Great British Cooking

And other lies?

I’m working with a niece who still lives in the motherland, she is an amazingly talented professional photographer. She does a lot with food styling, making simple food look inviting and casually elegant for an up coming book which she is creating with my sister in law, her mum. What a tribute to a great relationship. The American version will require a little translation, not just for the metric measurements but also the language itself and the ingredients, their availability and their frequency or not, of use. That’s where I am trying to be of assistance. I can remember going to the Isle of Wight where they lived and ran a B and B, one of England’s best traditions, watching these darling little girls, Lucie and Catherine standing on chairs at a gas range making crepes before they could read! My visits home in those days were rushed as I left all five of my kids in the capable but not limitlessly patient hands of my husband. So I would snatch five days here and there to visit my ailing mother, how many times can you say goodbye to someone you love who is dying so slowly from Alzheimer’s? My nieces were raised in the manner in which Europeans in general seem to differ from their American counterparts, that is to say with a sense of trust in their own good judgement. I don’t recall there being a lot of interference, not too many rules but a great deal of freedom to express, that produced these two extraordinarily creative young women. The children ate when they were hungry and mostly things they prepared themselves, or helped in a very real manner, their mother to prepare. She was a gifted cook, trained in France in the old ways but used to conjuring up country meals from fresh local ingredients found on the island long before we began to do this in America again, thinking of course that we had invented it. I say again, because this was the only way we fed ourselves before the onslaught of mass produced factory farm foods, long range preservation methods and super sized fast food restaurants that took over the landscape of our appetites. 

The girls were taken mushroom hunting and knew about wild berries, how to make a gooseberry jelly and what to grow in a garden. They learned to drive my dad’s wreck of a car found with actual moss growing on the inside of the leaking cabriole roof and left abandoned in the fields at their house, mostly on their own. They are world traveled both of them, and sophisticated in a way that is wholly different from my girls; fascinating really because no one would accuse me of being an in-depth, helicopter parent. I too thought they could learn more on their own and from one another than from being constantly supervised by me. But back to the cooking. Since living in these here United States of America, I have learned to cook. Self taught as with most who are good at something, I found trial and error to be the best method, but have always been deeply offended and defensive about the manner in which English food is spoken and presented here. One only has to listen to the menus proffered at the ever present “Downton Abbey” events that keep cropping up. They only want to showcase Spotted Dick and Toad in the Hole because of course who doesn’t want say those things. If you look at Southern cooking from America, especially at chefs like Sean Brock, you can find references to things we have been cooking in England since the 15th century. He adds bacon grease to them and becomes a sensation. I’m not knocking his food it is amazing, a trip to either of his restaurants in Charleston will confirm that. You’ll fall in love, of course, with the city and its streets and gas lamp posts and the menus in its restaurants. For me however, it’s like a trip down memory lane. In England.  

Charcuterie is the new black in culinary fashion of late, and what that means basically is meat fat. That’s right, the bits we used to throw away are now sourced from thrifty butchers who brine it and present it with some “artisan” cheese and charge you sixty bucks a plate for it.  We no longer hunt or gather food either, we source it. It is locally sourced and organically sourced, it is special because we pay more for it to come from further away, or closer to home, and it won’t last as long because it’s not chemically enhanced or preserved. Unless it’s supposed to be preserved, in which case it is brined. This cookbook coming from my homeland is full of country food that is made simply and presented photographically in the way you would want anyone to see your home, or life. It looks generous and easy, it looks exactly the way I love my food to look on a plate, like you can’t wait to take that first bite. Lucie’s photos catch the shimmer of sunlight through a damson jam, the glisten of the remains on a used knife as it lies, satisfied, across a thick slice of soft, warm bread. Her pictures allow you into a kitchen that holds lovely memories for me, of visits back home with my parents and these two little nieces, stories from my brother’s days in the police force and when we all went to school together. Plates of cheeses in hues of deep blue and yellow, soft goats milk blends that slather easily across a biscuit or cracker as you would say. The recipes containing ingredients such as sprats and pidgeon, elderberries and rocket, bring memories I can smell and taste. 

Food is an intrinsic part of our memory muscle and brings us the deepest of pleasures when we re-connect to it. I am currently trying to cook for my poor old father in law who is undergoing dialysis and is on a very restrictive, bland diet. I have found a website that helps to show us how to make things he is permitted, that still have taste and flavor, but I am here to tell you there is nothing he can have that will ever replace ham, bacon, salt and animal fat. My mother used to fry bread in drippings, the stuff that came from a Sunday roast, or left in the pan after she cooked rashers of bacon. Great gobs of opaque, white, grease really, that she let melt into a cast iron pan, into which she would then toss salted and peppered bread. She’d brown it on both sides and I can still smell and taste that salty goodness fifty years on. If you slice that real thin and present it on an aged cutting board then call that a “groaning board” you can get a hefty prix fix in a trendy eatery for it. The black stuff at the bottom of the roasting pan is comprised of what is the main ingredient in the much maligned Marmite of my people. Used here it is the basis for any good stock. Still when we have guests for dinner they love to thank me for a great meal by teasing me unflinchingly about the risk in accepting an invitation to a British cook’s house for dinner. 

