the whole thing continue to look delicious and appetizing until it's all gone.

In order to enjoy properly, serve with Frontera Blue Corn tortilla chips.  Believe it or not, those "full fat" chips have the same amount of fat as most "low fat" chips (half the amount as standard fried chips), but taste WAY better.  Seriously.

...also, celery is a totally effective bean dip delivery device.

Enjoy!

Watching History- 9/11 and Ten Years of Hindsight

I remember when I was in fifth grade, learning about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  I had known that he had been killed, I had known that he had been president, and I had known that many people had loved him.  I hadn't even come close to understanding what sort of national tragedy it was until that day.  Our teacher, an African American woman some years older than my own parents, was nearly in tears as she told us that all of our parents would know where they were that day.  That she had been a freshman in college, and that she had huddled around a small television with her friends and watched the news.  I understood that what had happened that day was history.

I never expected there to be such a day for me.  And yes, I remember where I was.

That summer had been the best of my life.  For my birthday (which is in April), my parents had given me the coolest present any teenager could possibly want.  They had given me the keys to the minivan, a few hundred dollars in traveler's checks, a loaner easel and set of paints, and permission to take off at the end of the school year and just hit the road.  I had planned out the whole trip- I mostly visited friends and family all across the east coast.  I started out in Michigan, drove through Ohio and Pennsylvania, and went visiting all on my own from Pittsburgh. PA (where I spent the first part of my life) to Smith's Falls (home to a now closed Hershey factory), Ontario, to Washington, D.C. (where my uncle,an AP reporter lives).  I went to the National Holocaust Museum all by myself, an experience I knew as it was happening I would never forget.  I got robbed in Cape Cod, and made my way to family friends in New Hampshire by making my very first art sale.  I stayed at my grandparents' house while they were in Spain, befriending a friend of theirs and spending a week in their guest room, writing a dreadful screenplay.  For over two months I drove around, singing along to Madonna and Lisa Loeb, flirting with cute boys in Providence and sketching crows in the Finger Lakes.

I had one week left in my trip.  I was in New Jersey.  I'd already visited my uncle and aunt in Manhattan (they were so cool- they had me push their baby in a stroller into bars so I wouldn't get carded when they bought me margaritas), but I'd taken the train rather than drive in.  I called home and my sister mentioned some party where all my friends would be, and for the first time I was suddenly homesick.  I suddenly wanted to blow off the last week of my trip, and just head home.  As I headed towards the west, I realized I hadn't gotten a look at the New York skyline.  Taking the train, I'd missed the view.  I had a moment of hesitation, and then I decided.  The New York City skyline wasn't going anywhere.  I'd be back.  But if I hurried and drove through the night, I could make it to that party.  I decided not to go to the bay and look, and instead I turned towards Pennsylvania.

That was in the August of 2001.

A few short weeks later, school had started up.  I was taking a biology class that started at 9am on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  As usual, I was running a little late.  As my sister and I headed out the door, Bev- who's birthday it was- popped her head out of the kitchen door.  "It's Grandpa on the phone- he says a plane just flew into Eliot's building!"  (Eliot was my uncle in NYC.)

Knowing that Eliot worked at NYU, and lived in a NYC high rise, I figured one of two things had happened. The first was that a probably drunk celebrity in a private plane had crashed into a random high rise in Manhattan, or that my Grandpa had his information skewed.  Probably both.

When I got to campus, I got on the elevator to my lab.  A girl in the elevator was telling her friend, "TWO planes hit the World Trade Center!"  I looked over my shoulder and said, "My grandfather heard that one, too.  Sounds like a hoax."

But class was cancelled.  And all the televisions on campus had been turned to the news.  I started watching, standing in the hallway outside of my art class, as the third plane hit the Pentagon.  I went into shock.  I knew that my uncle didn't work in the World Trade Center, but he lived just blocks away.  Manhattan is a tiny island.  In fact, he was standing in the park with his son in a stroller, expressing shock and horror with every other New Yorker- stopped in his track.  His wife, on the other hand, was stuck in train under the city.  She would be there for most of the day.

