I never signed up for this...

New Year's Eve Lament

I'm so over the whole New Year's Eve thing.  Which is one of the few good things about getting older.

When I was a kid, every New Year's Eve I'd watch my mother getting dressed up for a party, especially one night she wore a tight white satin dress with a shocking pink satin coat.  In the morning they would give us party hats and noisemakers and other souvenirs from the night before.  And I could hardly wait till I was old enough to go out someday in my own dazzling outfit for a glamorous New Year's Eve celebration.

I definitely had my chance to celebrate a lot of New Year's Eves.   By now, they're all water (and champagne) under the bridge.  For all the energy I put in towards having a date and how to celebrate and what would I wear, swear to god I can't picture a single one of my own outfits the way I remember my mother's.

As for the events, most of them are a blur.  The New Year's Eves that are most memorable are the disasters.  Like the night after a fancy dinner in Miami when the valet brought the car and my date opened my door and threw up on me.  Or the  New Year's Eve on a trip to Europe with my new husband, who at midnight was snoring while I sat in bed watching bowling on TV--in Portuguese.  Another hotel, in Hawaii, the year I was bald from cancer,  V was asleep and I greeted the New Year alone in the hallway outside our room, sobbing.  A few years later was the millenium New Years--when everyone was awake at midnight but we were stuck in a mob at City Walk in Los Angeles--me, the kids, my husband AND my ex-husband.    

Is there a lesson to be drawn here?  I'm not sure.  But I do know this. Whether V makes it to midnight or not,  I will be awake to greet 2009.  Without a party hat or noisemaker.  Wearing pajamas instead of a pink satin coat.    And after a lifetime of experience, I have learned this:  however you spend the night before, a great New Year's celebration means that you wake up in the morning on New Year's Day and you're still there to tell about it.

And by the way, I think there is a dire need for a better New Year's song than Auld Lang Syne. 

Happy New Year to all.

Chill out

It's not even New Year's Eve yet and already I need to revise my list of resolutions.  I thought I was all set this year; I felt really good about my list.

But today it suddenly became clear that I need to add something.  In fact this is useful not only for 2009 but for the next 48 hours or whatever's left of 2008. 

I need to ....chill out. 

Seriously.

I've been letting stress get to me. In a multitude of ways.   I'm tense.  I'm tired.  I'm testy.   The causes of my stress don't really matter.  They are not worth how I've been feeling and how I've been acting.  I've been forgetting what is SERIOUSLY IMPORTANT.  Which is none of the stuff I've been stressing about.

I think most of us lose perspective, when we worry about things that seem BIG---but are really small.  At least in the big picture.  We can't see the big picture at that moment, we are only seeing a small portion of it, blown up to large proportions. 

I realized how much I've been "sweating the small stuff"---only with a reminder from one of those SERIOUSLY IMPORTANT things: my son Daniel.

My 20 year old son took me aside today and put his arm around me and gave me a little talk.  The kind I once would have given him.  The kind I still might give him someday if I take to heart the one he just gave me. 

He gave me the kind of talk I really needed to hear.  Which coming from most kids that age would sound like, "Chill out, Mom."  Something like that.

Daniel's insight sparked mine; it  helped me remember the big picture:  how lucky I am by any measure, and especially compared to most people in this country and in this world.  How what we need most is often right in front of us.  How sometimes we miss seeing it.  How lucky we are if we have someone wise enough to point out what we are missing, so we can start seeing  again.

Daniel didn't suggest  "Chill out" as my New Year's resolution, but I'm going to add it to my list.  Right at the top.

 

hopefully the last time I will mention food in 2008

I'm writing this earlier than usual.  Later I'll be way too busy.   Although recently I complained about my friends who were busy cooking before the arrival of their children, here I am, awaiting the arrival of MY children--and busy cooking.

My kids are driving here after visiting their dad in Los Angeles; they'll be here in time for the last night of Hanukkah.  Which means latkes. 

