Spontaneous Tradition

We have this “spontaneous tradition,”
(To speak of it smacks of sedition)
We take some unplanned day,
Throw most rules away,
And out comes this year’s rendition.

The first year we biked 15 miles,
That’s one lap around Kelley’s Isle.
We were relaxed this time,
A mile per granddad’s chime,
But we didn’t cut corners on smiles.


Kids love climbing on those big rocks,
Down by those rough hewn old docks,
They found a very big snake
That wrangled back to the lake.
I prefer animals with legs that can walk!

We stopped by for some great ice cream and –
Some time in the surf and the sand.
I had better not gloat,
But we always make that last boat,
Back home to Ohio’s main land.

And, of course, it is a good thing that I didn't have to drive across that water because those three ounces of gasoline would not have been enough to make it.

Phew.

MIT Mommy goes to MIT

This must be the year of revisiting memories. I will call it that because I would hate to think that it is simply age – that I have finally taken enough of the journey that one can’t help but repeat a few scenes.

No, that certainly isn’t the case here.

Due to my career choice , I haven’t had many occasions to travel alone in recent years – the past decade, for example. But, I’m finding that decades are sort of quick nowadays and even that seems a small matter.

Anyway, it is not the same. The places may be the same, but I am not. The coveted ten dollars that I owed my girlfriend today – that I made a special trip to the bank to get – would have been lost on the bottom of my purse years ago. Ironically, I cared more about money in those years. Life is funny.

And, I have to laugh. My packing skills have deteriorated. My ability to extricate myself from the daily routine could be likened only to removing overcooked rice from a shag carpet. There is always another little something – the right shirt for spirit day tomorrow, extra diapers, a snack for soccer, an overdue letter.

As if the children could nary survive without homemade banana muffins.

They’ll be fine. They need me differently now, and that will be different again next year too.

Yesterday, I had a morning conversation with my husband in the driveway. Just a minute really, just about the normal stuff, the daily grind. The minute turned into five and looked up to see the neighbor kids assembled at the bus stop. I had left my children a sticky mess at the breakfast table. We would never make it.

I flew into the house to find Andrew and Gladys dressed, ready, and putting on their shoes on in the front hall.

Don’t they need me to cajole them, harp on them, push them forward?

They need me in different ways.

They are not all grown up. I still kiss their boo boos and scare away the monsters and make them do it one more time, correctly, because I know they can do better.

But, MIT Mommy ought to remember how to pack a bag. I am a better person than I was ten years ago, but a few dusty traits ought to be re-polished to shine again. They need me to be a good example in that way too.

As I entered airport security, my cell phone rang. I assumed it must be about the kids. I checked the message immediately after security.

“I just dropped you off. You forgot to give me the money you owed me.”

My friend’s message went on.

“I just wanted to let you know that you shouldn’t fret about it. I mean, I thought you might because I know you were so specific about paying me back. But, I need you to do me a favor. I want you to take that little bit of money and as soon as you get this message go buy yourself a glass of cabernet. You do that as a favor for me. Have fun. Everyone is good here. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Yes, I got the message.

It is wonderful to visit MIT, especially knowing I am so blessed at home.

It Takes a Village

I wake up in the morning knowing that I am in charge of my world. I am an island. I do not need any help.

I woke up this morning feeling that way.

I woke Andrew up at 6am to finish his homework. No problem.

At the bus stop, I met my friends Annie and Becky who brought two 3 year olds with them to my house to celebrate ‘D’ day. This is ‘D’ week for us. I planned to make homemade donuts. We made donuts. No problem.

During that time, my friend Cathy dropped off her 3 year old son for me to baby sit. He would enjoy ‘D’ day with us too. Five kids are at my house. And, though the fact that donut starts with ‘d’ might not stick with them, the pink frosting certainly would. No problem.

Annie and Becky left with their kids. Later, Cathy picked up her son and left with some donuts.

Diane dropped by unexpectedly to invite us to a birthday party. I gave her a donut too. This day was easy.

We had lunch. Played. And, then the bus came. After piano practice and reading, Annie and Becky came back, this time with two 8 year olds, a 7 year old and two three year olds to play in the backyard. No problem.

They offered to keep Gladys and George while I took Andrew to a parent-child meeting at church. Things were even looking up. I put my chicken dinner in the oven on a timer to start a little later, so it would be ready when we return.

And, feeling rather confident in my ability to tackle the day, I agreed to ride bikes to church with Andrew. We ride most days. No problem.

About half way to church, I was riding on rims. No problem.