The food of your people, be it ever so humble is the stuff of your life. The aroma of something you make that you had as a child will comfort you as nothing else can. Marketing gurus have known this since the first time we put something in a jar and sold it to others. Chef Boyardee knew this just as well as the Lee brothers, Matt and Ted, again from Charleston. So if you are lucky enough to get an invitation to the Smith house for dinner, just say yes…and tell me where you’re from first so I can cook you a memory.

Boys to Men

Oh Boy, it’s a Boy.

Remember when a baby was on its way and you didn’t know the gender until it actually arrived. I was always a big fan of that, I felt it gave the Captain something to do down there. ”Well done, great job, breath, you look amazing and it’s a…” Now of course women know the gender of their babies long before they are born, and I’m sure it makes planning everything so much easier, buying the right color sheets and layette etc, does anyone say layette anymore? All very important for the first time mums. Painting a room if you are lucky enough to have one and getting all those little details just right. We had two girls by the time we were expecting our son and we really hoped for a boy but would have been just as happy for another girl. We wanted another child not just a baby and not JUST a boy. The Captain was excited at the possibility of a son, I think. He knew how much he loved his girls, what they made him feel, as a man and as a dad, but the mystery for both of us in a son, was yet to be revealed. 

Before he was born folks gave us blue onesies and little sleepers with airplanes on them, it seemed everyone knew this would be a boy. I was enormous, he was two weeks overdue and it was August. He rushed into the world a huge 9 lb 7oz behemoth and he took our breath away. He was astonishingly beautiful, far too pretty to be a boy, he had a mass of dark hair and we had to cut his fingernails as soon as he arrived. He was wrinkled and spongey like a little old man who had been in the tub too long. But within days he turned a shade of yellowish pink that was stunning, he was loud and demanding. I could never take him anywhere without people making a point to tell me how beautiful he was. It was disarming, our girls had been pretty babies, we thought, but this need to comment had not struck otherwise blasé onlookers. We took to calling him Boy because I think we were a little thrilled with the fact of his gender, I remember the Captain peeking into the diaper to confirm this and with a good deal too much pride, complimenting himself on the handiwork of his son’s remarkable set of family jewels. I didn’t want to tell him that all little boys are quite swollen at birth. 

I think we spoke in different tones to him, we didn’t squeak and miniaturize our voices, we talked with this addition as if he were a small man born with a complete understanding of all things manly, “Good job buddy, nursed like a champ.” “Yeah, you fill that diaper, good man.” Later on I can remember thinking about not treating him differently than I had the girls but he behaved so differently it was a natural response to that, which found me saying things like, “No buddy that’s not a gun it’s a stick, don’t push, ask for more space, be patient, wait for everyone to catch up with you.” They are different, my daughter tells me all the time how different our grandson is from his sister and how surprised she is at that. Our son’s injuries were more often sustained from leaping off of things and making his own mountains whereas the girls were more sports and accident related. 

As time marched on we taught him different things too, how to be gentle, how to treat women, how to love. These were shown to him by his father, I never had to tell him that you don’t shout at your wife, he was shown this. I never had to teach him to be considerate, to fill the tank with gas if you use the family car, to wash it if you get the chance, to keep up with the oil changes and the insurance. Not that my girls didn’t learn all this too but they grew up watching a very giving dad take care of business in his role as their father and my husband. I hope my son continues this legacy of things learned from a good man. He’s about to be a dad, to a boy no less, so I am also watching him gain more and more excitement at this prospect. I think because he had such a great dad he’ll also be one. For those men out there who didn’t get such a good start in life who may be lacking in this area I would highly recommend the Duluth Trading Company, a Men’s Catalogue. Everything about the descriptions of their products from shit, shower and shave soap to fragrances such as Victory: the smell of fresh cut grass, will help teach a man to be a man. Their extra long shirts that cover the ubiquitous butt crack and go on to tell you why that’s important, are not to be missed. 