I started running to the cafeteria, where there would be pay phones.  I needed to know that not only Eliot and his family, but also my family in D.C. were okay.  Of course, nobody could reach anybody.  Eventually it became clear that at least Eliot and his baby son were alright, but nobody knew about my aunt.  And my uncle Seth in D.C. had done what any reporter worth his salt would do- he had run out of his office to the Pentagon to begin interviewing people.

Around the time I got all that information, the first tower collapsed.

I began walking.  Just to do something.  I walked back to the art room, and stood in front of the first television I had encountered.  There, a friend of mine found me.  We were both watching, shocked, when the second tower fell.

She and I had a moment of anger- not at whoever had caused this disaster, but because there were people in the crowd behind us who began talking about building Arabic internment camps.  I was ready to kick him in the shins with my steel toe combat boots.  We decided we just needed to leave.

She took me to a friend's apartment.  As we passed the Red Cross, we got stuck in a gigantic traffic jam.  Already the roads were flooded with people trying to donate blood.

We sat in her friend's apartment, chain smoking and watching the news.  There were what seemed like hours of film from a doctor with a video camera- he had gone running with his hand held camera into the dust, looking for injured people to help.  I don't know his name.  He's still the first person I think of when I think about heroes.

We sat there and smoked and smoked, and cried, and just kept saying over and over, "I can't believe it."

Eventually, I went home.  My family, some friends, all sorts of people were gathered around our television.  I don't remember how long we stayed there.  But I do remember the occasional phone calls, letting us know our family out east were all right.

And somehow... the day ended.  That I don't remember.  That part seems to be a blur.   I don't remember how late we sat in front of the television.  I don't remember what we ate for dinner.  I don't remember what words my parents spoke.  I don't remember whether I slept on the couch or went to bed.

But I will never forget that day.  I will never forget the fear, and the confusion, but more than anything the shock.

And there are images that are forever burned into my mind.  People jumping out of windows.  That one shot of the first plane hitting the building.  Over.  And over.  And over.

The man with that video camera,his hand probing through an impenetrable cloud of dust and his voice shouting out, "I'm a doctor- does anybody need help?  Can I help?  Does anybody need help?"

Ten years later, I don't think we're really any safer.  I don't think we've really come to understand what it meant to be attacked that way- because we're still clinging to the same ideas of safety.  The idea that something bad happened, and we won't let THAT happen again.

I think the truth is that someday, we WILL be attacked again.  And again, it will be like something out of a movie.  Something that we never imagined,  Something that we didn't expect.  Not a trick out of the book of terrorist plots.

I'm a writer.  I have ideas, nightmares if you will, of what it might be.  The sort of thing that would make a great movie.  That nobody would believe would ever happen.

But there is one thing that came out of that day that I feel HAS strengthened us.  That has made us better.  And that is the sense of community.  Of wanting to help each other.  Of wanting to work together to make ourselves whole again.

I think about that traffic jam outside of the Red Cross, and I cry.  Because we didn't know who the enemy was, we didn't know the toll.  We didn't know ANYTHING, except that there were people- probably MANY people- who were hurt.  And that we were going to help.

And for any group of people, be they a country or a town or just a random collection of strangers, to head not to the many churches to pray, or to the gas stations to fill their tanks, or to run mad through the streets, but to go to the one place where they knew they could help...

That gives me hope.

That gives me hope every day.  Because I have seen that there is truly a best possibility for all of us.  And while it might have taken a horrific tragedy to show me that, I am grateful to know that it's there.  That despite all political differences or ideological clashing, when it comes down to it... we really just want to help.

We're all calling out, while rushing into an impenetrable cloud, "Can I help?  Does anybody need help?"

So when we do, as I fear we someday probably will, there will be arms in that darkness to hold us, and lead us back into the light.

Things My Father Taught Me

Becoming SuperMommy with Poppa, 26 years ago and 3 years ago

I've been reading/hearing a lot of Father/Son stuff around the web for Father's Day, and I'm slightly bothered.  I'm not a son, but I do HAVE a father.  And I love him very, very much.  And while I understand that the bond between a boy and his father is unique, so is the bond between ANY child and their father.  And the bond between ANY child and their mother.  And so I would like to pay tribute to my father, who has no sons, because he taught me so much about being a human being. 