I see Erica and Francis standing in Erica’s driveway. I ask to borrow her pump. It doesn’t work, so I switch my bike for Erica’s, and we are on our way again – now 20 minutes late for church.

I walk into the very nice mass for first communion kids and settle in sweaty and quietly in the back. I manage to sing songs while reading the religion class parent’s handbook. I wonder how I’m going to make it back to my house in time for everyone at my house to go home and my chicken to not burn. I wonder how, if I ride Erica’s bike all the way home, I will manage to collect my bike on just rims, which I carelessly left unlocked in Erica’s yard.

As I wonder this (and, of course, listen very carefully to whatever is being said) I realize that I could get a ride home and get my van with my bike rack and shuttle the bikes back in my van. I always keep my bike rack on my van in the summertime. If I wasn’t sitting in mass, I could walk home in 30 minutes. If I knew the combination to the bike lock that my son used, I could ride Erica’s bike home in 20 minutes.

If I can somehow catch the eye of my friend Georgia in the second row, I could get a ride home in her car.

And, just then, Georgia made a move for the door. I followed her. I accidentally brought the church songbook along with my son’s folder.

Georgia was able to give me the ride I needed. I returned in my van and re-entered the church meeting, grabbing a cup of coffee in the back to look natural, returning the songbook (and, I’m sure making a rather fine impression on the leader of this very nice church meeting). No problem.

All my problems are solved. In 15 minutes, I’ll get Andrew, load everything on the van, drop off Erica’s bike, pick up mine, and be home in plenty of time to relieve Annie and Becky and pull out the chicken. No problem.

Except, of course, potential new friend Hannah talks to me in the back of Andrew’s classroom, wanting to know more about the religion classes (which I know because I read the handbook while singing). And, my friend Isaac stops me in the parking lot to ask me more questions (because he thinks I actually went to that whole meeting). And, I might need his help next week for carpooling, who knows?

So, now I’m a little teensy weensy bit late, which is fine, until I realize that Erica’s bike does not fit on my bike rack.

Andrew and I abandon the van and ride his bike and Erica’s bike all the way to our house. Now, we are 40 minutes late. (Fortunately, Jay returned home before I did and not only checked on the chicken and the children, but was making fresh onion rings).

Somehow, without driving more than a mile the entire day, I manage to talk to nine friends. And, somehow, while eating dinner that night, I wondered how I could collect my flat tire bicycle from Erica’s, return her bike, and collect my van.

Although I do have many friends ‘Z’ who, like Cat in the Hat, keep ‘Voom’ at hand to clean up the mess I often make of my day, I couldn’t possibly have implicated friend #10. And, although I could ride my other bike with the bike trailer and pick up the van tomorrow, I didn’t want to leave my bike in Erica’s yard all night (or bother her further).

So, at 7:40 pm, I set off on Erica’s bike. I dropped it off, walked to the church, picked up my van, drove back to Erica’s house, paused to chat with Erica, picked up my bike and made it home after 10pm.

I will wake up tomorrow knowing that even though my 'problems' are truly 'no problem', I have help anyway.

That is my village.

An American Welcome

There is always room at our table. Especially for family - even if the family isn't technically ours.

A few weeks ago, I received an email from a dear and long-time friend in Japan. The best description I can give you for Kawa-san is to call him a host father.

Perhaps that is too vague.

In 1990, I worked for him in Japan as an engineering intern. Although I lived alone in an apartment in downtown Kyoto, he and his family adopted me. I went with them on family vacations. I played junken (rock-paper-scissors) with his children. I bathed in their family tub.

He and his wife danced at our wedding, during their first trip to America together.

As an adult in Japan, my husband and I spent many nights at their home on weekend visits. Gifts from their family still decorate our home.

Last weekend, Kawa-san’s nephew’s family stayed at our home.

I was a little anxious, quite excited, and very honored. In a very small way I opened my home in a way that doors had been so graciously opened for me, unconditionally, so many years ago.

Kawa-san sent me several emails, including basic information about their family. But, most of all, he very specifically asked me to show them “American BBQ.” The emails I received from his nephew and his wife (they have a 3yr old and 6 mos old) requested a ‘nature walk.’

We did our best to provide the best bbq and nature walk available in NE Ohio. This was their first visit to an American home since moving to the U.S.

Lunch: Homemade burgers (hand mixed by my hubby), all the toppings, grilled dogs, potato salad, and cole slaw.