Men learning to be men from men is a good thing I think. I spent a lot of time talking with inmates during a period when I was teaching a pre-release course at a Federal Boot Camp facility, and I found the greatest missing piece of their life puzzle was a good dad. And of course they almost all went on to be terrible fathers, sperm donors mostly, just creating a life and leaving it. Many of them had four and five children to two or three different women. It was cross cultural, and in many cases not something they even thought of as wrong, or sad until we really began to discuss the affect of being fatherless which they chose to perpetuate. We didn’t solve anything, I don’t flatter myself that, but we had some great discussions. The most interesting aspect of that time in my professional life was listening to these men tell their similarly sad stories and finally figure out that they were really hurting because of this dearth in their lives. I remember a guy told me he didn’t know how to do so many little things, use a screwdriver properly, hold a hammer, a saw, or to paint. He didn’t even know to shave, he said, until he came to prison and another, older man taught him. 

The Captain is the eldest of five, four of whom were boys, they not only had a great dad but a very present grandfather and a ton of uncles in close proximity. My kids were raised in this same climate and I think it makes a huge impact on how they function. They are not very selfish, they know the smallest thing in the room is the most important, and they look out for one another in ways that still surprise me. They can fight with each other like the world will end tomorrow, but they do come to terms, they reach compromise because they know if they don’t, they’ll lose the most important aspect of begin human, which is to be connected to your people. I can’t wait to watch my son become a dad, I think he’ll do a wonderful job. My heart breaks for all the little ones out there who are on their way and won’t have a great father. Let’s hope they have terrific mums who can cover both bases and will subscribe to the Duluth Trader Men’s catalogue for the missing bits!

Anti-Social Media

On the Contrary.

There’s a lot of talk lately about social media being the replacement for proper relationships. That all this time spent on line is bad for us and will lead to isolation and an inability to communicate well in person or via the correctly written word. But I have enjoyed my time on social media for the last three or four years, I like chatting with family who live far away across distant seas, I like sharing recipes and looking at the growing children of those I know and some I don’t. I appreciate the cat videos, the shaming of dogs, who let’s face it really do behave quite badly most of the time. Imagine accepting those antics from a human. I do it myself, clean up unspeakable things and scrape various biological catastrophes from the rug. Why do they always do it on the rug? I enjoy the tests, I think they’re fun, what is your real birth name, how well do you pronounce words in the French language, rather well actually, and everyone’s favorite, the Grammerly posts. I like having quick access to a larger audience, I’ll post this piece as soon as I finish it, directing new readers to the blog and hoping a paying publisher will fall in love with me. 

I think the advertising that streams along side that which we have to say gives a good insight into what else we do on-line, for me it’s trying to find the perfect mother of the bride dress and because I have searched for this repeatedly I keep getting offers for custom made gowns from China for $99.00. I know they’re good because I bought one for our son’s wedding and loved it. So don’t knock it. At Christmastime if you let your loved ones use your computer you can get an inkling as to what they might be considering as an appropriate gift for you; last year I guessed the Captain was going to buy me a new truck or some tools, since that’s what he was looking at.  I enjoy blocking those whose political opines annoy or outrage me, click… you and your silly ideas are gone. I like a good rant and find Facebook a great place to let ‘er rip.  Righteous indignation is fun and as I find a reason to be outraged it’s very freeing to expand on my point of view from an imaginary soap box. And now that I no longer “work” for anyone I can swear and criticize as I please without the concern for those who may wish to quash my self expression. But I don’t take things to a personal level unless it’s a positive. I think there is enough horror in real life in this world to inflict more via social media, but in this, alas, I am in the minority. 

There are those on line who feel the relative anonymity gives them permission to pile it on, to ram ugliness through the screen via the (often very poorly) written word. Those with an agenda of exclusion and ill will towards “types” love nothing more than to use this platform to rant and rage about why everyone from a certain group is a bum and how the government is to blame for all of it. There are the seriously religious folks who are always reminding us of either one of two things; God loves us and it will all be alright OR we are all sinners and we’re going to die gruesome deaths for our troubles because we deserve it! Some folks enjoy creating a ruckus by posting an inflammatory comment, then never coming back to the conversation. 

There are posters who never espouse anything personal at all, just links to inspirational things that were written by others. Those who enjoy a particular stand on an issue and almost exclusively post about that, those who come so rarely to the medium that by the time they do the conversation has ended days ago. My brother is like that, I am always so excited to see a post from him then I don’t hear a word for months. It is useful to keep in mind that not everyone has something to say about everything, like me. I like to imagine where people keep their laptops or desk tops, or are they posting on their smart phones, I do that a lot when I’m somewhere interesting. I picture others sitting early in the morning like me, with a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning show on the telly. I like those chats that start my day, it feels like a virtual community. Let's not forget the stalkers, the Captain is one of those. Some of that has to do with his reluctance to espouse an opinion on much and some of it is because he's not really up on the "technology" for posting a photo or a link. Scary. Ladies and gentlemen please meet your pilot! But he's watching, silently reading everything WE have to say, if there is a photo on his page the kids will know that I have kidnapped his site. 

