live from sublurbia

I wish I could recall the rest of the joke instead of just the punch line. It was uproariously funny at the time; a long intra-family discussion of the Pointy Haired Bosses executing the Peter Principle in our general direction.

But yes, the F (Fay) and the G (Gustav) are giving me heartburn.

We’ve been through a few storms before and adapted our plan as our family has grown. Shutters instead of plywood (with successive storm names painted on the sheets). Instead of a shelf of water, beef jerky, and a few other things to load for a ride to sit the storm with relatives, the kids are used to my hurricane closet of snacky treats and flashlights. We rotate board games, books, and have “camp outs” downstairs away from the worst of the weather.

Wolfie’s gotten more literal in his understanding, from painting the wind as the storm singing to us and making music to putting together the more abstract storm tracking tools - radar. He’s not quite got it yet, through no fault of his own. But it did take me a couple of days to understand what he really was looking for - actual purple colored rain out the window instead of only on the computer or television screen. Whoops. Helvi’s just in it for the cookies and the party atmosphere of “camp hur’cane!”

Oh, Fay. Rain on my rooftop, rain in my house. Gah. I hope Gustav stays far enough away from us that I can get that (hopefully minor!) leak fixed. It’s at an odd angle so I’m not even certain I could really tarp it up.

Thinking of you guys in the path, over and above my own self-centered concerns. Time to dust off some of my old hurricane/camping survival techniques.

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The six-year-old birthday girl screams as a doll that is whole only from the waist up is removed from a birthday cake, sobbing and hiccuping, trying to be understood by adults trying hard to stifle their laughter.

I do remember it being a lovely cake. Lovely. A wonderful gesture by one of the Aunt Mommies in my family. Yellow star-shape frosting squirts decorating a lovely full hoop-style skirt. Barbie’s torso sticking out of the top, smiling her open-mouthed smile as if everything is fine, that she doesn’t mind us feasting upon her lovely limbs and ankle-length finery.

“Wow,” I probably thought. “A Barbie doll of my own! With all her parts!” I did ‘own’ a few dolls of her style, hand me downs with their own enormous trunk of inflatable furniture. These were shared with a sister and several cousins; all their finery and furnishings were quite loved. The one true Mattel brand Barbie doll we did own was shy a hand; the second gone somewhere in the yard after a dog took her as a chew toy for a while.

I apparently got over it the butchered Barbie doll, though I don’t remember tucking her in my little bag after the party. Mom says that they hid what was left of her away and distracted me with other things. That Aunt Mommy had been making those style cakes for years, and I was her first terrified recipient. From then on she made the cakes using whole Barbie dolls instead of refugees from Sid’s bedroom.

The next winter, I did get my own new Barbie doll from that side of the family. She came complete with inedible yellow dress and full, bendable legs and special “shampoo” that let me set her hair straight or curly (until it ran out and she was stuck in curly mode forever).

Now adays, picking cakes for my own kids, I see that birthday cakes come from the store bakery with fully-functioning removable toys as part of the decor. I haven’t asked about Barbie-dress cakes yet; but I’ll make sure she’s a whole gal when I do.

My thanks to Wife and Mommy for reminding me of this story with her post about what is possibly one of the worst cakes ever from the Cake Wrecks blog.

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I spent a few days recently with friends and family, rolling along our old summer hills, catching up with cousins who look like their teenaged selves only taller, seeing their kids who are even taller than I. We traded stories, took turns trading kids and helping out, and I realized we’d all become the Uncle Daddies and Aunt Mommies of our childhood.

The “rules”, such as they were, were pretty loose and basic. Crowded summers were filled with family of all shape and size coming from far and near points, hanging out at various intervals for long periods of time. Cousins were traded and lent out, Aunts and Uncles did extra kid duty, and as in large families, you could be younger than your own niece or nephew or older than your uncle or aunt. I don’t think anyone was their own grandfather. Continue Reading »

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“It makes cool bubbles!”

I’m physics-challenged. I tend to, from time to time, expect the world around me to behave like a RoadRunner cartoon; I can “pick up” a rake by stepping on the tines (no), if a hill in an unfamiliar town is steep enough, I’ll simply start careening down it, end over end, until I land in a canyon or gorge or bay (maybe!!!), or feet will stop a bike that has no brakes long before I get to that garage door (I think I can still see the dents in the door).

So when I get any version of “Hey mom, watch THIS” … I get worried. Because I’m sure the kids will find some way to creatively damage themselves that I or my siblings and cousins haven’t managed yet. Continue Reading »

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So composting in the tumbler is going well. All the husks of summer corn and nut shells from various trips are browning my overly green bin nicely.