Poppa and DD

Things My Father Taught Me:

Make up your own job description.  Whatever your job title, the reality should make you part teacher, part inventor, and part entrepreneur.  These three skills will take you anywhere, so long as you're clever enough to utilize them.

Learn to make friends.  You need to know how to laugh at people's jokes, to make them laugh at yours, and to poke fun at yourself without actually making yourself a target.  You need to know how to ask people personal questions without offending them, to find out truths about their inner selves, and show them how good they actually are.  You need to make other people feel smart, because they mostly are smart, and most people are bad at seeing that in themselves.  You must set people at ease by taking them off their guard.  Being open and honest to the point of awkwardness can help with this.

Poppa went to Deep Springs College because it was the hardest to get into

You have to keep very high standards.  You cannot settle for less than you know you are capable of.  No matter how comfortable a situation might be, if you are intellectually stagnant you might as well be intellectually dead.  You must constantly challenge yourself to do things that are harder, that you have never done before.  Because you never know whether or not you're going to be good at something until you try.  And it is always more rewarding to be good at something hard than to be good at something you already know.  Take pride in your work.

It's important to try new things.  To have new experiences, to get yourself out of your element.

Poppa in Amsterdam (picture by Aunt Genocide

That said, it is also important to remember your values.  No matter how you experiment, you must remember that every action you make says something about your character.  This means that you must self impose limits, and that nobody will know better than you where they should lay.

Never speak or act out of anger.  You will always regret it.

You need money.  But it doesn't buy happiness.  It can buy lots of cool toys, the latest gadgets, and the opportunities to create happiness, but it does not actually provide you with real satisfaction.  You can make money and you can lose money, but real happiness is not owning the car of your dreams, it's laying in a hammock in the sun with a good book and the sound of the wind in the trees.  Real happiness is in moments with people you love, doing what you love, and no amount of money can buy that.

Learn to appreciate good food, especially good beer.

Poppa with his friends at my wedding

True friends are friends forever.  You are always in the process of growing, of becoming somebody new.  But at the same time you are always fundamentally who you are, and nobody knows this better than your friends.  So keep your friends, remember them, and cherish them.

It's okay to have flaws.  Be aware of them, but don't let them consume you.

Cultivate your quirks.  They might make life difficult for you but they also make you memorable, they make you unique, and as you grow up they make you interesting.  And interesting people are good company for everyone.

Never be afraid to say, "I love you."  Also, cry freely and often.  Laugh even more.



---------

A scene from my recurring nightmare

I could tell you stories about my dad, about when he would say crazy things in his sleep, or make me and my sisters Cheerios with Corona for dinner, or say wildly inappropriate things to my red headed friends.  I could tell you that he's a brilliant writer, and an internet guru, and a jet setting world traveller who goes places I can only DREAM of visiting.  I could tell you that he's the subject of one of my recurring nightmares, or that he may have helped save the world from nuclear catastrophe.  I could tell you how he made millions of dollars and lost it all.  I could tell you why he was written up in Playboy as a kid.  I could tell you about finding my own father in history books at the library when I was a teenager.  I could tell you how he taught me that I am capable of being a much, MUCH better writer just by editing myself.  Heavily.  And that editing yourself is much harder than writing.

Instead I'll just say that he's my dad, and that it's Father's Day.  I didn't get him anything, even though he could actually use some neckties for once (so if you know of a good place to get a vegan necktie, let me know!  He still has birthdays!).  But what I got FROM him was all of my ideas about what it means to be a success.

What I got FROM him was gigantic host of neuroses, a set of complexes about what I have to accomplish in order to feel validated as a professional and as an artist, that I know I will never satisfy.  Because my father has very large shoes to fill in that regard.

What my father taught me was how to be a different version of him.  It's what every child learns from their parents.  He also taught me a lot of what I know about being a parent.  About rolling on the floor with my kids, and being ridiculous, and making sno-cones.  And like the things I learned from my mother, I believe these are important things.

Grandmommy, Poppa, M, me, and Phil Forsyth

I am proud to be somehow like my dad.  I hope that someday my own kids will be proud to be somewhat like me.  And I hope that my father takes pride in knowing who I am, and that a great deal of who I am is another of his own successes.