Snack: Jumbo, homemade chocolate chip cookies

Dinner: Smoked pork ribs, smoked pork shoulder (the smoker was on all day during our nature walk below), six homemade sauces, baked beans, sides from lunch, fresh strawberries, blueberries & pineapple, and corn on the cob.

Dessert: Ice cream with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and sprinkles

Sunday Breakfast: Belgian waffles, eggs to order, bacon, sausage gravy, fruit, coffee and orange juice

While our bbq dinner was caressed by smokey goodness in our smoker, we went for a nature walk.

They said their daughter didn't speak English well and was very shy.

That lasted about 12.5 seconds.

Come splash with me!


Okay, Gladys!

It's okay to get a little wet.

That's what daddy's are for anyway. (I think he is enjoying it even more than his daughter, what do you think?)

It isn't easy to skip stones in Kawasaki City, Japan. But, I suppose some things just come naturally.

I think they had a really good time.

I know we did.

Thank you, again, Kawabayashi-san.

My Game Night Birthday Party

As the guests arrived, I hugged them one by one, taking them in, accepting their birthday wishes: friends. I desired to squeeze them a little longer, invite them for coffee, and listen to the lines on their faces. These mothers of 50 or more children lived so many lives in the past months, lost mothers, illnesses, personal tragedies that we know as ‘run of the mill,’ - that is, until we see the chafes and scars left behind by those millstones. But, tonight was specifically not about millstones. I waved my magic wineglass, hoping to change each of those millstones worn into the beautiful silk scarves that should adorn their necks, cradling their loving cheeks - only for a few hours, I know, but for my birthday maybe I could give them each a few extra hours of love.

We were about ready to play dominoes. I filled my glass of wine.

The preschool parking lot and PTA meetings transformed into a wine commercial. Curly hair had been straightened, straight hair round-brushed to perfection, make-up applied – a little more than usual - favorite jeans, and the top that accented this and minimized that in just the right way. Everyone smiled and laughed, the hand gestures threatening to topple a precarious glass of wine, a fruity vodka drink with a curly straw (?) (more laughter), a symbolic mockery of our daily lives twisted into celebration.

Above the background of laughter, exclamations demanded attention.

“Oooo. Those are really big!”

“Wow. Where did you find those!?”

I looked across the island of gorgeous service pieces filled with delightful nibbles that multiplied with the arrival of guests. I saw Alaskan King crab legs.

I stood still for a moment, the laughter becoming white noise in the background of my thoughts. I felt the softness of a gold velveteen jumper my mother had made for me, my hair in braids, we sat in a restaurant my parents could probably ill-afford at the time (I didn’t know that), eating Alaskan King crab legs for my birthday, my favorite food. I sat straight, a princess eating like a king, my kingdom perfectly orchestrated by loving hands, gifts given in one century, but not fully received until the next. I heard my own voice.

“It was Facebook.”

Indy stood next to me. “What a great idea! I read that too. You always liked crab for your birthday.”

“I don’t remember what I wrote. It was just 25 random things about me.”

I feasted on her thoughtfulness, dipped in drawn butter.

We were about ready to play dominoes. Someone filled my glass of wine.

No longer early, we moved the party to the hearth room to admire the carefully wrapped gifts gathered beside the roaring flames.

“How should we start?” Mrs. Debutante asked politely.

“Oh, age before beauty!” I laughed. “Youngest goes first, the advantage goes to ‘maturity’ at this party.” (Having come up short in this exchange game before – my gift was a little too expensive and poorly wrapped as a surprise to the unfortunate. Somehow our youngest guest managed to walk away with it!)

As the very last to pick (not the oldest, just the birthday girl), I stood before the fire with the daunting task of choosing a gift to “steal” from a friend. I walked around the room, fawning over them, realizing that each one was more perfect than the one before.

The woman who had disappeared for a phone call (and emerged with a six-pack and the idea to send our kids into Lake Erie without bathing suits) held a bottle of Bailey’s. I moved on.

Rightfully so, the “naughty gift” exchanged hands the most. (My side still aches thinking about it). The woman who would soon leave on her maiden voyage to Vegas with her husband emerged victorious – and who would argue?

Victoria, who made her own Christmas cards at a girlfriends’ weekend and, seeming to appear whenever someone needs help (but has never been a recipient from me), received beautiful cards and a bookmark with a quote from Maya Angelou – perfect.

The hostess to our crane party, brought an origami kit. The room erupted with laughter and fond memories. “Every exchange needs something goofy,” she offered excuses, but it exchanged hands multiple times before settling with our friend who received the cranes – so perfect!

