A Birthday Present for Mom

Dear Mom,

I have a big surprise for your birthday today. For the first time ever, I think I found the perfect gift. Are you ready?

Remember when I was away at school, and you'd send me boxes full of Dudley's fruit bars and a massive pack of Bic pens from the Price Club? There would always be a note inside, in your perfect cursive handwriting, with a tidbit about the guinea pigs or the cat or something funny about Mrs. Schneiders next door.  Advice and a prayer were usually included, too.

Remember how you invented your own version of Red Envelope when your grandkids were born and living a thousand miles away from you?  We unwrapped outfits, bought on sale, with the extra senior discount and free gift wrapping. Each one was topped with a bright red envelope with the grandchild's name spelled out in colorful stickers, and another handwritten note, this time in clear block letters for them to "read".

You even befriended the lady at the Burbank Post Office, convinced that your packages full of diaper coupons and nubby crocheted blankets heading out to new moms would get special expedited treatment*.

I loved getting those packages, and so did all the many, many other people who were lucky enough to find one of your priority mail boxes on their front stoop.  But now, I finally understand that sending them meant even more to you.

You were alone, but your heart was full of us. Of your children no longer under foot. Of your grandchildren babbling and walking without you. So you took all that caring and worry and pride and pure aching wish to be near them and boxed it up and put it in the mail, with cookies. You taped it with care, and walked the few blocks to the Post Office. You probably felt immensely better immediately, picturing the faces when the package was opened, knowing the love inside was from you.

When Jasper left for college last year, I wanted nothing more than to call you and say, "I get it! I barely thought of you the whole time I was at school and you just accepted it and sent cookies? I'm so sorry. Oh my God! How did you survive this?!? "

But it was me on my own this time. I couldn't call you. You were gone, too.

So I started baking. I took all my caring and worry and pride and aching to be near him and boxed it up and put it in the mail, with cookies. I taped it with care and drove the few blocks to the Post Office.**

I felt immensely better. I survived.

It turned out you knew exactly what to do, Mom. And now I do, too.

I started a care package company, and I named it after you.

It's called Mom in the Mail.***

Happy Birthday, Mom.

One of the many thank you notes that Mom saved from recipients of her care packages.  

* Based on personal experience, I think they probably did get sent out just a tiny bit faster than everyone else's.
** It is LA.  No way I walk to the post office.
*** In honor of Mom, use the coupon code "LOVEMOM" and get 10% off any order placed for my inaugural shipment.  She would have loved that.

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***.

Just about now...

50 years ago, I was just new.

31 years ago, I fell, unknowingly, for the love of my life.

19 years ago, I was counting down to a due date*.

Six years ago, I started this blog**.

Four years ago, I grieved and raged in the mountains of Peru.

A year ago, I came clean.

Six months ago, we lost Blackjack.

Two weeks ago, we made room for Juneau and all the lovely chaos.

Long, long ago, whenever my mother felt overwhelmed by big events and life's dramatic twists and upheavals, she would go to the stove and begin stirring chocolate and sugar and butter together in a pot.  She would stir and stir and then there would be fudge. Creamy, just a teeny, tiny bit grainy, tender, and cocoa-sugar-salty. Magical.

Until recently, it was elusive, this salve for the extraordinary emotional milestone.

Just a few days ago...
Just in time...

...there was fudge***.

You should have some. Just about now.

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.

YOU get an NBA Team! And YOU get an NBA Team!

My son has been a Clippers fan since he was barely able to talk.

My daughter, on the other hand, was only a vampire for a day

He and I have been going to games together almost his entire life.  It's our thing.

As the disaster that has been this past few weeks unfolded, he wrote an incredibly articulate piece about his feelings on his blog, Me+TV*.

"Think of how amazing it would be if the Clippers won and showed Sterling that he isn’t better than them and to show him that they can succeed no matter how he feels. A team full of different races, and the fans from all over the world rejoicing in victory not only in basketball, but for equality as a whole. That would truly be something special." -- Jasper Pike

Naturally, that something special kid and I will be celebrating Mothers' Day downtown at Staples Center today, with my daughter and my husband and the rest of #ClipperNation.