Dreams of Summer

Guppy Lake

M and I are rarely at odds over parenting philosophy.  We agree on almost everything- from discipline to religious concessions.  We decided long before we had children that when it came to family holidays, Christmas trumped Channukah and Passover trumped Easter.  There were no disagreements.

The big problem in our idea of how to raise our kids comes in when we start talking about what we're going to do with them over summer break.  We both have very strong feelings on this matter.

I know, they're not even in pre-school yet.  But that doesn't stop you from having these talks.  Especially when you have no summer vacation of your own to speak up, and you're both feeling nostalgic.

Guppy Lake

Like most people who had really nice childhoods, we want to relive some of our happiest childhood moments with our own kids.  For M, that means that they would spend the summer playing sports, hanging out with their friends, and involved in all sorts of organized activities.  For me, it would involve bringing them to Guppy Lake and letting them play in the woods, with or without any other children, until it was time for school to start again.

As neither me nor M gets summers off from our professions (well, when I go back to work I won't) this is an absolutely impossible plan.  But, there's no reason that we couldn't spend a week as a family, and then leave the girls with Poppa and Grandmommy for another week of wilderness playtime, right?

Guppy Lake is nestled in a very strange corner of the world.  At first glance, you might think that there's nothing to do.  The restaurant scene is nonexistent, there are no neighbors to speak of... just a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere in Michigan and about 100 acres of woodlands and ponds to just play in.  And that certainly has some appeal.  But there's more to spending a summer in the great green norths of Michigan than might meet the eye.

Tawas Beach

First, there's the beaches.  Lots and lots of beaches.  Along Lake Huron, along Cedar Lake, along the river...  And the presence of all these beaches and bodies of water invites a ridiculous amount of options for enjoying nature.  You can spend a day picnicking and swimming along the incredibly desolate 3 mile beach, or you can head to Tawas Beach and feel completely crowded with people, eating soft serve ice cream and chasing off the seagulls.  Or you can have a quiet, relaxed afternoon off of Cedar Lake, again with a picnic but surrounded by trees and much more likely to make friends with other local children.

There's canoeing on the Au Sable river, during which you're likely to spot a heron or eagle.  If you're a bit of a dare devil, the river also has plenty of old bridges going over it, and you can jump into the river.  If that's you're thing.

Mini Golf in Oscoda

There are endless mini-golf courses.  Endless.  You could spend a decade trying to visit every single mini golf course, but I guarantee you'd miss a few.

There are county fairs and craft fairs and all sorts of weekend-long small town outdoor gatherings.  There's barbershop singing and fireworks.  There are half a dozen amazing ice cream shops and they all serve Mackinaw Island Fudge.

But there are two places that really sum up for me the sorts of fun you can only have up in the middle of nowhere.  Or at least, the portion of the middle of nowhere where I spent my idyllic childhood.

Lumberman's Monument

The first is Lumberman's Monument.  At the entrance of the monument, there's a large and lovely picnic area.  Eating first is smart, you need your strength for the rest of the trip.  Shortly past the entrance is a gigantic structure of enormous logs- permanently fitted together in one massive jungle gym.  It's a fantastic place to play, easy to climb and ideal for tag.

Past this is the nature trail.  It's a lovely walk, probably about a mile long, that leads you slowly through the woods, past some prairie, and up to the top of the dunes.  Suddenly, you're looking down probably eighty five feet of steep, sandy incline at a beautiful, blue body of water.  If you just RUN STRAIGHT DOWN AT TOP SPEED, by the time you hit the water there's simply no stopping.  You're going to get totally soaked.  And the speed you can reach when gravity and forward momentum are on your side... it's quite a rush.  The incline continues into the water, so it gets really deep really fast.  Which is ideal, if you're running towards it at about forty miles an hour.

Lumberman's Monument

After playing in the water until you're exhausted, you have two choices.  Float lazily down the river in an inner-tube to the stairs, and climb those for what feels like forever... or climb back up the dunes.  This is the only part that isn't exclusively fun.  But then you get back to the lovely nature trail, you get back to the super-awesome log structure (and are suddenly re-energized to play a few more rounds of tag and see who can climb the highest), and you get back to the gift shop.  Where you can buy lumberman souvenirs.  You would be amazed by the variety in lumberman swag that there is out there.  Coloring books, stuffed bears, brief histories of the Michigan logging industry written for children...

