When in doubt, just talk about chocolate or throw in a really long quote

I'm up late tonight, on stand-by for the final grammar check as my daughter is struggling with an English essay. Truth be told, I'm struggling, too, with the sheer December-ness of everything. The idea of crafting a clever blog post is a bit beyond me right now*.

She's sorting through relevant passages, trying to prove a point about totalitarianism and manipulative language. I would say this is what you get for procrastinating but...

Pot = Black
Apple = Right up against the damn tree

How about some chocolate cake while we wait? It could be a long night.

K's last day

Los Angeles, like many sprawling cities, has a lot of residential areas that run smack into major business thoroughfares.  Our house, for example, is on a quiet curving street without sidewalks, full of huge trees and long driveways, but it is also a block and a half from a busy car wash, a bus stop, my office building, and two grocery stores.  It is conveniently located for mass murderers and the dog park.

Right at the corner, tucked into the same parking lot as that car wash and an auto repair place, is K's Donuts and Burgers. I think we picked up doughnuts for the movers the day our van pulled into the driveway, and it's been a part of our lives ever since.

It's a total hole in the wall, with dingy formica counters and a brusque couple working the register. It's cash only. On weekdays, they make burgers and sandwiches, and the lunch special of a quarter-pound cheeseburger, fries and a soda for $6.50 is a steal. Can you get a grilled cheese sandwich? No. Is it the greatest burger ever? Nah. But it's grilled fresh, the fries are piping hot and perfectly salted, and it's $6.50 with a drink, for heaven's sake.



When we first allowed the kids to leave the house on their own, it was to walk to K's with the dog and get their own lunch. They'd return home, clutching the brown paper bag, supremely proud of themselves not only for the solo outing, but for managing the wad of seven ones we'd given them so proficiently.  Later, when they were starving after school, it was always a rush to try and get there before the grill closed at 4 o'clock.

The lunch special is a deal, but the doughnuts are magic.  The glazed old fashioneds, shown here, are my gold standard for what that doughnut should be.  Slightly tangy from the buttermilk, tender on the inside, crispy on the outside.  Man! So great. Rumor has it they use the original Stan's recipe, which makes it even more of a miracle for us to have them here in this nondescript strip of Encino.

I've talked about K's doughnuts here on the blog more than once. Leaving early for Disneyland? Stop at K's. First day of a new school year? Stop at K's. My son even ran into the headmaster early one morning as they both lined up for fresh doughnuts.  Our office countertop was graced with a bright pink box on more mornings than I can count over the past four years, and we were all the happier (if a little heavier) for it.

About a month ago, the car wash suddenly closed, and a chain link fence appeared around the driveway.  The auto shop, never all that busy, shuttered.  A developer had purchased the lot, and was rapidly pushing the tenants out to make room for yet another cookie cutter apartment complex on a street already riddled with them.  The owners at K's vowed to stay put, and we cheered, hopeful and glad that the little guy was going to win the day.

But then they didn't. Today was K's last day.

The shop was packed. Firemen, employees from the grocery store, nurses and doctors, plumbers and practically our entire office all made the pilgrimage to grab a burger, a tuna sandwich, a box of fries, and the last maple bars.  Everyone shook hands with the owners, who were still hustling and frantically calling out numbers. "Number 2? Double burger with jalapenos? It's ready!" One woman pressed her card into the cashier's hand. "When you get a new place, you CALL me. I will tell EVERYONE. You hear me? I can't believe this."

I can't believe it either. Yes, it's LA. Change is part of the fabric of the city. There are many other great , great doughnut stores in town, some quite close by. But none of them are our doughnut store. None of them are K's.*

* Technically, there is actually another K's Donuts two miles away, but it's not the same K's.
All photos from this post were taken with my phone on my own last day pilgrimage.

Fast Food for Grown Ups

I spent the past few days with my son, doing the Parents' Weekend thing at his school. Officially, there were campus tours, a football game to watch, long lines at the bookstore where everyone had some variety of sweatshirt in hand, a speech by the university president to be inspired by, not-so-subtle references to upcoming capital campaigns, opportunities to chat with professors and sit in on classes, and a slew of other activities designed to reinforce the wisdom of entrusting this place with our children.  

Unofficially, we were there to get an extra large pizza for leftover purposes, provide transportation to the haircut place, and go to Target and pay*.  

Taken last year, but literally, we just bought this exact same stuff yesterday.

I totally get the idea that sometimes you need food, fast**.

I just have a very different idea about what that should look like.

Two lists

Things I am doing wrong*, according to my daughter:

1. Hashtags
2. Instagram
3. Using Android instead of an iPhone
4. Presuming to check in and see how the summer reading is going
5. Cheering out loud at her soccer games
6. Wanting the empty fruit snack wrappers to be in the trash
7. Making friends with her friends' parents
8. Asking her to speak to waiters 
9. Singing along to the radio when it is on her station
10. Breathing

Things I am doing right, according to me:

1. Raising my daughter.

Also, risotto.