Meanwhile, someone else is working on a fix as well.

You go, Mom.

* If you are a fan of intelligent television, you should check it out.  I'm slightly biased, but it's well worth a read.

Flaming Bananas

When we were growing up, my parents threw a lot of dinner parties.  My dad would spend hours making special mix tapes for the reel-to-reel player, usually with a lot of Al Green on them, and my mom would dress up in these fabulous form-fitting pantsuits*.  Our cupboards were full of artsy plates, hand-crafted ramekins, individual bread boards, mini paella pots, and tons of Marimekko placemats for setting the dining table.  Her speciality, though, was making the meal itself an event.

Her secret weapon?

The electric frying pan**.

The guests would be seated in their own polyester finery, and mom would emerge from the kitchen with a tray and the pan.  She'd plug it in, drop in a stick of butter, and the show would begin.

Smiling as she added the brown sugar, bouffant hair not moving an inch, all conversation among the group would grind to a halt.  The smell was intoxicating.

The perfectly sliced bananas tumbled in. Around went the wooden spoon, then she'd pick up the canister of fireplace matches.  Fireplace matches!!!

My sister and I peeked from the kitchen, shivering with repressed excitement, knowing what was coming.

The bottle of rum was opened with a flourish.  The lights dimmed.  Then came the unmistakable sound of a single long match being struck.  All eyes upon her.

Woosh!  The pan erupted in gorgeous blue and orange flames.  Mouths dropped.

She fearlessly stirred on, chatting amiably as though this was nothing special.  Just an ordinary night.

An ordinary night with my magical, marvelous mom.

She died three years ago today, so this will never be an ordinary time for me.
In her honor, dear guests, may I treat you to some flaming bananas?

A simple request

We went a little nuts with the baking for this year's Holiday Open House, even more so than usual.

Mini pecan tarts.  Chocolate Chip Cookies with Sea Salt.  Peanut Butter Fudge Bars.  Mocha Cupcakes with Peppermint Chocolate Buttercream Frosting*.  Lemon Icebox Squares. 

Apple Molasses Cookies**.  Crispy Chocolate Truffle Shortbread Bars.  Mom's Christmas Cut-Out Cookies with homemade icings.  Butterscotch Cherry Granola Cookies with Lemon Drizzle.  

Thumbprint Cookies with Fig Butter.  Apricot Rosemary Cocktail Cookies.  Two different kinds of challah. And my sister's famous Cream Cheese Pound Cake.

My husband was appalled.

Him: Why do you do this to yourself? I think the ovens have been on for a week straight.  I'm begging you, please, for Christmas Day: keep it simple.

Done***.

These still involve the oven****, but are about as uncomplicated as you can get.  

Here's to a notably simpler new year all around.  

Miracle on Libbit Avenue

In the days leading up to Christmas, the volume of visits from representatives of the United States Postal Service* goes way up everywhere, not just in New York City courtrooms.



Thanks to the Post Office, and my wonderful cousin Janet, we had a little miracle on Libbit Avenue this year.

A lost recipe from Mom. Not just any recipe, but one that tastes exactly like Christmas.

Turned out, I had everything I needed in the cupboard**.  I doubled the recipe, diligently following her handwritten notes on the back***.  As the bars were baking, the house began filling with the unmistakable scent of warm cinnamon and spice.  Now thoroughly in the mood to tackle a task I'd been putting off for far too long, I finally pulled the holiday boxes out of the garage to start decorating.

And there she was.

Almost like the cane left in the doorway at the end of my favorite Christmas movie of all time.  I honestly didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

I hope your holiday was full of warm, spicy, heartstring-tugging miracles, too.

Are those real chocolate covered cherries?

That line comes at the end of this wonderful scene in Tootsie.



Teri Garr points an accusing finger at the lying Michael, says the line, then grabs the box of cherries and stalks out, slamming the door.

I won't lie.
Unlike Sandy, I don't like chocolate covered cherries.
But I'm crazy about this chocolate cherry fudge cake.

Here is the big reveal scene in the movie:



Here is the big reveal scene of this post:

That's how you make it.  The cake is completely, ridiculously easy.