Dinosaur Gardens

But without a doubt, the best, most unique, most bizarre place to take a day trip in the area is Dinosaur Gardens.  This is a huge wooded park, filled with (not always terribly accurate) sculptures of dinosaurs.  There are velociraptors, wooley mammoths, triceratops... all along a peaceful, shady trail.  The old growth forest is virtually undisturbed, with the exception of the dinosaurs, that is.  There are endless goofy photo opportunities, as you can just go right ahead and climb on all those bizarre dinosaurs.

There are also a few very inaccurate scenes involving cave-men and dinosaurs, and a brontosaurus that you can climb inside, and see the heart of Jesus and the wise men.

Yes, you read that right.

It's a fantastic place to bring small children.  Lots of space for them to run around, vaguely educational, and filled with endless ironic fun for the adults.

Dinosaur Gardens

I desperately want to get up there this summer.

We're probably going to make it up for one long weekend in August.  That's a painfully long way from my entire childhood summers.  But it's going to have to do.

And M is, for some macho reason, a little more comfortable with the idea of little girls wasting their summers playing in the woods than he is about little boys skipping sports.  So who knows... I might just win out on this one.

And that, dear readers, is all about spending your summer at Guppy Lake.

Ode to an Egg

I have an Easter confession to make.  About what makes this holiday so incredibly precious to me.

Being Jewish, there's not much about Easter that ever particularly appealed to me. Eggs hunts? Why can't we just play in the sun? Fake plastic grass? What's the point? The Easter Bunny? This has never been satisfactorily explained to me. But there is one part of Easter that I cannot deny carries appeal. Not just appeal, but that sort of giddy excitement usually reserved for the first snow-day of the year, picking out Halloween costumes, and birthdays.

I'm talking about Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Oh, those amazing confections. The soft, creamy chocolate shell. The whimsically egg-like insides. The sweet, sweet nectar of the filling.

As a child, there was no time that I longed to NOT be Jewish like Easter. If only for the delicious, delightful, decadent Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Each time they appeared in the stores, I would lose my head. "They're here! The eggs are here!" And I would stand, frozen, before the displays of their majesty.

Of course, they were EXPENSIVE as far as one-shot sugar explosions go. So their simple availability didn't guarantee that I'd get even one a year. Imagine, as a child, seeing those eggs on the shelf and thinking to yourself, "WE'RE ALMOST OUT OF TIME! SOON THE EGGS WILL ALL BE GONE!" It was harrowing.

My mother understood the appeal of the eggs. The day after Easter was an occasion. The day after Easter, the Cadbury Creme Eggs go on sale. So frequently, the day after Easter was the day that I got to eat an ovoid capsule of creamy dreaminess.

There is a ritual in eating a Cadbury Creme Egg. You can't just gobble it all up. No, far too precious. A Cadbury Creme Egg requires time and attention. And ever so much care.  So here, without further ado, is the method by which I recall the childhood enjoyment of consuming a Cadbury Creme Egg reaching its pinnacle.

First, you peel away the top of the wrapper, but not the whole thing. You don't want to actually touch the chocolate with your tiny, grubby little fingers. No, that's a recipe for disaster. Your warm, eager hands will melt the chocolate, waste it.  You might melt through that fragile chocolate shell and spill its ooey gooey contents all over the place.  And then that would be it.  The end.  Until maybe next year.  No.  You only partially unwrap the egg, carefully exposing the tiniest portion of the crest of the chocolate coating.  You use only the tips of your fingers to support the egg, gently supporting its gigantic psychological bulk with every fingertip you have.

Now comes a delicate operation.  You nibble, ever so gently, at this exposed bit of chocolate.  You savor the unique creaminess of Cadbury's Dairy Milk, so unlike our American Hershey's milk chocolate.  You close your eyes, roll the rapidly dissolving chocolate around on your tongue.  You breathe slowly, filling your nostrils with the aroma of chocolate.