It’s interesting that we call the ones with whom we communicate via this medium friends, we say “Just friend me on Facebook” And they do and you have chats with them on a regular basis. I have a whole new group of friends with whom I work out and we talk about our progress and how hard or enjoyable the most recent bout of exercise was. The camaraderie is inspirational and motivational, it works. I see astonishingly open and honest posts from those in the middle of the tough years, raising teenagers and feeling used up and unnoticed and overwhelmed. I see posts from those who are losing aging parents and family pets. I see posts about death and birth and loss, extraordinarily private things, covered in great detail because there is a reception of humanity who will read and respond in the ways we need but cannot always request in person. We console one another, we really are virtual friends to each other. We offer advice to everyone on anything, cooking, nursing, gardening, love, sex, marriage and divorce…”Send the bastard packing” We share intimate details of good times and bad, we amaze ourselves daily with the delights of parenting our dogs, cats and children and we laugh with one another at crazy videos. These posts tell us all what we need to hear every day. We matter, we are noticed, we are a part of something bigger than us. We are friends. 

The Big Six Oh

Happiest of Birthdays

On Saturday I will turn 60 and I couldn't be happier at the prospect. Despite what social media and all other superficial measures of the good life would have us believe, there is a great comfort in aging well. The obvious is that it beats the alternative but there are so many others. Wisdom that comes with age can now be sagely passed along to others, you are qualified simply by having been in existence a while to tell others precisely...how the world works. Family members who have finally grown out of asking for and needing money are now in a phase of their lives where, if you have done things well, they are trying to emulate you. I see my eldest daughter baking bread, a long held passion of mine. I see another writing, stories and journals and another choosing to teach writing at her school. Once you reach this esteemed age you become a legend, your grown children begin to say things like "How did you do it all Mum?"

Clearly they have chosen to wipe from their collective memories, most of the early days, days when the Captain was gone and we troops ate beans on toast with a fried egg and considered it a good day if two out of five of them got a bath and no one was bleeding. The mess, the lateness, the forgetfulness, all forgotten in the fog of fondness. The burnt toast and lost homework, the missed practice and the unscheduled doctor visits, the trips to the ER and the constant fighting, this has been relegated to a place in their memory that only retains the good stuff. When they were teenagers, too many of them at once for any sensible planned parent, their minds held the horrors of their upbringing like accusatory traps, a litany of offenses against them perpetrated by a neglectful poor excuse for a parental unit. How they could go on about the times I punished the wrong one or dyed a uniform shirt red with the laundry, or ran over the family dog. They could tell you to the minute how late for every pick up and drop off I had been, the number of times I took them to school in a bathrobe and once came IN to the building sans my retainer that held a temporary tooth on it, grinning mulishly at their teacher assuring him that I had indeed burned their homework. They could relate the monstrous indignity that is to suffer under the maternal leadership of one with a foreign accent. "You can come, just don't speak." Or on another occasion I was admonished not to either sneeze or blow my nose in front of her friends. Perhaps the worst suffering undertaken by a child on the face of the planet, is for your mother to get pregnant and for you and the Entire World to know how that happened. When you are the eldest of five and the arrival of the last one is announced, it is mortifying.

How soon I have forgotten years of lost sleep, years of eating bits of food from the plates of others; maternal scavenging, looking in the mirror at 4:30 in the afternoon to finally realize I only have make-up on one eye. Running to an orthodontist appointment only to discover the nails on one hand are painted but not the other. Those of us who have graduated to this phase of life have earned every nanosecond of peace, of solitude, of long hot baths alone, with wine and good jazz. We have earned the right to wear inappropriate shoes and goofy winter hats, I retired last October and have been shamelessly dressing like a toddler ever since. Except for a dress when out on a date or two with the Captain I have been in leggings and a long top or sweater non-stop. Thrown in for good measure: work out clothes, nothing with a zipper or buttons has graced this aging but now very fit old body in three months. I put jeans on yesterday and announced it, like a milestone, "Look honey, a fly and a waistband." "Very nice." he shrewdly replied not knowing why I was so proud of myself. At age sixty you have earned the right to binge watch on Netflix, to spend three hours on Facebook followed by a bowl of cookie dough for dinner and the completion of War and Peace if that is your desire.

