One of the sure fire signs of summer* is fresh corn on the cob. It's amazing roasted over an open fire, or simply boiled according to this classic recipe**:
Even my normally veggie-loathing small children adored the ritual of gnawing their way delightedly along a hot ear of sweet, juicy goodness, usually winding up with a sheen of leftover melted butter gleaming on their grinning faces.
So when this happened:
I'm referring to losing their front teeth, not having to hold a giant slimy toad
It was devastating.
No teeth = No corn.
Wobbly lower lip. Brimming eyes.
Mom with a big sharp knife.
Flick! The cob tilted over the plate. Golden kernels pouring down in a stream into a messy, gloriously edible pile.
Wide, astonished, hopeful eyes.
"Mommy! Can you rain my corn***, too?"
You bet.
As a bonus, I'll bake it with a little butter, and turn it into sweet-salty-creamy-dreamy-almost-better-than-corn-on-the-cob corn.
Me: OK. We're going to back up, go down the driveway, and turn left. So make a plan about that.
Him: I don't do left very well. Can we go right?
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Him: Did you SEE me do that left? The wheel COMPLETELY just spun right back. I am awesome at this. And you can let go of the door handle anytime now. I'm TOO good.
Me: Don't get cocky young man. I admit, you stayed in your lane, which is a major improvement. Nicely done. OK. So, we're going to take Burbank to practice. You'll be turning right. Make a plan to change lanes sometime in the next ten or fifteen minutes.
Him: Burbank? That's my STREET!
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Me: It's dark out, so you'll need to plan ahead a little more than usual.
My husband, from the back seat: Pay attention! You're going way too fast! Did you SEE the parked cars on your right? ON YOUR RIGHT!!
Me: Honey, he's fine on the right. Honey...other honey...you should probably plan to get in the left lane. I see a UPS truck six blocks ahead, and you know how that freaks you out.
My husband: Brake! Brake! Red means brake! Jesus!
My daughter: I am SO walking home.
Me: OK. The parking lot is going to be on your right soon. Get over, when you are ready. But soon. But make a plan first. Then change lanes.
Him: I hate ALL of you!
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Me: OK. Let's try the freeway. Make a plan to get up to speed, and keep checking all around before you merge.
Him: Mom, I GOT this. Didn't you hear the instructor? I have NO problem with acceleration. That's my thing.
Me: Oh...oh...oh...dear. OK. Now get off.
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Him (after 20 minutes in gridlocked traffic, having moved exactly one block): This is RIDICULOUS! Seriously!?! What the hell! Change the station. Change the station. Stop. I like this song. Louder. Change the station. Stop. Can I show you a FEW THINGS!?
Me (shouting over Justin Timberlake): OK, you're just going to have to cut in here if we are ever going to get anywhere. Make a plan. In front of the silver car, that's our plan. Put on your signal. Good. Catch the guy's eye. Good. Poke your nose in. Good. Give him a wave. Say thanks. Good.
Him: That guy is my HOMIE! Homie wave for you, dude. Nice one. Turn it up. OH...as long as I got my SUIT AND TIE!
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Me: OK, I kind of forgot that you're going to need to do a bunch of lane changes at once up here, so get set.
Him: WHAT?
Me: Yeah. What we're going to do is get into the next lane over. Then, it's going to curve onto another freeway, and you'll need to get over three lanes, while other cars are trying to get over where we are. It goes super quick. Ready?
Him: WHAT? NO! WHAT?
Me: Go.
Him (after successfully navigating the four level 101-110 interchange at rush hour): Most terrifying thing I've ever done in my life. You suck.
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Him: That guy right there? Did not even give me the homie wave after I let him in. Seriously, dude. What is UP with that?
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Me: OK. I'll wait over here. Don't be nervous. Listen to the person. Take your time. You'll be fine.
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Him: Bye, Mom. I'll be home about 8:15.
Homie wave.
Door slams.
He's out there, driving my car*.
I let him go.
Most terrifying thing I've ever done in my life.
Don't worry, Mom. I GOT this.
*"Drive my Car", with my six year old son on the drum track:
I may have mentioned something about Irish Soda Bread yesterday.
It's pretty good right out of the oven. Tender and moist inside, with just the right hint of sweet and a nice whiff of whisky in every bit of fruit. A fine, fine loaf, but not something I would commit to, exactly.
But...it's f%&@ing great when it's toasted, with butter and jam.
Honestly, if I'd known about the toast thing, I would probably have sung about it yesterday.
You got-ta, you got-ta, you got-ta...try a little...TOASTED-NESS! Ooh ooh ooh! Yeah!!*
I marked the anniversary quietly to myself, amid an otherwise totally unremarkable, glorious sunny day. A dentist appointment for my daughter. Basketball practice for my son. A pile of small issues at work. A much needed stiff drink and highly caloric dinner out with my husband.
Just before we left the restaurant, I went to the bathroom. As I was washing my hands, I heard this refrain from the tinny speakers overhead:
Life goes on, without me.
It was Louis Prima, channeling Mom*.
Honestly. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
*Note the "I'm...so sad and lonely!" refrain that repeats constantly, even though the song is relentlessly upbeat and cheerful. I ask you, what is a person supposed to do with this information? Vintage Mom. That's how I knew for sure. Subtle was never her style.
Trouble me.
Disturb me.
With all your cares. And these brownies.
Bake with me.
Oh, the day will be well spent.
Why put this caramel in, underneath the chocolate, when
A mix is quicker, and good?
Eat with me.
Trust me.
Just believe me. Each bite you take is like fudge brownie heaven.
Trust me.
There's no telling how they bake up deep and dense.
Trust me.
Why am I using this great big slug of fine chocolate?
Trust me.
When it calls for Dutch cocoa, too?
Why put this caramel in, underneath the chocolate, when
You can't see it, in the end?
Eat with me.
Let me.
Put them away to keep, while you're yearning.
Let me.
Please don't try them, just because they're near.
Let me.
Have you slice them small
because they're, they're rich, calories never endin'.
Let me.
Sprinkle that salt on, and watch you squeal.
Spare...
Spare not.
Don't spare...the fleur de sel.
Trouble me.
Trouble me.
Disturb me.
With all your cares. And these brownies.
Trust me.
And be converted from the ones that are your norm.
Let me.
And lastly, just say goodbye to being thin.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Bliss is what I'm offering...
If you'll bake with me-e-e-ee.
With appreciation of the original "Trouble Me", by 10,000 Maniacs. The whole song, but most especially the line, "Send you off to sleep, with a 'There, there, now, stop your turnin' and tossin'," is for Mom, whose ashes are being scattered at sea today.