As your heart rate quickens, your tongue finally breaks through the barrier- that solid, creamy perfection of all confections.  You don't taste the creme immediately, holding the egg upright allows the contents to settle towards the bottom.  This leads to a moment of panic.

Once in a while, the egg is damaged.  This damage EXPOSES the magical creme, and it dries up before it can be properly consumed.  This is a disaster.  A catastrophe.  One of the worst things that can possibly happen to you in your entire life.  Because it will be a whole year before you even get another opportunity for an egg, let alone the egg itself.  There is no sight sadder than the crustified contents of a Cadbury Creme Egg.

But not this time.  This time, the egg is perfect.  Its contents liquid, viscous and shiny.  Reflecting the hungry, desperate gleam in your eye.

Ever so delicately, you extend the tip of your tongue, and dip it into the eggy contents.  You must try not to moan aloud, or your mother might take the egg away.  But this is a sacred moment.  The gloop begins to coat the inside of your mouth, and a sharp intake of breath causes a burst of sugar to burn the back of your throat.

This is the sacrifice you must make to the Cadbury Gods.  This sugar burn.  It hurts, but it's good.  and now that the moment has passed, the consumption of your egg can continue.

You slowly lap up the creme inside, until your tiny tongue can no longer reach.  The nibbling of the chocolate recommences.  Again, you must be desperately careful.  If you nibble to quickly, you'll crack the egg.  So tiny, tiny bites- only scrape away at the chocolate with your teeth.  Only peel away as much foil as you must.  Gently juggle the egg, don't allow your greasy fingers to let go, even for a moment.  The foil between your hands is slippery with your sweat, but there is not putting the egg down once the process has begun.  Not even on the Equinox can you balance a Cadbury Creme Egg on its end.

As you work your way down into the belly of the egg, the sides open up for you.  A veritable ocean of Cadbury Creme shows itself, and there- suddenly, is the yolk.  That peek of yellow, that incomprehensible smear surrounded by white.  How does it remain?  How does it stay apart and intact?  You may never know.  You carefully lick out the yolk, made even sweeter through the alchemical process of desire and amazement.

Soon your tongue begins to scrape the bottom of the shell.  The cream is nearly gone, and you are left with a concave, and somehow heavy, disc of Dairy Milk chocolate.  Victory is yours!  "Hallelujah!" you cry, and as you finally discard the colored foil wrappings, you pop this disc, roughly the size of a nickel, whole into your mouth.

It is somehow imbued with the flavor of the creme.  It is somehow hard and still soft, mystically difficult to chew.  Again, the sugar burns your throat.  This time you breathe into it, relishing the last, perfect bite of Cadbury Creme Egg for the year.  Letting it fill every inch of your psyche and soul.

Once the egg is gone, the time has come for silent reflection.  You sit back, licking your fingers and running your tongue over every tooth, reliving each moment of Cadbury Creme Egg glory.  Already desperate to find even another morsel, any taste of eggy perfection to tide you over the next long, twelve months.

And then, with a sigh, it's over.  You return to your activities, but the rest of the day has a bit of a glow about it.  A touch of magic.

Because today was the day that you had your egg.

 

Reminder reminder!

How do you see your family?  If you were going to immortalize them forever, using only a tiny bit of effort, how would you do it?

I drew a silly caricature- it's the banner at the top of the page.  But it could be anything.

Take a moment and describe your family.  Draw a picture.  Write a character sketch.  Do an interpretive dance.  Take a quick photo.

Family Sketches!  Submit them here!

I'd love to see all of your families- the way YOU see them!

Top 11 Books to Read My Children

My children love books- chips off the old block!

As a child, my parents were proactive when it came to fostering a love of reading in their kids.  From a very early age, instead of the standard picture books we would read chapters from BIG books.  And my sisters and I loved them.  It was a wonderful imagination task- putting faces and scenery to a story being read aloud.  By the time I was eight or nine my favorite books in the world were all either "grown up" books or written during a time when children's stories had more adult themes and tones.  They had complex vocabularies and spoke in a voice that was never condescending or belittling.  Even as a tween, I found the tone of most books written specifically for children my age offensively simple.  I look forward with more glee and anticipation than I can say to reading a few of my childhood favorites to my own children.  That isn't to say that I don't love picture books, and that there isn't a place for them.  So without further ado, I give you my top eleven list of books (ten just isn't enough!) to read to my children.