It is a milestone birthday, you may have grand kids, you may be planning weddings, you might be watching the love of your life's parents struggle with the final leg of their life's journey. You might have lost both your parents and be an orphan. But you have seen things, you have seen information in a toilet bowl that would leave a trained Marine whimpering, you have buried dogs and cats and rabbits, you have seen defeat, and bullying, and witnessed moments of such joy that words fail you, imagination fails you but your heart has sung to the strains of your innermost Mormon Tabernacle choir with joy. You have watched a world reinvent itself, you can talk to something in your car that will tell you where to go and it's not an angry child or spouse! You can ask the dashboard to play Snow Patrol on the tiny little box hidden in the glove compartment that contains 3,000 pieces of music. You have travelled the world and found your home, you might be in a newly found home smaller and better suited to this stage of your journey. You can start a new job, leave, retire or get fired from an old one and not have to worry about being too old for a fresh beginning. Sixty is the new sixty, we are healthier, smarter and live longer than our parents did, we are more flexible than they were, we are a little more selfish and not quite so enamored of familial sacrifice as they were.

It's a tough demographic though, news every week from hence forward will contain the sad diagnoses of cancer and heart failure for those we know and love. Class mates who keep in touch will do so more often with sad news; now a cyst, here a tumor, there a mild heart attack. This stage of life requires fortitude, knowing we cannot change most of what's coming down the pike despite newly formed regimens of healthier food, vapor-only cigarettes and epic exercise routines. I have newly begun serious hiking and going to boot camp, never been fitter in my life. I get my internal sweep and external mammo every year, I look forward to the lovely sleep that is a colonoscopy and I take my vitamins!  All this is a vain attempt to forestall the inevitable. But I do give it the old college try, I will not go silently into that lunch bunch whose sole topic of conversation is ailments, afflictions and the infirm. Not for me the Prilosec, Viagra, Depends and Creme De La Femme!!! I am going commando, only take fish oil and vitamin D much to the surprise of any medical professional under the age of thirty bent on examining me for signs of my ultimate demise.

I know there are surprises awaiting me, I know my amazing family will pull through with funny cards and a couple of truly sappy ones that will "win" for making me cry. I know the Captain will fall all over himself to do something sweet and romantic and perfectly planned and it might not go so well, as these things so often don't. I know that the day will come and be filled with the greatest gift we can be given, knowing we have loved. Knowing we are loved. Happy Birthday old girl, looking good.

Are we there yet?

Spring Time that is.....

Have we a glimmer of hope to get us through this measure of our seasonal fortitude? Is there a sign showing, anywhere that this will indeed end? We know the answer is yes; as I write, it's well after 6:00pm and still light, it is sunnier in the mornings and that sun actually produced enough warmth to create steam on the porch roof which faces south, as it melted last night's snow. It's just that when temperatures fall below the zero degree mark and we are adding the words minus and wind chill we seem to fall prey to a dispirit that consumes us. We live in the north, we have winter every single year and it always brings Spring in its wake. But when we are in the midst of it, the frigid, bone-chilling numbness of it, the shoveling, moving, drifting white-out of it, we just forget the end will truly come. We have lost all memory of natural warmth because our senses have been dulled by layers of fleece and fat. It is no joke that donut day falls in the very middle of winter, we need the deep fried calories to carry us through to the light of Spring.

Those of us who live in the country fare better I think, because we have an expectancy for work that is forged by heavy lifting. We are used to having to deal with things that mother nature hurls at us, we mow bigger lots, we plow longer driveways, we own tools and tractors, blowers and mowers. We expect a certain amount of manual labor in exchange for the joy of having a bit of the world to ourselves. It is an unspoken agreement between us and the mini-gods of weather. But those poor chumps up in Boston, (closing in on 100 inches of snowfall this year alone) or in any northern city this year, have had enough. They made no such bargain, they are ill prepared and unwilling to have to climb a six foot mountain of dirty snow just to get out of their homes. The parking alone that requires hours of shoveling followed by a creative stand your ground item to hold your spot, a lawn chair not providing sufficient heft to keep encroachers from pulling into the hard won parking place, now we have seen on the evening news, neighbors pitted against neighbor for the rights to an eight foot rectangle. They have been shown using a picnic table or a barbecue grill. Can you imagine hauling a picnic table to the street just to save your space, then having to move it to park?

And it just keeps coming, the drama surrounding the weather is a never ending source for commentary, it always has been, but of late it has begun taking on a new level of hysteria. Perhaps because we can capture every unfortunate slide and crash, every fight and missed flight all caught on phone photo and video and shared instantly online. Naming winter storms is new this year too, while we are used to naming hurricanes and tornadoes, tropical storms and volcanos, this added feature of calling the next big thunder snowstorm Roger, just makes it feel worse. Daughters who live in the south are incredulous at the complete lack of coping surrounding a little frosting, a glaze of ice and a temperature in the thirties. Schools are closed and flights are delayed.  Everyone takes to their Escalade SUV and hits the freeway like automotive lemmings to cliff's edge. My girls have what we  used to call gumption; they know how to wield a snow shovel and keep blankets and first aid kits in their cars, they own boots and hats and don't hold with a lot of fuss. Their northern genes recoil at the helplessness of their southern counterparts.

