Contentment

January 1, 2012

I stayed in bed, lingering under the soft, cool sheets
     and warm blanket, a million comfy pillows embracing my head.
When the moment felt right, I sat up, slowly.    

The house was quiet, in a good way.    

I felt around for my favorite, cozy slippers, wiggling my feet inside, until they felt right. 

Charlie was looking at me with his bright, hazel eyes; tail, wagging
      with anticipation of his morning visit with the outside world.  

Downstairs, the not-quite-teenage boys were (predictably) plugged in, 

     surrounded by their own pillows and blankets -
their makeshift beds, from the night before.
 
     "Good morning!" I said, as I released Charlie into the backyard. The temperature outside was unseasonably warm and pleasant.        

     "What would you like for breakfast?" I asked.   

      "Pancakes and bacon? ? !"with eager eyes, they expressed.   

I was happy to oblige.

The sun was shining brightly through the window, above the kitchen sink,
     where my Grandma's porcelain bluebird sits.  
I took the bluebird down, and placed it safely on the counter,
      so that I could open the window, just enough.
Just enough to allow the fresh air to breathe into the room,
     adding life to the closed up space.

      Now, for some music, I thought.
And, I searched around for what I thought would satisfy my mood -
     the Brazilian sounds of the guitar, acoustic.   

Breakfast was made, and the table was set,
       and someone very nice made me coffee.
Buttery, sweet pancakes, crispy bacon; warm, smiling faces.  
We shared stories about before; and discussed plans for after. 
Like all of the possibilities for "today", for what a beautiful day it was. 

     Go to the zoo, maybe?

     A walk or bike ride?

     Kickball or ice-skating?

     Or, maybe some soccer.

The day was ours, and what a feeling that was.





 











 
   
   

Olfactory and Flatulenc(y)

It's official.

I can smell again.

The once trusted olfactories seem to be back in working order. 

How do I know?

Imagine this:  

Christmas Day.  

The entire family - mom, kids, grandparents ( and the dog ) -
          gathered around the kitchen table for a friendly game of "Apples to Apples".

The lights are low, and the holiday candles on the fireplace mantel are lit,
          casting a warm, soothing glow.

Matt Nathanson music is playing softly in the background on Pandora Radio. 

There are smiles, there is wit, there is laughter, there is . . .

"WHAT is that SMELL ? ? ?

That ODOR ? ? ?

That STENCH ? ? ?"  

Looking around the table of faces and possible culprits,
          the guilty party immediately confessed with a wicked display of laughter.

Quick on my feet ( and in a moment of desperation ),
     I strategically reached over and pulled a "Cooking Light" catalog out of the
magazine basket,
     and fanned the bad air away.

And, with a grimacing look on my face, I announced :

"I'm Cured !"  

I can definitely . . . . . . smell . . . . . . again.  

              

Through the Eyes of Innocence

In the spirit of Christmas, here is a short,
     sweet story that I pulled from the "archives" (slightly altered).

It was published in The Washington Post on December 16, 2006.

Please enjoy.     

-----------------------------------------------------------


 The time of day was dusk.
I was driving down a local, neighborhood street with my seven year old
     sitting quietly in the back seat.
The sky was crystal clear, and if I looked hard enough,
     I could just barely see the tip of the sun sneaking down behind the trees.  

Suddenly, as if by magic, the houses along the street began to light up.
One by one, the colors illuminated, and spread across the roof lines and trees. 
It was as if the people stood inside their homes,
     waiting . . . . . . as the sun dipped down into the sky,
and the darkness approached - waiting . . . . . . .
     for just the right moment to turn on the lights.

As I looked in the rear view mirror,
     I could see the whites of my son's eyes as he opened them wide,
taking in the magical sights around him.  

     "WOW!" he exclaimed, "THESE people must REALLY like Christmas!"

     "Why do you say that?" I asked.

And, with a look on his face that was just as SURE as SURE could be, he said,

     "Because they REALLY want to make sure that Santa sees their houses!"

 I smiled at my son, and silently thanked him for sharing his innocence.  

The Taste of Food

Taste.

I LOVE the TASTE of things.

Not just ANY "things".

For example, I can't STAND the taste of postage stamps. 

It was a HAPPY, HAPPY day when they invented self-adhesive ones.

And, there are certain medications that I don't much care for the taste of -  
       anything with codeine, most throat lozenges, and certain antibiotics that leave a metallic taste in my mouth. 

Too bad they don't come in a "self-adhesive" form, as well. 

More specifically, I love the taste of . . . . . . FOOD.

That IS why I like to EAT, after all.  

Well, I guess there is that "hunger" factor, too, but . . . . . . . 

     I genuinely ENJOY food.

I love the smells, and the colors, and the textures, but most of all -
                                      the FLAVORS. 