In awe, I absconded with a drive-thru gift card – the perfect gift for a woman on the move.

We talked about playing dominoes, but the thought became lost amid the laughter again.

My wine refilled, I noticed Mrs. Debutante swaying joyfully to the music she had just selected. She beckoned me over.

“This is THE song. Remember? I typed in the words to you right after Operation Santa.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said, hearing it differently now as a song instead of a poem.

“This is your song.”

Although the compliment was far more than my shoulders could bear, I accepted it. I wrapped it around like a beautiful silk scarf and swayed along with her.

We never played dominoes. We forgot to care about anything besides each other.

When the second to last guest departed, Mrs. Debutante sat gracefully upon her countertop. I popped up next to her on that granite throne, a princess in Harley boots, her kingdom made perfect by loving hands.

Ambitious. Tenacious. Energetic. Exhausting?

About a week ago I met someone new, a mother. Very early in our meeting she asked me about my background. Before I finished she said:

“Oh. I’m exhausted just listening.”

For the past week, I have been in denial of the comment, looking for ways to bend it into the neat bow of a compliment.

Ambitious. Tenacious. Energetic. . . . Exhausting? Really?

Then Saturday came.

I woke up happy: ambitious, tenacious, energetic. My husband lay injured on the couch. (As much as I am quick to tease, he really was injured.)

I made a full breakfast, ate a pancake before cleaning up, and began making homemade Slovenian dumplings with Andrew and Gladys: ambitious.

After a lunch of dumplings (I ate two), we took a break to shovel the driveway. The 12 inches of heavy snow resisted even the most tenacious of mothers, but we finished half of the driveway (enough to release my van) before we set off for the sled hill.







The deep snow required that I carry Gladys on my back for the 100 yards or more through the trees and up to the top of the sled hill. We sledded. I carried her home: energetic.



Between 4:30 and 5:30pm, I warmed Gladys’ p.j.s in the dryer and brought her back to room temperature, made hot chocolate, showered, dressed, and made a quick dinner that my husband was feeding the children as I ran out the door.

I called ahead to apologize . . . 10 minutes late . . . my friends greeted me with a glass of wine at the bar. (I LOVE my friends). Together we walked over to the funeral home to comfort our friend who lost her mother. I feel I should say something here, but there is nothing to say.

After the visitation, a few of us returned to the bar. We ordered wine and appetizers. The conversation followed the expected thread for post-visitation chatter. At that natural lull in conversation, Cate lifted her glass:

“To Casey!”

“To Casey!” Anna and I lifted ours in humble respect – but with a cheer that could have been interpreted as celebration. Cate and I had met through Casey. Due to her own loss in the Fall, we had never shared our respects together. (The visitation was not Casey's, it was my friend's mother).

“From what I know of Casey,” Anna said, “this is very appropriate.”

“No,” I laughed, “we should be drinking shots to Casey!”

“True. This is far too tame,” Cate agreed with a smile.

“Yes, too conventional, too expected, she’d have a laugh at us.”

We all laughed and followed with our accolades for our lost friend: ambitious, tenacious, energetic - the echo of a eulogy that never was.

We were all surprised when shots appeared at our table. In retrospect, someone must have had heard us. None of us would have actually considered ordering them. (Well, maybe Casey would have.)

I would soon find myself pickled in a way I had not experienced in many, many years. In the next few hours we outlined a multi-million-dollar corporation, reviewed metaphysics, and redefined religion.

The evening ended at an hour more appropriately called morning with that inevitable conversation that ensures safe passage home.

There was no bill.

So, Casey, if you are reading this, thank you for taking us out Saturday night. You are always welcome to stop by. We all had a really nice time. And, we would greatly appreciate it if you would pull up a chair for our friend’s mother who is heading your way. Yes, I know you’ll welcome her. Thank you.

As for the rest of us down here, don’t wait up.

We are too busy being ambitious, tenacious, energetic . . . .



. . . . and, perhaps, a little exhausting.

A Tangled Web of Friends

I wrote last night, ever so briefly, about Indy losing her mother. I fell onto my pillow reflecting upon the other half of the story.

Indy heard about her loss at 2am on Sunday morning. Her family gathered together to share the news, support each other.

As of Sunday morning, Mike had mentioned this tragic loss to one or two friends. At 1pm, I received the call.

“Is it true?”