Today I saw a cardinal and heard the tiny chirping of Spring's first birds. I know they are out there making us fools again for our thoughts of never ending winter, reminding me that we have no control over any of it but that we can control ourselves, our emotions, our anger at what truly is a miracle. This white sleep covers hard work, under it lies the effort of the millennia, tiny bits of growth and renewal are occurring even as we complain. Little bits of life are gently opening and will show their bright, colorful faces in just seven weeks. They will push up through to the light of a filtered sun and smile their bright little beams of yellow and purple before we know it. They will come in time for egg hunts and baked ham and family gatherings over pastel colored linens. They come as they always do just before we lose our minds and gain another baked good pound, the signs of fresh new life born of the hidden effort required by winter and by us. Nothing truly worth having comes without work. Let's get on with it.

Let's Get Married

So we’re planning another wedding. We have four daughters and this will be our fourth wedding. Two daughters and a son have gone before. All in birth order, I don’t know why that pleases me so much but it does. The first was a long distance away from us and so she braved most of it alone, which makes me sad, but proud. She was efficient and stuck to a budget that she prepared, asking all those who love her if they wished to contribute to simply say yes to the aspects they were interested in paying for, and she and her future spouse would either pay for or eliminate that which was not taken. Smart girl, this plan worked very well. Hurricane Katrina and my job thousands of miles away, in a not for profit disaster services organization made for more difficulties in being there for her. But we managed, she kept me informed each step of the way and chose a venue that made things easier by catering, hosting, and having a florist on site. All that was left really, were the million little details that fall to we MOBs during the week that leads up to the nuptials. Hosting gatherings, attending last minute fittings, making sure groomsmen had tuxes and shoes then endless trips to the airport to pick up siblings and other guests. This last, falling to the Captain as he was most willing to perform any task that did not involve hair, make-up, nails, shoes, flowers or conflict. 

On the day of the wedding I didn’t get a shower. This was not planned but simply evolved from being too heavily relied upon by my other daughters, the bridesmaids and their endless hours at the salon setting their hair. After each one was finished I drove them back to the venue to get ready so by the time the last one was out the door, I had barely enough time to get back there myself and run a comb through my hair, spray it to within an inch of its life and carry on. Luckily I had received a perm about four days earlier and you know how great your hair can look on the second day after a wash in those early weeks, that’s how I pulled that off. There was in place a make-up artist of such extraordinary talent that he made the physonogamy of a fifty year old look pretty darn good. They served a great many mimosas during the getting dressed portion of the event and when admonished heartily by the darling bride not to get drunk on her wedding day, I should have shown greater shame upon my retort which was “Sorry, too late.” The tiny little things that can go wrong are all, at all costs to be kept from the bride. Many times we hissed this phrase “Just fix it, don’t tell her.” It worked well until the officiant stumbled on a tent hook and broke her wrist about 20 minutes before the ceremony. Not only did we not have the opportunity to not tell the bride, she witnessed it. All sober comportment, she did not fall apart but asked for a plan and forged on. 

I would follow this daughter into battle for she fears nothing. Once her plan is undertaken it will move on to completion and woe betide those who strive to the contrary. The lovely minister conducted the ceremony, in between the profane outbursts from the man in the upstairs apartment whose video game was clearly not a winning undertaking, went to the ER and returned in time to enjoy some food, drink and a little dance, thanks no doubt to the good painkillers. My only concern about the entire affair was that it seemed too short and we worried that our beautiful daughter didn’t really have fun because she was so worried about it all being perfect. They have been married for 10 years have two kids and seem very happy.  Both of the next two weddings in our family took place within five months while she was pregnant with the little man who is now four.

The story of our second daughter’s wedding would make most mothers say no, never again, write them a check and ask them to leave the house. Until the wedding day, which was perfect. I mean movie style, Oscar winning for set direction (thanks to the Captain) full-on gorgeous. She informed us they had picked a date, it was four months away. And they’d like to get married at home. In four months. Go outside right now and look at your house and garden and think about what you’d need to do to host a wedding. In four months. Fall is a wonderful time of year replete as it is with colors and light and the possibility of snow, sleet, freezing rain, or just plain rain.