Growing Up

I am sitting in the airport in North Carolina, waiting for my solo flight home.  I check Facebook and my feed is filled with bittersweet photos of my friends, backseats full of suitcases and bedding, grinning, slightly anxious teenagers in front of brick buildings, or snapshots of dorm rooms neatly organized for perhaps the first and last time all year. People are reposting cartoons of mothers clinging to trees and wonderful articles about letting go of your orbiting little planets.

Used with permission from caglecartoons.com

The thing is, it doesn't get any easier the second time around. It's different, because they are rushing back to a known universe, without the t-shirted volunteers and established institutional agendas for entry. They have things in storage and roommates they chose. I was there almost strictly for logistical support...a last good meal, the Target run, the rental car with a big trunk.  The need for me clearly receded with every load hauled up the stairs*.



Yes, this is as it should be. Yes, I accept and understand and, in unselfish moments, rejoice in this grown person who does not look back when I drive away**.



But I should still have brought my dark sunglasses to wear on the flight home. Especially because this song was on the radio as I dropped him off.

I'll be patient, one more month 

You'll wrap your fingers round my thumb 

Times are changing, I know, but who am I if 

I'm the person you become 

If I'm still growing up, up, up, up 

I'm still growing up, up, up, up...

I still feel those tiny fingers, round my thumb.

* In case I missed any of his subtle exit cues, there were several actual glares yesterday before I left for my hotel.  This is why I should not be allowed to do this alone.  Last year my husband forcibly removed me from his room.  I did redeem myself today by singlehandedly setting up a dual band wireless networkin 15 minutes flat, and buying him a large Mighty Meat pizza for late night leftover purposes.

** Of course. parents' weekend is a month away, so I'll be right back, full of resolve to be mature and independent.  Like my kid.

Grumpy Old Lady Makes Gluten Free Cookies

I have felt A LOT like Grumpy Old Man lately.

All these KIDS going to COLLEGE and AFRICA and DRIVING and dating WOMEN FROM FLORIDA.

All these puppies who eat SCREEN DOORS and VALUABLE SUCCULENT PLANTS.

 Sure, they're cute and happy, but they are TOTALLY NOT DOING ANY CHORES RIGHT NOW.  

I want things the way they used to be. When kids stayed home and paid attention when you talked to them. When dogs stayed, period. When life was simple and cookies were made with a crapload of gluten and WE LIKED IT!

Friggin' progress.

Extraction Pains

"They've got to come out."

"Putting it off will only make things worse."

"It's not healthy in the long run to keep them."

"They desperately need space."

"It's time."

The dentist was talking about my son's wisdom teeth.

I was thinking about leaving my daughter on a curb at JFK airport with bulging duffle bag and a ticket to Africa.

He got ice packs and meds for his extraction pain.



I got to come home* and make milkshakes for both of us.

His recovery is going great, especially now that the freezer is fully stocked with ice cream**.

Me?
I'm still poking at the hole that was left behind***.

The long distance birthday

Today, my son is finishing up his first year of college.  He'll be going to one last class, saying goodbye to his roommate and friends for the summer, covering up holes in his wall with toothpaste, and stuffing a pile of dirty clothes into a duffel bag before turning in his keys and leaving campus behind.



He will do all of this on his own, just like he experienced all the rest of freshman year for himself. Thinking back*, I don't think I appreciated how much of a gift this independence was for me. How foundational having the space to misbehave and strive and goof off and win and fall down and lose sleep and connect and love and eat poorly and bond and learn and type and cheer and drink and run and get naked and question and write and be me would be.  It was, I think, one of the most important periods of my life.  My parents had no part in it. None.

That is as it should be.  But I kinda wish my mom was around now so I could tell her I get it. Long distance relationships are tough.  Long distance motherhood is brutal.

And then, just to make it that much worse, the first birthday away from home comes around.

Yep. Today is his 19th birthday. He's there. I'm here.

Deep breath. Text. Call. Bake.

Tomorrow, he'll be here.  Tomorrow, we'll have cake.

Bark! Bark!

Right around the holidays, we started talking about it.

Tentatively at first, because we were still so tender and upset, then more analytically and then, at last, giving ourselves permission to be hopeful, with a fair amount of actual giddiness.

I mean, who were we kidding, right?  We had been expertly trained by our big guy on how to be a dog family, and to let all that work go to waste would be almost criminal.  We couldn't do it.

We decided to get a puppy.

Not a replacement, because there can be no such thing, but someone furry and new and special in their own way.

I began my research.