I didn’t know. Mike’s friend told his wife, who saw Indy’s friend S in church. S called A who called C to confirm the news. C called me at home. I called Indy. Within 20 minutes, I sent an e-mail to another half-dozen friends who forwarded it on to those within Indy’s inner circle. Before dinnertime on Sunday, I received such an outpouring of love in my inbox that Indy now has meals scheduled well into next week. Another friend offered to babysit my kids, so I can help with both hands. Indy reported a phonecall from Iowa. The news made onto the blog, onto Facebook. Everyone knows.

Cookies will be made, flowers ordered, cards sent, gifts arranged, love offered.

In the halls of preschool, another friend offered to bring cookies for the preschool party in her place. The Pastor already knew; mutual thank yous were exchanged for supporting our friend.

“Is there anything else we can do?”

My van will be honored to transport friends to be with her for the Visitation. In the preschool parking lot, we counted the rsvp’s, and determined that my 8-passenger minivan may not be big enough for this event. Laughter rang out in the rain. Yes, our biggest problem is transporting all the LOVE.

This tangled web of friends . . . we all know, we all care.

Consider it done.

Juggling Rocks

A thick tension enshrouds the suburbs. The other night, an otherwise congenial friend of mine attacked my character. Another friend expressed her concern for a mutual friend, who she accidentally caught in tears. I hung up the phone a moment ago, wondering if somehow I had done it again. Somehow, completely by accident, someone felt slighted. Surely, it was nothing, but as I stand in this great cathedral, I see my friendships before me as a stained glass window.

I juggle rocks.

As you can imagine, this feeling led me into a state of introspection. I have been walking through life fairly pleasantly for more than thirty years. I am a reasonably sensitive person. I have been accused of excellent social diplomacy skills. Friends have truly humbled me in the past by their willingness to open up to me, and I can promise you that the smallest shreds of those private conversations will never appear here. Never. Even if you guess right, I promise I cannot tell you. (Anyway, I have a horrible memory.)

What happened?

Although I am well known in my circles as a pop culture idiot, I do my best to stay abreast of the more serious events of our time. I heard the other day that Citibank is laying of 50,000 employees on top of other layoffs. Yes, I heard about the credit crunch, the death spiral of retail sales, the automotive bailout debates, and “Hank and the banks.”

I received the e-mail from President Hockfield of MIT, explaining just how MIT will weather the financial storms. She sent me (and thousands of other alumni) an e-mail telling me things will get worse before they get better. I sigh, and I’m so glad that those employment figures are just figures. Those metrics sit sadly on the desks of economists, in some office, somewhere in a big city.

I am glad that I don’t know anyone losing their job.

Oh, except for Mr. Smith, of course, who was laid off recently. And then there is Mr. Jones, whose company will likely go under. Mr. Davis is in real estate, which I’m sure is doing just fine, right? Then there is the Wallaces who own a small business selling things that people can put off until later. And, since the manufacturing and banking sectors are unlikely to be laying off, those friends are pretty secure too, right? Right?

Right.

And I wonder why people are just a little edgy when the only thing everyone can agree on is the fact that things are going to get worse.

But, Mr. Smith, you may not know this, but Mr. Davis is pretty edgy too. And, his wife is upset because she isn’t able to figure out how Johnny is going to get that train set if she has to pay the copays this month and then your insurance is gone in January. She just heard that Santa’s elves are walking out if the pay cuts go through. Mrs. Wallace, please be patient with Mrs. Jones, she didn’t mean to offend you, but she just got off the phone with her husband who had some more bad news. She used up all her reserves telling him that she’d figure it all out and everything would be fine, even though she doesn’t really believe it herself.

And me? I probably look just a little bit comfortable carrying that fancy coffee into preschool with a big smile. I’m smiling because I found a coffee shop gift card in my winter coat from last year. I should have told you. Its that bad memory thing I guess. I have enough for one more. Do you want to split it?

I am not juggling rocks. I am another windowpane refracting the sunshine, even if its merely the reflection off the new fallen snow.

Looking out my window, I see snow glistening, as if to spite those gray winter skies. Pull up a cup of your cheapest joe, my friends, it may be a long winter, but it will be warmer in the company of friends.


And, my dear friends, I promise my next post will be cheerful, maybe even funny in its own Emama sort of way.

Gourmet Club

Several years ago, my aunt described in great detail how she enjoyed the gourmet club she had recently joined. I listened, nodding my head, wondering how I could assemble such a group of friends.

A week later, Ohmommy and I were strolling our children through the park on an unusually warm December morning.

“Are you and Jay having a Christmas party again this year? We had such a nice time last year, I was hoping it would be a tradition.”

