The essay I have been looking for either hasn’t been written, hasn’t been published, or is hidden beyond my search engine’s reach. I have been composing it in my head for months, but now I can write the first draft, because Friday my child came out to the world.
The essay I’m not done writing is about becoming the parent of a queer, non-binary, young adult child. I say becoming because until my eldest came out, I told myself I had a daughter. Now I am getting used to the idea of having a non-binary child. And while that distinction may seem merely a clumsy trick of the English language, the implications run deep. More on that another time.
My husband and I are experiencing something that is both utterly unique and increasingly common. Here’s a peek into the types of conversations I’ve had during the last year with well-meaning relatives and friends. Continue reading
Yesterday I attended the most beautiful funeral. My cousin Minda died Saturday, and the rest of this week has been a blur.
Did I mention that we’re celebrating her niece’s bat mitzvah this weekend, and that there will be 70 people at my house Saturday night in her honor? The occasion was moved to a synagogue here in Detroit from Southern California a few months ago because Marcia, the bat mitzvah’s mom, knew her sister would likely be too ill to travel, and might even die. Continue reading
Let’s not pretend any of this has been easy.
I am not going to write the “This is not normal” blog or the “What the hell is happening to our country?” blog or the “Let’s band together against tyranny” blog. I am only going to say this: Other than escaping from burning buildings, nothing good ever happens when we act out of fear.
I have told my children that many times. And I am afraid. Very afraid. Am I as afraid as those workers who don’t have the luxury of worrying about my reproductive rights because they’re too busy figuring out how to feed their children? Am I as afraid as the people who thought they lived in a Christian country? I can’t be sure. I only know I have never felt this scared to be an American. Continue reading
Mine may be the only dinner table in America where family members engage in heated discussions about both Monty Python and the five paragraph essay on a regular basis. Monty Python? Lots of people have something to say about that. But the essay? Yeah, that’s my family.
Even my sixth grade son, who has only written a single five paragraph essay, back in fifth grade, has an opinion on the matter, having heard his high school siblings (and me) rail against it for years.
What’s my problem? Let me lay it out for you.
I would post this
with a photo of a kitten
in a party hat: Happy New Year
to my friends who celebrate
My version of Happy
to my friends who celebrate, and to those
who don’t, ignore this post, ignore
this message, this meme. My children
are schooling me in memes
over dinner, and I’m sort of getting it –
like existentialism or containment –
high school terms I grasped well enough
to pass the tests, but which I couldn’t define
Here are things I know –
Your hand on my back at 2 am
when I cannot sleep…
The Purple Fiddle coffee mug
drying on the sill…
Half a pot of steel cut oats…
Snow, light as feathers
beyond the bow window
Yesterday Josh asked for a mini fridge of his own so he can age meats in the basement. This is what you get when you give your sixth grader Kenji Lopez-Alt’s The Food Lab for Chanukah.
So far my boy has made mac and cheese (gluey), a French omelet (delicious, but requires some work on technique) and buttermilk pancakes (heavenly.) He flips through the giant book over breakfast, recites tidbits while I make dinner, and has explained in great detail the best way to boil an egg. He is also intent on scoring some copper pots as soon as he can afford them (bar mitzvah money, perhaps?)
I love to cook, and thanks to Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything, have learned to make most of my favorites without a recipe. I remember reading from my mom’s vast cookbook collection over bowls of cereal and grilled cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table all through middle school and high school – The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, Maida Heater’s Chocolate Desserts, and Still Fiddling in the Kitchen, a fundraiser for the National Council of Jewish Women. I once spent months copying every recipe from her collection of recipe cards and mimeograph sheets onto pastel 3 x 5’s, then filing them by category. It made a great, labor-intensive birthday gift.
My mom handed me a paper bag of mini jello molds yesterday – a little something for Josh to play around with. She found them in the basement with some old suitcases and other useless things. We are going to fill them with water and make fancy ice shapes for a punch bowl tomorrow night.
Right now, Josh is in the kitchen with my sister making banana pancakes. The house smells like butter.
Jeannette: Mushroom Barley
I can hardly
keep my eyes open
the day she brings soup
in a jar — recycled; no obligation.
The baby is crying. I nurse her
over that first bowl.
Wendy: Butternut Squash
is fragrant with onions
and cinnamon. I scoop
from its shell, puree it
with vegetable stock. This
is the soup I will bring
when your new baby arrives.
Sandra: Matzo Ball
Thigh bones disintegrate
between my fingers
like you taught me —
pressure cooked to a pulp,
steaming up the windows. Strain it
then heat again Friday afternoon.
Add carrot slices,
matzo balls, bits of chicken.
Ellen: Split Pea
All I want
is soup for my freezer.
from my sister.