The Captain looked about our place and made certain decisions about what should be done to turn our home into a wedding venue. His first observation was that we needed to paint. All the exterior doors. So he removed them. All of them. All at once. In taking down the big one in the front hall he dropped it and broke the banister to the stairs. Add that to the list of little things to do. We live on a hill in the country and are exposed on all sides to wind and weather, as are most folks when you remove all the exterior doors to their houses. He hung heavy plastic where all the doors used to be and taped that to the door frames with duct and painter’s tape to keep out the elements. He drove the doors to the local auto body shop and at my instruction told them to paint the exterior of these doors with a high gloss paint and the interior with a satin finish latex. While somewhat concerned about the afore-mentioned wind and weather my need for nocturnal security in his absence was met with a nod from the Captain to the french doors (or rather the spot where they used to be) out to the patio. He described how easy it has always been for anyone with a mind to, to break in. Knowing that and my propensity for deep and impermeable sleep was not helpful. I lived for a month in a constant state of hyper-alert ism, like a war veteran always ready for a fight. I locked my bedroom door at night safe in the thought that at least the burglars would have to fight to get in, and that would wake me up in time to grab my cell phone, now lying ever-present next to me and pre-dialed to 911, so that all I had to do was hit send, which I had learned to find in the dark for just such occasions. Every morning I came downstairs to re-tape the plastic at the doorways, there were five of them, and carried on as if this were a perfectly normal way to live. 

When the Captain brought the doors home for re-installation, of course the auto body shop (they’re made of steel who better to paint them?) had the wrong paint on each side, so we had these super shiny glossy doors on the inside of the house and a comparatively dull sheen on the outside. He took them back, we waited another week, then lived with the smell of fresh paint for another two weeks. You can still see a great deal of daylight around the one in the mudroom, which the Captain ascribes to shrinkage!

Now two weeks from the wedding we began in earnest to watch the long range weather forecast, we booked an alternate venue just in case. The tent delivery folks assured us their tent was totally weather proof. “You could have a funeral in a tornado in there.” said he. I did not ask. They arrived on Thursday, the wedding planned for Sunday. We notified all the neighbors who might be complicit in any type of auditory or olfactory disturbance whether that be the dog kennel across the road or the pig farmer down wind of the garden. We called them and told them about the ceremony, what time it would be and sorry for the loud music, promised it would all be over by 10:00pm. I definitely told our closest neighbor and he had a clear vision of the huge tent to tip him off. 

Shortly after the tent was delivered and set up we took notice of the enormous and hideously ugly plastic lanterns that had been hung therein. One could easily have performed micro surgery under those lights, not only were they offensive to the eye but so bright as to warrant the issue of sunglasses to our assembled guests, should they wish to witness any aspect of the proceedings. Out they came. Christmas lights were procured on October 8th from every hardware store in a ten mile radius and strung gallantly by all the male members of our family and our family to be. Two engineers in this midst so the need for precision and extension cords was a thing to behold. My favorite aspect of the setting up was listening to my son and his brother in law discussing the attachment of wheat sheaves to the backs of all the chairs. They were patient and funny, getting all the bows tied just so for a sister who is detail oriented to say the least and not famous for keeping a decision once made. 

All effort paid off as I watched my beautiful daughter, sublime and confident as she walked arm in arm with her dad around the long brick sidewalk to the beautifully painted front door where she married her love to the strains of braying donkeys and a lawn mower! My grand daughter filled her diaper with an appalling velocity and volume and my third daughter burst into tears of joy as well as laughter. It was a small, intimate, wonderful day that we will all cherish for so many reasons beyond the simple joining of two. It was the creativity of sisters who supported our nervous Nelly through it all with some nail polish and a little champagne, it was my darling husband who sees those shiny doors in every photograph and wishes he’d had time to paint the porch posts as well. And it was the teamwork of a small community to help us pull it all off. My neighbor who started mowing his lawn at the exact moment the procession began, says to this day that he is afraid of me. Use your imagination. My neighbors who raise miniature donkeys could not have known how much that hilarious braying, just as vows were exchanged meant to our memories of the day. It is all that and more that fills me with joy as we plan the next one, another one at home. And as we wonder what the last child, another daughter, will do, I wish for a home wedding one last time and the Captain is ready with a cash incentive to elopement. 

The Good Guy

FICTION

He was not a handsome man by the stretch of anyone's imagination, he was tall, a good asset and he still had a fair amount of hair. No visible deformities and most of the teeth he was born with. He had soft brown eyes and a sharp nose that, if a little beak-like could not be described as ugly. He was if anything, non-descript. An accountant, he had what was universally considered to be, a boring job. He worked in a small firm in the city where he would never rise above the position he currently held, that of associate. He would not make partner. He was good at his work, average, not great, not someone about whom people would say "Oh you need Jack, he's your man for mergers and tax loopholes."