But the darn thing still smells funny. Not rotting or putrid from too many greens or enthusiastic spinning, and not yet the nice earthy smell my worms churn out.

In a word, popcorn. The bin, at last check, smelled like freshly popped microwave popcorn. A little corny and a hint of oily burn you don’t get from air or stove and oil popped corn.

I’ve asked a couple of gardeners and done searches online. Nothing. Ideas, anyone?

Other than that, a quiet summer in the garden. A few veggies, no fruits of my own, but much bounty in the gardens I’ve been touring as I spend a few days with friends. I’m coming back full if ideas for expansion and more gummy edibles.

Hope your summer gardens are growing well.

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I like to fiddle with cooking. Just to tweak it or improve it, or cut out foods we’re not fond of or don’t have in the house. And I don’t have the eleventy million spices listed in most cookbooks. So I’m teaching myself as I go; which flavors go with the usual suspects from our garden and pantry.

Recently I found myself with a couple of pounds of left over squash and not a lot of other fresh foods in the house. We were in that “no shopping” time before and after a traveling week, so I flipped through Bowl Food to figure out how to use up the squash for that night’s dinner (the rest I planned to toss into a lentil stew).

Inspired by squash risotto, I fried onions and squash in curry powder and a drip of oil. I brought water to a boil, and added cous-cous (and a chicken bullion cube) to the pot. I turned the stove off, removed the pot from heat (glass top + cast iron = keeps cooking even when off), added canned chicken, and let it sit, covered for 5 minutes.

The next night, more squash, plus an onion and canned tomatoes and garbanzo beans were mixed with a store-bought packet of lentils and seasoning. I’ve got a bit of a taste now of what the store’s spices are, so I can make my own next time around.

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“Mom, be serious!”

“I got Bonge Bob!”

“Mom, you are a super hero.”

“I’m a bat. Except I don’t sleep like a bat or fly because I don’t have wings. Screee!”

“Daddy told me the rules of popsicles. You eat all of your food and then you can have a popsicle.”

“I love swimming lessons.”

“There aren’t any more clothes on the floor to pick up.” Did you pick them all up? “No, only one.” That means you can see the rest. “Oh, you’re right. Now I see them, I wasn’t looking on the floor. Look at all these chairs!”

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What a great introduction to the circle of life for eldest. Pluck fat cabbage loopers from the garden, place in bug cage, let die.

Honestly, I checked them out a few days after we plucked them, and it all looked dead to me. So I forgot about the bugs and went off for the holiday and never thought about them again.

Then today, I tested my drip watering system, cleaned out the latest round of baby snails, and found more darn cabbage loopers. Kiddo was busy watering the hanging plants, so I disposed of them in quick pinches. Only three wiggly ones this time, and one half-cocooned one.

I quickly ripped off the leaf on which it made it’s home, and started to move our prize into the bug keeper. Only to find two dead moths inside. Smart move, mom.

Tried to explain to the kiddo that they hadn’t had any food and subsequently died, but he let it roll off of him and went back to watering the plants. I mentioned we had a new one, showed it to him, and this time brought the bug cage inside.

Someone remind me to check it in the morning. Or send it to summer camp and let them keep an eye on it …

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A lawn may be pleasing to look at, or provide the children with a place to play, or offer the dog room to relieve himself, but it has no productive value. The only work it does is cultural. In Downing’s day, the servant-mowed lawn stood, eloquently, for the power structure that made it possible: who but the very rich could afford such a pointless luxury? As mechanical mowers enabled middle-class suburbanites to cut their own grass, this meaning was lost and a different one took hold. A lawn came to signal its owner’s commitment to a communitarian project: the upkeep of the greensward that linked one yard to the next.

“A fine carpet of green grass stamps the inhabitants as good neighbors, as desirable citizens,” Abraham Levitt wrote. (By covenant, the original Levittowners agreed to mow their lawns once a week between April 15th and November 15th.) “The appearance of a lawn bespeaks the personal values of the resident,” a group called the Lawn Institute declared. “Some feel that a person who keeps the lawn perfectly clipped is a person who can be trusted.”

I can’t wait to read it. Though going by my lawn I must be a very untrustworthy sort (I don’t edge every time! Shock!). We’ll see.

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“When I grow up, I want to be a FIREWORK!

I will sit on the ground and then FLY up in the sky and go

BOOM and be the biggest blue firework and then …”

(pause)

“_{I don’t want to be a firework when I grow up}”

(later)

“I want to be a PENGUIN when I grow up!”

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