Firstly, and the one for which I know I have M's undying support, is The Hobbit.  I LOVED this book as a little kid.  It has everything a child could want- fantasy, swordplay, music, magic... my parents had an incredible copy that was filled with random works of art from all over the world, illustrating different scenes from the story.  This was great, because peeking across the pages I would see myriad Gandolfs and Gollums, drawings both terrifying and silly.  It was a reminder, even as a very young child, that I was allowed to invent the characters as I saw fit- that my own interpretations were as right as anyone elses.  I was allowed to be as imaginative as I liked.  I would love to find another copy of that edition.

The next book on my must-read list for my children is The Good Master, by Kate Seredy.  I have often heard other women complain that there aren't enough books featuring strong female leads, and I have a hard time agreeing too wholeheartedly.  That is because I grew up on The Good Master.  It's a marvelous story set in rural Hungary just after the turn of the 20th century.  It follows "Cousin Kate from Budapest," who has moved to the country to stay with her aunt and uncle and cousin Jancsi for her health.  Like Kate, I (the child reader) found it hard to understand or accept the complexities of life in this setting, and learn along with Kate how to make my place.  But she's not just a city girl in the sticks, she's also a firecracker, and trouble maker, and the spunkiest kid you ever saw.  After a fight with her aunt and uncle, she runs away with Gypsies.  She gets herself trapped in the rafters of the house going after forbidden sausages.  She forces her cousin to teach her to ride a horse like a boy, despite all complaints that it's unseemly for a girl to go in pants.  She was my hero for much of my childhood, and the book is filled with wonderful glimpses into a life that seems almost magically idyllic.  It's a masterpiece of children's literature.

The next book, and one that I already read to my children (when I can get through it without weeping), is The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein.  I have always been thoroughly moved by this book, even as a little kid.  It taught me, almost as much as my parents, what it means to love somebody.  It gave me the blueprint upon which I built the foundations of my personal philosophy, that to give of yourself in love and joy is the only way to truly give meaning to your life.  It also taught me about what is important- friendship and love, not possessions or petty wants.  While I know that my children are still too young to understand these deeper messages, I know that one day they shall.  And I hope they will be able to take that lesson deeply to heart.

Another of my favorites that my parents read to me was Watership Down, by Richard Adams.  This is one that many of my friends have expressed a lot of surprise about.  After all, it's war stories enacted by rabbits.  But it's also an incredible work of fiction.  And as a child, it's easy to relate to fluffy bunnies.  It has action and adventure, and even better- a beautifully constructed mythology.  I LOVED the tales of El-ahrairah- the rabbit version of the Coyote, Adam, and Hercules all rolled into one.  I have to admit there were probably a night or two that I lay awake, wondering how Hazel would escape General Woundwart, or how Bigwig would recover from being trapped in the snare.  But I think this is important for a child- to become enough entangled in a story that it becomes the most real and important thing in their lives for a time.  Learning to cope with story induced stress teaches you how to cope with stress in your real life.  And it makes a happy ending that much more rewarding.

One that I've tried on a few occasions to read the girls already is The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss.  They don't have quite the attention span for a book this long yet- it's longer by far than some of his other titles, like Green Eggs and Ham, or One Fish Two Fish.  But it is an extremely important and wonderful book.  While most of his stories have healthy morals (try news foods, a person's a person no matter how small...), this is one that I find particularly prescient.  It's about not wasting the precious resource that is our environment.  It's about being a steward of the earth, and not just using it up as fast as we can.  It was so far ahead of its time, and its message is more important than ever.  I plan to read this to my girls before getting them started planting their own flowers and vegetables in my garden each year- reminding them that they must care for the earth, protect it, and that our planet is capable of so much life. 