We had been over each other’s homes countless times in the summer. They had just hosted a party a few weeks prior. Jay and I love to entertain.

“Ohmommy, I have an idea . . . “

A little cajoling of our playgroup friends and Gourmet Club was born. Our latest event was this past Saturday.

Jay and I wandered in the front door. Friends were assembling on the beautiful back screened in porch. Jay slipped his homemade ice cream in the freezer. I left the roasted rum pineapple on the table, thrilled to arrive without a sticky mess on my funky silk dress.

Our hosts were on the porch, offering cocktails.

Let me introduce you to Mrs. Iowa farmer, debutante. She is the only woman I know equally comfortable at a campsite or a 5-star restaurant. She can make a full dinner, multiple home made pies, homemade ice cream, fresh bread, and still appear in a little black dress, as if the caterer had just departed.

“Oh, honey, its really not that big of a deal,” she would say.

Her husband, we’ll call him “Mr. Iowa farmer” (tee hee). A successful business man and devoted father, I drunkenly admitted to him that I love his kids so much I hope they date mine in high school. These are my friends.

A few minutes later, Ohmommy and the Dentist arrived. Somewhere between the fresh cut bangs and stilletto heels, the boot camp trophy sashayed through the back screen door. She speaks for herself.

Indy and Mike were already there, relaxed on the couch. If you haven’t found her blog yet, you should. If you don’t know what to say, say what we all say,

“Weren’t you in Vegas recently?”

Meet Sir Townie and Lady Hospitality. When I was a kid, the so-called townies wore mullets and had rings worn into their back pockets from chew. This “townie” nickname has stuck because he is the diametric opposite. Yet another successful businessman, you will find him in a collared shirt and slacks on the golf course. He is a townie only because he grew up here. And, in case I forget, I don’t think I have ever had a conversation with him that didn’t include,

“Oh, yes, I know her, she’s my cousin’s wife.”

He knows everyone in town. Well, if he doesn’t know them, his wife does. And, they have invited them over, brought dinner to them once, or see them at the club frequently. These are my friends.

Meet the Goddess and Holy Husband. Now, you might readily assume when I say “Goddess,” I mean domestic goddess. No. This woman prides herself on NOT cooking. She is also a former model, but that isn’t it either. No, she is a Goddess because Mission Impossible to her is all in a days work. She knows everything, is everywhere, and gets everything done all at the same time. I frequently see her children at events she does not attend. She could tell you all about it though, because I am sure she was in three places at once. She called me one day after George was born.

“Do you need anything, Dear?”

“A gallon of milk would be great,” I replied, “but only if its easy.” I was desperate.

She called a friend who was at the grocery store. That friend passed the milk to her when they traded kids for carpool. She handed it to another friend, who was heading in my direction. A few minutes later, I had a gallon of fresh milk. No problem. I am not sure I could write a computer program to figure out how she transports people and goods throughout the community.

And, what about Holy Husband? This translates into “Holy Cow, what a husband.” I have heard stories of him bringing coffee to the Goddess before she gets out of bed. When Andrew’s eye was bleeding and I drove to the ER, panicked, (my husband already on the way from downtown) the Goddess was not available to calm me down. Holy Husband rushed to the ER to help me. I saw him in church today with two out of three kids without the Goddess. She had a good excuse, but it confirmed the name.

This brings us to our last couple, Mary Kay and MacGyver. Mary Kay is an understated, detail-oriented, principled, self-made woman. What she may appear to lack in world-travel, she makes up for in personal journeys. Stillettos would simply get in the way of keeping both of her feet firmly on the floor. (She looks awesome in them, its just soo not a priority for her). Wise beyond her years, I always expect she leaves the evening giggling at the folly of her girlfriends. I caught her this morning in church too. Her boys sat sweetly in the front row. She was perfectly groomed, perfectly calm, but I caught that polite little yawn that betrayed the time she had carved out for friends.

I end with MacGyver. Faced with making mojitos for our party, he found he did not have the proper tool to crush the mint. He whittled his own pestle from cherry wood. Yes, MacGyver is the right name for him.

This is our Gourmet Club.

Right after George was born, they each made dinner for us. They each made chicken: chicken soup, chicken paprikash, chicken Kiev, chicken Cordon Bleu.

“Why didn’t you tell us? We didn’t intend to make you eat chicken every day for two weeks!” they scolded me.

Are you kidding? Each dish was just as unique as the friend who prepared it: all different, all delicious. The best meals surprise us with their mélange of flavors.

Friends do the same.