Lately, I have not been able to taste my food.


Due to my uninvited guests "Bronchitis" and "Sinusitis", who came to visit me in October,
     and have become "the guests that will never leave", 
I have not been able to taste anything in months. 

For example:

     Last night, I had leftover Chinese food for dinner, and couldn't taste a thing.

     This morning, I had a nonfat chai latte at Starbucks.

          It was nice and hot and soothing, but it had no flavor.

     For lunch today?  A bowl of seafood gumbo.

          Warm and . . . . . . .flavorless.

So, I walk away feeling dissatisfied, disappointed, and disheartened.    

And, I find myself eating only when my stomach tells me I'm hungry -
     eating things like yogurt for lunch, that I do not normally care for, but it is healthy,
quick and convenient,  and since I can't really taste anything, what difference does it make?  


I suppose this could be a good thing.

Maybe I will lose those 10 extra pounds that I have been carrying around, lately.

And, if there is a shortage on self-adhesive postage stamps,
     I should be able to just  LICK AWAY with NO PROBLEM!

Of course, I can't stand the "feeling" of anything paper on my tongue
     ( kind of like nails on a chalkboard ),
so unless my sense of feeling goes away, as well,
     I am still going to need those self-adhesive ones.

Perfect ending to this blog?

My fifteen year old son just walked in the room and asked,

     "What smells?"

To which, I responded,

     "I don't know.  I can't smell a thing." 

A Simple Time

As I stare out into the world,
     the Autumn colors magnified by the splash of dampness
leftover from last night’s rain showers,
my memories take me back to a more simple time and place,
and remind me of my favorite holiday –

     THANKSGIVING.

I can remember my Grandparent’s house . . .

On the outside -

Bricks, the color of red;
grass, growing down the middle of the short, gravel driveway;
my Grandmother, standing in the doorway.  

On the inside -

Stairs, to the left, that creaked beneath my feet, with each careful step;
small, wooden door frames with copper colored doorknobs;
three modest-sized bedrooms.
   
I remember my Grandparent’s bed . . . 

Dressed in old-fashioned linens,
     it sat high, above the floor, and would take a giant, running leap
to reach the top.

And, downstairs, the living room . . . 
In the corner, my Grandfather's green chair.      
Without hesitation, I would climb into his lap.
No words spoken; just he and I, sitting together in that chair.

And, I remember his guitars . . . 

There is an old photo of me -
a small child's curiosity, peeking inside of one.
And, with a hint of a smile, my Grandfather looking on.  

Today, those guitars sit in my living room.

Every now and then, I dust them off,
     and strum out a few chords and songs.

I remember the paintings 
                       that hung on the walls . . .

I wondered what the little girl (dressed in a blue coat and straw hat)
     was thinking and feeling?
If she knew me, would she be my friend?
And, what would it be like to walk along the cobblestone streets of that inviting little town?
Wouldn’t it be great to be able to transport myself there!
         
And, there was the kitchen . . . 

My Grandmother, standing in her apron,
     surrounded by all of the wonderful aromas of a home-cooked,
Thanksgiving meal.

The window, above the sink, where the ceramic bluebird sat;  
resting on its branches, with the tiny little holes,
     waiting to display dandelions or buttercups, picked by a small child’s hands.

Today, that bluebird sits above the sink in my kitchen.

Visible are the scars where pieces have been broken, and glued back together.
One wing is completely missing.
But, the colors of the paint, as well as the memories, are still quite vivid.

Next to the kitchen, was the dining room . . . 

Where the table was draped in freshly pressed cloth.
The places were set with fine china, polished silverware, and
     etched crystal glasses, waiting to be filled.

Radishes. 

I remember radishes.

The experience of biting into one;
                     crunchy, then spicy, then juicy . . .  

But, mostly, I just loved the way they looked.

Their radish shapes . . .
     each one slightly different from the other,
and the contrast in colors,
from the ruby red (on the outside), to the bright white of the middle.

I remember my Grandmother’s rice,

With onions and celery and turmeric,
     tossed together with buttery sweetness.
Every bite was perfectly fluffy, and tasted extra good with a drizzle of my
     Grandmother’s home-made gravy.

As for dessert . . .

Pies (apple and pumpkin),
     and my Grandmother's famous STRAWBERRY BAVARIAN,
which my family still talks about.

She would serve it up in a yellow bowl that now sits on a shelf, in my cupboard.

The other night . . . 

My kids were looking at the black and white photos of their relatives
     and ancestors displayed on our dining room wall.

My youngest son pointed to the one of my Grandmother, and said,

     “You look like her.”

     "You think so?" I asked.

And,
     just like my Grandmother, in the old photograph,
                      I was wearing a hint of a smile.  