ME: [Googling on my laptop] What breed is like a Bernese, but is not a Bernese

GOOGLE:  Here are images of Bernese Mountain Dogs and websites full of Bernese Mountain Dogs and breeders of Bernese Mountain Dogs and they all look just like your dog that you still miss so much you can barely stand it.

ME: [incoherent muffled sob]

I stayed away from Google after that. Eventually, I found a breed that sounded amazing.  Huge and hairy and friendly and smart.  There was a breeder just a few hours away who was due to have puppies on my husband's birthday.  I told her all about our loss and our family and she loved the whole thing. It was a sign. We were thrilled.

The puppies were born, and the photos began arriving. Nine adorable balls of fluff rolling around with their exhausted mom.  My daughter was besotted with them, and I was, too.  My husband, a bit concerned about just how huge and how hairy these things would grow up to be, consented to sending in our deposit.  With so many puppies, the breeder was glad to set one aside for us newcomers, even though other families had been waiting for years.  We signed up for puppy class and bought all the puppy things.  We began counting down the weeks until our little one could come home.

My son was appalled. We should be rescuing a dog, he said firmly.  There were all kinds of animals needing good homes. These purebred dogs didn't need us. There's a dog out there who does.

Yes, I agreed, distracted by a fluffy curly tail in my inbox.  But look how sweet they are, honey. These puppies need homes, too.

Would it be rambunctious Miss Red, or shy little Miss Yellow? Identified only by their adorable bow collars, we could only speculate, as the breeder would be matchmaking when we met.  Miss Orange was awfully winsome, too.

Pick up day was set, less than 10 days away.  After all these weeks, the sheer level of email cuteness and anticipation was staggering.

Then came the staggering email of cruelty.

To: Puppy-obsessed family I have been taunting for three months
From:  Nutjob Breeder from Hell
Subject:  No puppy for you*

I just now noticed that all of my puppies are perfect.  I asked my friends who are puppy experts, and they agree. Every single one of them is going to be a champion show dog. Since you are only going to be bringing the puppy home to love it like mad and make it part of your family, and not parade it around a ring on weekends to earn trophies, I have decided you are unsuitable.  If I had a flawed puppy, I would have given it to you.  But I don't. 

True story.

So instead of Miss Red or Miss Orange or Miss Yellow, who are likely piling up accolades and blue ribbons at this very moment, we rescued Miss Juneau, the mutt.

Turns out she is the perfect puppy for us.**

More photos of Juneau can be found daily on Instragram, #juneaudiaries.  

My son was right all along. Mutts rock.

The word of the day

When my kids were little, whenever my sister was visiting she'd give them a "Word of the Day". We'd be at the breakfast table, and she'd look seriously at my four year old son and eighteen month old daughter and say:

"OK guys.  The word of the day is...FOYER!"

They would stare intently back at her over their Cheerios. She'd continue:

"It's related to the one we had yesterday.  Do you remember?"

My son would leap up from his chair and shout happily:

"VESTIBULE!"

Then they would spend the rest of the day finding ridiculous ways to use the word FOYER in every conversation.

It was hilarious.  But it was kind of brilliant*.

My sister isn't here right now,  so I'll take over for her.  

"OK guys. The word of the day is...CINNAMON TOAST CAKE!"

Crap. That's three words. 

She's obviously way better at this than I am. 

But you should still try to find ways to add Cinnamon Toast Cake to every conversation.  It's kind of brilliant.

Thank you note

It's tomorrow, gang.  Thanksgiving.

I have no idea if your house is in an uproar, or if you are relaxing on a beach somewhere.  Are you waiting excitedly at the airport for your kid to come home?  Or are you standing in line at the supermarket with a cart full of potatoes and apples and string beans?  Perhaps the in-laws are driving you mad, or you have the wine all picked out to bring to a gathering of friends far from home. Maybe you are at the gym, frantically trying to burn calories ahead of time, or looking helplessly at tail lights on the freeway as you head out of town.

Maybe you are standing on a street corner in Missouri, weeping.  And praying for families everywhere who will have trouble finding ways to be grateful.

Source:  The Atlantic

Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, I'm thankful for you.

I am in my sister's kitchen.  The fridge is bursting, but we have a plan*. It involves tried-and-true mac n' cheese, award-winning apple pie, and a total experiment in grilled, flattened turkey.  There will be sausage stuffing and mashed potatoes and challah in case that goes terribly wrong.  Even if everything goes awry, it won't matter in the great scheme of things.

We spent the afternoon yesterday at Arlington National Cemetery, watching leaves drift down as shots rang out in salute to a newly fallen soldier joining so many others there.

 Then the sun went down and the sky was so stunningly on fire we just sat in the car, gaping**.

Two days ago, my daughter and I had a giggling fit in the National Gallery, and ninjas brought us popcorn in recliners. My niece and husband have started this year's Lego project.