He rarely wavered in his routine, taking the used bike he bought from Craig's list to the train station and a 20 minute ride into the city. He was swallowed up by a million others just like him, he was not noticed, he did not stand out. You would not remember him on your commute. If pressed say, by a vigorous cross examination you couldn't say whether or not he wore glasses or what color his coat was. Was he wearing a suit or a black tie or a brown one? You would not have remembered. He picked up a copy of the Journal at the station where he also bought a small coffee, black, one sugar. He hopped onto the 7:15 to Porter Street and took a window seat if possible. He enjoyed the view, the houses mostly, which he liked to peer into when the train slowed. He made up stories about the  people inside the homes, he imagined them fighting, making love and eating meals together. He wanted them to be as ordinary as he was, he needed their lives to be no more exciting than his.

Tuesday was an unusually light early morning, the sun was up high and shone on everything in its sphere, making things clear and better defined than usual, highlighting the dirt and the rust at the station, yet casting a warmth throughout, which he noticed and which made him mildly happy. He grabbed the paper, the coffee, and then his seat in short order, he was ready for the day. The explosion was unlike any sound he had ever heard, loud does not come close to the telling of its volume, it rumbled long after the initial bang and then there was the roar of flame and the rush of air being sucked out of the windows. They smashed into a million shards, one of which struck his upper thigh and the blood was spurting from him like a geyser, there was no pain. His ears were numb they thudded inside his head but the noises he knew must be occurring didn't register. He didn't hear screams, he saw a hand and then a bloody stump of some kind pass him and then the smell of burning flesh hit his nostrils and made him gag. He was upside down in the rail car, the window was now above his head and suitcases and brief cases were flying down the aisle which was not under but now beside him. Something hit him in the head and later he would say he thought it was a phone or a laptop. Suddenly his hearing came back into sharp focus and the cries and screams and moans were all consuming. He looked about for an explanation, a reason for what was happening. There was none, he registered that a bomb had gone off or a grenade had been lobbed into the train or that a rocket must surely have been launched at them.

The little girl under the seat was seven maybe eight years old, she looked up at him with eyes that could not see because of the blood dribbling down from the gash in her head. She was trapped. He knew without thinking that the fire would consume them all if they didn't get out...now.  He turned away, trying in just an instant to leave her there and save himself but of course he could not. He tried to pry the seat up from on top of her but it was wedged under the remains of the side of the railcar. Using every ounce of strength left to him he pushed and pulled but to no avail. "Help, help us." he yelled panicking now as the heat from the fire began to take hold, "There's a child here she's stuck, I need help for God's sake." Nothing. It was up to him. He looked around unable to see anything that might help, the smoke now thick black, and curling around them. He took off his jacket and stuffed it in and around her so she could avoid breathing in any more of it. He told her to stay calm, he'd help, he'd stay. She cried silently, tears welling up but no sound escaping her tiny red mouth. She seemed to be slipping away, he had no idea how badly she had been hurt, all he could see was her face and torso. Slowly she closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Hoping she was no longer in pain he began again to shove the debris off of her, this time more aggressively thinking she could not feel the pain he knew he was causing her. At last the seat freed and he lifted it up and off her tiny body. Her legs were twisted gruesomely behind her, she still appeared to be unconscious and he hauled her up and over his shoulder.

A tiny speck of the bright foreboding sunshine was visible and he followed it, stumbling and falling to his knees. He never let her go, he clung to her little form as if it were his saving grace and he launched himself out of the first opening he found. Slamming to the ground he looked up to see an apocalypse of twisted steel and concrete, hats and coats and shoes lying about, twisted electrical wires and little fires each with their own agenda burning brightly all around him. The sky, an impossible, reckless blue casting a gaiety to everything he saw. People, zombi-like walking around and crying, no wailing, each one dazed yet searching for something. A young woman came into view she was mostly undressed, her burnt clothes hanging in shreds around her, she was screaming "Katie, Katie, Katie it's mommy, where are you?" The tiny child still hung around his neck like a limpet, began to whimper in recognition. Jack laid her down on the ground as soon as he could get far enough away from the train. "Don't move." he said stupidly, and lumbered back towards the woman who was by now walking in circles near where she thought her child might be. "Over here," he shouted, "Over here, I have a kid, a girl, is this her?"

The newspaper article was concise and described him as a regular guy, the kind of guy you'd want to sit next to on a crowded commuter train because he wouldn't say much. The motive for the attack was not discovered although theories abounded. He was interviewed on the radio, on television and seen on social media by all who had taken their phones out and video recorded him exiting the train with the child slung around his neck. They called him a hero and gave him awards. When asked what he was thinking, staying in the burning train so long to rescue the child he replied simply, that he was a good guy.