Memories, and the observations of a child . . .
                                                                                are priceless.

Salmon Pancakes

It was a Sunday morning.
The air was crisp, the color of the Autumn leaves at their peak - the sun was shining brightly. 
And, on this particular Sunday, nowhere to be until 1:15.

 When I opened the door to let the dog out,
                          the scent of breakfast wafted through the air.     

Bacon.  

Definitely bacon .  . . . . . somewhere.


Maybe I'll cook pancakes for the kids today, I thought. 

And bacon.

Definitely bacon.


As I pulled a cast iron pan out of the cabinet, and placed it on the stove top,
     my fifteen-year old son, Jack, said,

     "You aren't going to use THAT pan, are you?  You cook MEAT on that pan.
                               Our pancakes will taste like MEAT!"

I brushed his comment aside, and continued with my pancakes.


As I poured the batter into the pan, I caught the scent of something unrecognizable.
I flipped the pancake over, and as it cooked through,
     I tore a small piece off with my fingers, and placed it in my mouth.

 It did not taste like pancake.

After a few seconds in my mouth, I was able to identify the flavor,
     laughing to myself as I remembered when I had last used the pan.   

     "Hey Sam!" I hollered over to my twelve-year old, who was in the next room.

     "Want to try the first pancake?" I asked.

My youngest of three, Sam, LOVES his food,
                                    and will try just about ANYTHING.  

     "Yes!" he responded, as he appeared from around the corner. 

He put a bite in his mouth, and I observed him closely,
     as a strange expression came across his face.

     "It tastes . . . . . . WEIRD," he said.

     "Weird . . . . . . HOW?" I asked (a slight smirk on my face).
 
     "It tastes like . . . . . . EGG?" he stated (in the form of a question).   

     "Are you sure it doesn't taste like . . . . . . SALMON?"  I asked.

His face immediately changed,
     as he realized the source of the flavor that lingered on his tongue.

     "Ewww, yes!" he said.  "It tastes like SALMON!"

The three of us exploded with laughter.   

As I took the pan off the stove to replace it with a new one, I said to Jack,

     "Man, I HATE it when you're right!"

In the meantime, Sam
     put the remainder of the "salmon pancake" on a plate,
and asked,    

                                                    "Where's the syrup?" 



Oh, and, if you are wondering about the bacon, THAT never happened. 

I ran up to the local market to buy some, and they were completely OUT. 

The new batch of pancakes (on the non-salmon cooked pan),
     however, tasted good.

More importantly, they tasted like . . . . . .

                                                            PANCAKES.

Platypus Pie

My twelve-year old son recently came home with a bag of gooey looking green stuff -
     something he had made in his "Teen Living" class. 

     "Guess what it is?" he asked.   

     "I know what that is.  It's play-doh!" I said.  

     "You probably don't remember, but when you were little,
                we used to make play-doh, too," I told him.



The very next day, I found myself sitting at the play-doh table at the preschool,
     where I recently started working. 

We were rolling our play-doh into long, skinny strips,
     then using them to trace the shapes of letters. 

Of course, it was awfully tempting to use the play-doh to make . . . . . .  other things.

A snowman seemed to be the most popular play-doh creation (especially amongst the boys).    

One little girl, however, had an absolute ABUNDANCE of ideas,
     and she was the fastest play-doh creation "creator" that I had ever seen!

The ideas would fly from her four-year old brain to her tiny little hands
     in seconds flat.

     "I am going to make a dog!" she would say.

And there was an awesome looking dog.

     "I am going to make a bird!" she would say.

And there was a fabulous looking bird.

My favorite, however, was the carrot.

     "I am going to make a carrot!" she said.

And, there was the most fantastic, stupendous looking carrot . . . . . .  in the universe!   

Then, she said ( and I wasn't expecting THIS ),

     "I am going to make a PLATYPUS."

     "A Platypus?" I asked.

     "Yep!  A Platypus, " she repeated.

     "Will you make me a nest for my platypus?" she asked,
                                    as she handed me a handful of play-doh.

      "But, of course!" I responded.  How could I say no?

And, as she molded together a very impressive and realistic looking platypus,
     I shaped and formed the nest.

     "How did I do?" I asked, when I was finished. 

     "Perfect!" she said, as she placed the platypus on the nest.

     "I don't know," I said, doubting myself.

And, upon taking a closer look at it, I said,

     "It looks more like a pie shell, than a platypus nest."

Then, I paused, and said,

     "That would make this a PLATYPUS PIE ! ! !"

Her eyes lit up and she SHRIEKED in surprise.

And, laughing at the silliness of the thought, she announced, 

        "YOU CAN'T EAT MY PLATYPUS!"

And, with that, she squished the platypus and the pie shell into a ball,
     turning it back into just . . . . . .

                                           play-doh.