Michael Dorsey would probably have found a way to complicate things:

Michael Dorsey: Are you saying that nobody in New York will work with me?
George Fields: No, no, that's too limited... nobody in Hollywood wants to work with you either. I can't even set you up for a commercial. You played a *tomato* for 30 seconds - they went a half a day over schedule because you wouldn't sit down.
Michael Dorsey: Of course. It was illogical.
George Fields: YOU WERE A TOMATO. A tomato doesn't have logic. A tomato can't move. Michael Dorsey: That's what I said. So if he can't move, how's he gonna sit down, George? I was a stand-up tomato: a juicy, sexy, beefsteak tomato. Nobody does vegetables like me. I did an evening of vegetables off-Broadway. I did the best tomato, the best cucumber... I did an endive salad that knocked the critics on their ass.

Critics. Agents. Men being women.

This cake could knock all of them on their ass.  

Cherry Blossom Picnics - A memory for Mother's Day

My birthday is in the springtime, mostly. Sometimes it is a cold, chilly day, or a hot blue one, but more often than not the afternoon is barely but definitely warm. We are in the blue Volvo, braids tight and socks folded down over our matching Mary Jane shoes…the white ones, because summer is coming. Dad is driving, and Mom is quiet but smiling a little, because we are almost there and she has a plan in her mind that is coming true.

The car is parked, somehow (I don’t remember that part), and we are on bicycles. Mine wobbles a bit, and I am trying my best to avoid steering myself into the water, the way the bike wants to go. Dad has the picnic on the back of his bike, keeping an eye on my sister with training wheels scooting along. Mom is walking across the grass in another direction, but she is not lost.

We circle the path, and above us are millions of petals, an impossible shade of pink-white, bursting from gnarled branches in a riotous, splendid show. It’s amazing and yet it is exactly what I expect, because my birthday is when the cherry blossoms come out, every year.

It is crowded here. Tourists are taking pictures, people are walking home from work, other children and parents are playing, and cyclists are passing through. A memorial in marble, usually the main attraction, is the backdrop. And all of us are reflected again in the shiny surface of the basin that we are riding around.

Mom has laid out the scratchy wool blanket. I put my kickstand down and run to see, the dirt from my shoes getting onto the blanket. It’s there. The small, round bowl with the Saran wrap on top, next to the big wooden bowl full of Ruffles (it is always Ruffles) waiting for me to go first. We surround it, us four, but my chip is ready and in there before anyone else’s.

Clam dip. Smooth and cream cheesy and slightly fishy, in an oddly approachable way, and tangy-onion-lemony. My mom’s recipe. My favorite. Made just for me, always, on my birthday.

I’m 48 now. My mother is gone. I make the dip on ordinary days. And yet, at the first taste on my chip (it is almost always Ruffles), I feel my mom loving how happy I am.  I see cherry blossoms, the back of my Dad’s bike ahead of me, and my sister’s small Mary Janes furiously pedaling along under a fluffy pink-white sky.

A Formidable Woman

My grandmother was a very formidable woman.

My grandmother, in the Virgin Islands, with four of her six children. My mom is on the left, with the braids.

First of all, she was huge. Unlike my Dad's mom, who was wispy and petite and barely reached up to her son's chest, my mother's mother literally loomed over us.  Her ample bosom was supported by long, strong, sturdy arms and legs.  She was thick around the middle, and her face was broad and large, with a pronounced nose and thick, cats-eye glasses.  Although to adults she may have just been tall and statuesque, she such had a commanding physical presence that I, as a child, naturally believed she was a giant.  My recollections of her are full of neck-craning and futile attempts to wrap my arms all the way around her waist when we visited her and my grandfather in their crazy purple house.

She was opinionated, combative and authoritative.  Her voice carried up and down stairs, through doors and walls, berating her children, calling us "heathen Chinese" because my mom wasn't taking us to church, and holding forth in general about how everyone was going about their lives. She communicated mostly by hollering and dramatic sighs of "oy, yoy".  After decades in San Francisco, her lilting West Indian accent was thick and constant and a fundamental part of the air we breathed around her.