Another childhood favorite was Mr. Popper's Penguins, by Florence and Richard Atwater.  This story begins with the most sympathetic of childhood heroes- an adult who never let go of his dreams.  Mr. Potter always wanted to be an explorer, and after striking up a correspondence with one, receives a pet of a penguin.  He and his piano playing wife turn their basement into a penguin wonderland, take their amazing performing penguins on the road, and eventually to a new home.  I won't give it all away.  This is the sort of literature that can get a kid into non-fiction- get them excited about learning and developing their own interests.  Suffice to say, grown-ups with overactive imaginations are absolutely the best, and this is one of the best of those stories I know.

Now, this book is one I never read as a child, but would have adored.  I completely understand my parents' decision not to read it aloud, as it might have taken months, but it's in the cards here at SuperMommy's house.  The book is Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo.  It has all the elements of a perfect story- love, battles, freedom, nobility...  It has children who become dynamic adults, the morals of personal freedom and honesty, and most importantly- Jean Valjean.  He is, I believe, the perfect hero.  Redemptive and humble, he suffers endlessly- but always striving to protect and aid the people he loves.  It's a story filled with good morals, with heartbreak and victory... it is one of the most perfect stories ever written, and when my children are old enough (eight or nine?) you can rest assured we will read it together.  I just hope they don't make too much fun of me for crying over it.

Up next on the list is A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.  I know, I'm Jewish.  Who cares?  This is a fabulous story.  And on top of that, I would love to have it be part of our family's Christmas tradition.  After all, M is Lutheran- we're a two religion family.  So why not share this amazing book with our children each year as part of the build up to Christmas?  I'd rather this than watching endless cheesy movie tie-ins and schlocky cartoons.  Like The Giving Tree, this book is filled with lessons to take forward into your life.  Similar messages, even, about materialism and greed.  And that is so particularly important around Christmas. when so much of the world seems focused on buying useless crap for each other.  I'd love for my children to always associate Christmas with remembering to care for each other and fostering the best of themselves, instead of just thinking about what they want to find under the tree.

Of course, you could be sure that if I was putting a Christmas book on the list, there'd be some Jewish literature in there too.  The first of those books is The Devil's Arithmetic, by Jane Yolen.  I just cannot say enough good things about Jane Yolen.  Her works for teenagers, for small children, and for adults alike are all wonderful.  In this book a girl in the mid 90's opens the door for Elijah during a Passover seder, and is somehow magically transported to Poland in 1942- just before her family is relocated to a concentration camp.  Cheerful, no?  As the book goes on, she makes friends with a girl who's life she saves- a girl that goes on to become the very grandmother attending the seder at the beginning of the book.  I know, this seems like a total downer.  But surprisingly, it's not.  And most importantly this is a book that created a powerful connection for me with my own Jewish heritage.  It is so desperately important, as Jews, to remember our history and culture.  This is a book that really drives home that importance and the weight of those remembrances.

Hand in hand with The Devil's Arithmetic is another Holocaust related book- Letters from Rifka, by Karen Hesse.  This book I read over and over and over again.  Unlike most other Holocaust stories, this book features absolutely no camps.  Instead, it's the story of Rifka's family as they flee to the United States.  Rifka is quarantined on Ellis Island, trapped in limbo between the old world and the new.  As my own family came through Ellis Island round about the same time, this story connected me with my own history in a profound way.  The writing is simple and uncomplicated, told in excerpts from Rifka's diary.  In addition to the Jewish and historical themes, it is also a coming-of-age story, in which Rifka learns that she has become a competent young woman, versus the frightened girl she was as she began to flee the Nazis.  This is another book that will have to wait until my children are a little older.

Last but not least, the Harry Potter books.  I know, I'm a gigantic nerd.  But these books are wonderful.  I imagine I'll read them as my children come closer to Harry's own age- perhaps one a year.  I'm sure they'll find the movies for themselves. but let's be honest- those movies have NOTHING on the books!  The books are filled with adventure and wonder, and manage to maintain a few really worthwhile themes- the importance of friendship, loyalty, and goodness, for example.  Harry, Ron, and Hermione grow from quirky children into brave and triumphant young adults.  What more could anyone want for their own children?


Of course, there are so many other books I want to share with my children.  Great books, even a few bad books.  But these are the ones I KNOW I will share with them.  And I know that most of these books will have as much meaning for my kids as they do for me. 

A few runners up: