Raw Drip

Secret #1: Feed your kids what you want them to eat when they’re a grown up. 

I have a confession: I possess the palate of a 4-year old.  I know this about myself  because my son and I order the same things in restaurants and we fight over the same foods at home.  In fact, I’d say that Adam’s palate is actually more sophisticated than mine because he’s begun to order off the kids’ menu, whereas I’m still stuck in mini-pizza and mac & cheese land. 

My mother did many wonderful things for me, but unfortunately, I think she was too accommodating on the whole food thing.  Knowing my grandmother, I’m sure my mother was raised to be afraid of anyone leaving her table hungry.  This made her all too willing to cook several different meals to appeal to all the different tastes at the table.  Not only was she always in the kitchen, but I always knew that I could guilt her into preparing what I wanted to eat, rather than being made to try something new.

Here’s my take on it:  if kids are forced to eat something they don’t like or be a little hungry when they go to bed – so what?  They won’t die.  It’s not abuse or neglect.  It’s called making choices and it’s something we all have to learn how to do in order to adapt.  It’s not about making the world work for you, it’s about making yourself work with this world.  

Still, I don’t care how they’re prepared I’m never, ever, ever going to eat peas.

Secret #2:  Lying can be good

I’m not one to champion lying – particularly when poorly done - but let’s face it, honesty is way over-rated.   When it comes to honesty, we all claim to value it, but from my take, it’s a case of coveting that which we see little of in ourselves.  Sure, we’re all basically honest, good people but knowing how and when to lie strategically – to filter, if you will - is an important survival skill and it’s raw human creativity in it’s most oft-used and under-appreciated form. 

Case in point:  Adam and Tabitha were splashing in the bathtub the other day when I heard a piercing shriek.  When I walked into the room, Tabitha was crying and holding her hand over her eye.  Over her screams of “Adam hit me”, I heard Adam saying, “Mommy, I’m sorry. I did it on purpose.” 

After I calmed Tabitha, ensured her eye was still intact, and extracted a more genuine apology from her brother, I turned to Adam for a little chat.

“I think what you were trying to say, Adam, is that you’re sorry for hurting Tabitha and that it was an accident.”

“Yeah…that’s what happened.  It was an accident – on purpose.”

“No, no.  Listen to me.  It’s NEVER okay to hurt someone, even if it’s an accident.  But, if you’re going to lie, at least remember to say, ‘it was an accident’.”

“Okay, Mama.”

“One last thing, as you’re saying, ‘it was an accident’ try to look like you’re really sorry.  Got it?”

Acknowledging the truth about lying seems just as important to me as encouraging children to live honestly.  It’s the beginning of a life-long struggle to be as honest with ourselves as we claim to be with others.

Now, if only I could coach his father to look as convincingly sincere with his apologies…

Secret #3:  Most of us are not curing cancer for a living

When you’re spread as thin as we working parents are, it’s easy to forget that right now you’re living the good ole’ days.  Over and over again, I’ve found that the saying is true – no one ever looks back on their life and regrets not having spent more time at work. 

Look, it’s hard to be present for our kids with so many demands on our time, and goodness knows I suck at it, but it’s worthwhile to really BE with them – not just because you have to, but because you want to.  We all get so locked into process and schedules that we forget about the spontaneous joys to be found in mundane moments; silly, mundane moments like realizing that you and your kids don’t really know the words to the “We can fly” song from Peter Pan as you move from boisterous sing-along enthusiasm to sudden silence, mumbling what you think are the words under your breath.  Even better is hearing the laughter from the back seat as you realize they’re in on the joke.  

So next time you’re losing sight of the really important stuff and taking that pesky job too seriously, stop for a moment and… think of a wonderful thought, any happy little thought…

In my email spam folder this morning, I found the best porn spam subject line EVER:

It’s Erection Day! Make the ladies line up for your pole!!!!

After all the talk of “the issues”, of voter engagement and the future of our country, it’s almost refreshing to see that someone’s been able to take this historic day and turn it into a poorly written spam ad for after-market Viagra.  Ahhh…America.

Something about fall’s cooler temperatures really brings out the baker/homemaker in me.  I’ve always loved to nest in colder weather, but the subtle smell of chimney smoke and the crispness in the air reminds me of the comforting odors of my childhood with scents of cinnamon, nuts & vanilla.  Whenever one of these moods strikes, my favorite, easy fix is Banana Nut Bread, served warm and slathered in butter.  Yummy.  Because it’s simply not good enough to eat without the added adornment of butter, I tend to avoid making Banana Nut Bread unless I’m prepared to give it away immediately for fear of consuming the entire thing in a frenzied binge, poorly concealed from my spouse. 

But last night, I developed a nagging craving for it; one of those irresistable cravings that you just know is going to haunt you until you surrender.  Valiantly, I fought it.  I rationalized, I distracted, and I bargained with myself.  Maybe it was the hectic week I’d had that made me feel I needed some culinary comfort, or maybe it was the effect of fall, but this morning I couldn’t stand it any longer; I gave in.  I sprung out of bed intent on whipping up a batch of my favorite Banana Nut Bread. 

As my Kitchenaid whisked the fragrant spices and the ripe banana into a rich golden batter, Adam and Tabitha watched intently – full of questions.  What are you making?  Why are you making it?  Why are you putting eggs in there?  Normally, pre-coffee, these kinds of incessant questions asked by really perky people would just annoy the heck out of me.  But the prospect of that warm soft salvation on a plate was worth the 7 a.m. wake-up call and all the requests for a play by play on quick bread baking.

After an agonizing hour of prep, an hour of baking and another hour of cooling, the bread was ready for serving.  I sliced into my creation and served it to the children with the required thick layer of butter. 

“Fank you, mama!,” Adam shrieked with delight.

“Yay! Bubana Butt Bread!,” Tabitha yelled with a gleeful smile. 

As they enjoyed their bread with butter slicked lips, it made me smile.  Not because I had been “fanked for the bubana butt bread” (although, that’s pretty damn cute, if you ask me), but because I had made something much more than comfort food.  I had made warm childhood memories and passed down a tradition of appreciation for the smells and the tastes of home, and surprisingly, that brought me much more comfort than a buttered slice ever could.