My son is here...giant and loud and perfect.

Soon, we will hold hands over our full plates and take turns awkwardly trying to express aloud the feelings of profound gratitude that fill our hearts.  I will likely not mention the sunset, the giggles, the comfort of my husband's warm feet against my cold ones in the night, my sister's indulgent spoiling of all of us, my niece's shrieks of laughter, or the way my son felt when I hugged him.

I will probably just say, "I'm thankful for my family" and squeeze the hand I'm holding a little tighter.

Here are a few ideas for leftovers you can thank me for later:

For the turkey: Diane's Turkey Enchiladas
For the stuffing and mashed potatoes: Thanksgiving Eggs

And, for the cranberry sauce:  Shortbread Jam Tart

Intriguing, but untested:  Mashed Potato Waffles from Serious Eats and Crispy Stuffing Cakes with Eggs from iamafoodblog.

Virtual thank you's are fine on these, folks. No hand squeezing required.

* It is a ridiculous plan, involving two complete Thanksgiving dinners within 24 hours and hijacking her neighbor's refrigerator. Don't ask.
** There was traffic on the beltway, so we kind of had to slow down anyway. No photo can do this sunset justice, as my stricken daughter wailed at us repeatedly from the back seat.  She was bereft not to be able to blow her Instagram followers away.  Speaking of Instragram, you can follow me there now.  Although, according to my daughter, I'm doing it wrong.

The power of the parental lie

When I was little, like maybe 7 or 8 years old, my parents went away on vacation.

To Hawaii.
Without us.

My sister and I were very confused.  Our family always went places together.  This was beyond mystifying. We pestered them with questions.

Where is Hawaii?  
How are you going to get there? 
How long are you going to be gone?

And most importantly,

Why can't we go, too?

Our parents patiently answered every one.

Hawaii is in the middle of the ocean, on the other side of California.
We are going on an airplane.
Seven days.

And then they told the world's greatest whopper.

We're going to go by ourselves first, to make sure Hawaii is fun for kids.

Well, that makes total sense, we agreed contentedly. As children who'd been subjected to many adult-oriented Washington dinner parties and boring work events, we knew all about stuff that was no fun for kids. Mom and Dad were doing us a favor by leaving us behind.  We cheerfully waved good-bye and waited for their report.

A week later, they returned home, literally glowing with happiness.  It turns out that when they landed in Hawaii, beautiful ladies gave them wreaths of flowers.  The beach was right in front of their hotel, they gushed.  The water was as warm as a bathtub, with little colorful fish swimming and swirling around their toes.  There were hula dancers and drinks with umbrellas and a swimming pool with a huge curvy water slide. They ate pineapple every single morning and it was spectacularly delicious.

We stared at them in awe.

Then, they opened up the luggage, and gave each of us a giant lei made entirely of candy bars.

Awe turned to skeptical disbelief*.

Hawaii seems like A LOT of fun for kids.

Our suspicions were well founded. My parents never did take us there**. But when I finally got to go as a grown up, one of the best things about the trip was indeed having pineapple for breakfast every single morning.

It is spectacularly delicious.

Care Packages

I don't know about you, but when I was in college, there was nothing more exciting than seeing a flash of pink peeking through the little window in your PO box.

The slip that meant: YOU HAVE A PACKAGE.

It meant a brown paper box with Mom's neat handwriting on it and stamps clustered in the corner was waiting for you behind the counter.  It would be filled with homemade treats, a clever note, a forgotten special something.  The goodies would be shared, of course, but the feeling of being unexpectedly touched by home was a magically selfish thrill.  Everyone else at the post office would look on enviously, waiting for their own miracle package slip to appear*.

Of course, that was a long time ago.  Before Amazon Prime and drone deliveries.  Before FedEx. Before email and Skype and the Internet.  Before parents and kids could text and talk with unlimited minutes any old time they wanted to.  Times have seriously changed.

I'm all for convenience and online everything, but when this company sent a brochure touting their "automated care package delivery service",  my heart broke just a little.

Then I shredded the damn flyer and started baking.  No kid of mine was going to get a pre-made box of corporate crap.  He was going to get a good, old fashioned, Mom-turned-on-the-oven-and-then-went-to-the-actual-post-office-so-I-could-get-a pink-slip-in-the-mailbox** kind of day.

I sent his favorite chocolate chip cookies*** and waited for the grateful call.
Instead, he posted this tweet.

Upstaged by my daughter's two second strike of the pen.  Hrumph.

Then I sent deep dark chocolate brownies****

I got this text:

Not exactly gushing.

I sent brown butter cookie brittle with mini chocolate chips*****

Silence.

But when I sent this pre-packaged corporate crap for Halloween?

I get this:

Sigh.
Too bad, kid.  These are on the way.******