She carried herself like a queen.  Outfits festooned with flowers. Brightly colored pantsuits. Always a purse, clasped just so. Standing ramrod straight, unruffled and in charge regardless of the circumstances. I have one particularly vivid memory of a trip to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. My regal, perfectly coiffed, massive grandmother stepped onto the wooden roller coaster car, and rode the entire ride with me in composed silence, as I clung, terrified, to the bar in front, screaming my head off. It was one of the strangest and most thrilling moments of my life.

Me and my grandmother

She taught me to make a quilt, to crochet, to hold my own in an argument, and above all, to be on my toes at all times.

She also made bright pink candy out of coconuts.
How fantastic is that?

A humble brand of fabulousness

There was not much love lost for Michael Chabon's Telegraph Avenue when I hosted book group today.  It was a big, over-written slog of a novel, ripe with good intentions and populated with an unlikely but ultimately interdependent tribe of memorable, flawed, striving characters buried under an avalanche of similes and metaphors and weighty authorial preening.  Like Fifty-Eight, abandoned in death, we collectively longed to escape to a loquat tree and never look back.

Here is an example of what Michael's editor should have done:

There was not much love lost for Michael Chabon's Telegraph Avenue when I hosted book group today.  It was a big, over-written slog of a novel, ripe with good intentions and populated with an unlikely but ultimately interdependent tribe of memorable, flawed, striving characters buried under an avalanche of similes and metaphors and weighty authorial preening.  Like Fifty-Eight, abandoned in death, we collectively longed to escape to a loquat tree and never look back.

The book was way too long.  The author was clearly full of himself.  There was a parrot that got away.

Lucky parrot.

There were small flashes of comic genius:

"Then a hatch in the side of the gondola sighed and swung open, divulging the airship's secret cargo: a basalt monolith, the very thing to set half-apes dreaming of the stars.  Black knit polo shirt, skull polished like the knob on an Oscar.  Gold-rimmed sunglasses, gold finger rings, black Levi's, Timerland loafers.  Pausing at the top of a fold-down stair for a display of freestyle looming, brother looked like a celebrity golfer or as if perhaps he had recently eaten a celebrity golfer."

Freestyle looming is going to be my new thing.

I loved this, too:

"The cakes and cookies at Neldam's were not first-rate, but they had an old-fashioned sincerity, a humble brand of fabulousness, that touched Archy in this time when everything good in life was either synthesized in transgenic cyborg vats or shade-grown in small batches by a Buddhist collective of blind ex-Carmelite Wiccans."

Now, I had my lunch theme:  Food with a humble brand of fabulousness. And no blind Wiccans.

Grandma's Naughty Cinnamon Balls

Every Friday afternoon, my mom used to come over.

She'd have a load of groceries for us (mostly toilet paper), jokes she'd clipped out of the newspaper for the kids*, and leftovers for the dog.  She'd take over the couch, pretend to be mystified by the Tivo remote, then unerringly find Oprah and crank the volume up.  She'd set packages of whatever junk food was on special that week out on the counter, with neat block letters in colored pens labeling which grandkid got the gummy worms, and who got the Oreos.  She'd frown as I sat glued to my laptop, occasionally nodding and saying "um hm", frustrated that I was not nearly as concerned as I should be about Celine Dion, then dispense advice to my husband when he got in from work. We'd escape to the movies, come home and find her with Nick at Nite blaring, the dog curled up on the rug by her feet, and the cat staring balefully at us from his perch by her head.

Every Saturday morning, she'd make these.

My son would practically run to the breakfast table, my daughter would immediately put a pile of them on her plate, and my husband would sit down, pour a big glass of OJ, and shake his head.  "Grandma," he'd say, "you made the naughty cinnamon balls again! What are you trying to do to me?"

Then he'd take two.

The mother in the cupboard

A friend said to me tonight,

"Hey, I like these little plates."

Yeah, I said.  My mom got them for me.

In the famous kids' book, a boy has an Indian magically come to life in his cupboard.
Every day, my mother magically comes back to life in mine*.

Happy birthday, Mom.

* I can open any drawer or cabinet in my kitchen and find at least one thing from Mom in there.  As you might expect, we use these things all the time, and she bought every single one of them on sale (or used a coupon).