I heard from lots of people who tried Alli's latke recipe and the pumpkin bread recipe.  I never imagined I would be sharing recipes on my blog, since I'm about as far from Julia Child as you could get and I would run out of recipes within a week.  But there is another one worth sharing, especially since I just made it. 

Everyone loves this kugel.   For those who have no idea what that is, kugel is a traditional Jewish dish, a casserole made of noodles. 

Unlike many Jewish women,  I don't have a single family recipe.  I've collected a few, mostly picking up scraps from friends.  Literally.  I still use the scrap of paper with the recipe that I copied down 25 years ago, the first time I tried the kugel made by my friend Joyce.  My mother had actually made noodle kugel but I never had her recipe.  Besides, I like this one much better.  You will too.

NOODLE KUGEL

6 eggs, well beaten

1 lb. cottage cheese

1/2 lb. ricotta cheese

1/4 lb. cream cheese (softened )

1 c. sour cream

1 3/4 cup milk

1/2 t. vanilla

2 T. melted butter

1 cup sugar

1 t. salt

1/2 lb. wide egg noodles

Preheat oven to 350.  Butter (or spray with canola oil) a 9 X 13-inch casserole dish 

Cook noodles.

In large mixing bowl, mix first 5 ingredients.

Then mix in noodles and the rest of the ingredients.

Pour into casserole (it will look....kind of yucky)

Sprinkle top with cinnamon sugar.

Bake 75 to 90 minutes. (should be solid enough to cut into slices; the edges will move a little from sides of pan)

By the way I use low-fat or non-fat versions of things like sour cream and cream cheese--- just as delicious, and just a little less guilt.

give and take

I'm glad the holidays are over. Gift-giving is tricky and too much pressure. Still, I always believed it's better to give than receive. Until I saw this video.

the party's not at my house

I attended two parties today which is really a rare occasion lately.  Even one party is rare these days.  If I'm not mistaken, less people are having parties right now.  Or else I'm invited to less parties right now, and I don't want to think about what that might mean.

Anyway I feel very admiring and thankful for the people who held these parties.  I love going to parties; and I think anyone who volunteers to have one is heroic.  Especially anyone who has a party during the holiday season.  As someone who feels pressure just getting through the holidays, having a party on top of that would put me over the edge.

In fact, having  a party anytime puts me over the edge.

Without intending to be sexist and despite all the progress made;  unless you are watching the Super Bowl, organizing a party still seems to be a woman's problem.  And  I think there are basically two kinds of women in the world.   In the first group are people like me and the hostess of the party i went to tonight.  Those are the people who I think have a normal attitude towards giving a party:  terror.

I have known this woman for maybe 15 years and never been to a party at her house.  For a good reason.  She admitted tonight to me privately that she dreads entertaining.  During the preparation and up until the time the guests arrive,  she is nearly catatonic with stress and worry, even when she has help with the work.   Once the party gets going, she enjoys herself and you'd never know.  I felt much better about myself after hearing this, since I am also in this first group of women, somewhere in the deep end.

Then there's the second group.  In this group are women who love having parties and entertain often. Everything looks beautiful and the food is delicious and they do all the cooking themselves and they genuinely enjoy doing this.  Out of all the people in the world I think the only women who fall into this category are my friend Jane and Martha Stewart.  I adore Jane; otherwise I would feel the same way about her that I feel about Martha. 

Flying alone

After Christmas with V's family I drive Daniel to San Jose Airport to fly down to LA to visit his dad.  He gets out of the car and waves goodbye.  I am not watching a 20-year old man with broad shoulders carrying his bags;  I am seeing a little 6-year-old boy with a backpack  walking away from me.

That is the scene I remember every time I am at this airport.  It comes from the year I remarried, a year filled with angst and guilt for moving my kids away from their dad, when I first started sending them alone to visit him.

I haven't yet expressed the extent of my neurotic  obsessive  hands-on mothering style in those days.  Probably this stemmed from losing my own mother at an early age, but whatever the cause, let's just say I had intense separation issues.  I also found it hard to let my kids out of my personal zone of control.  Both of these things---separation and lack of control---are impossible to avoid when you are divorced.  

The kids were 6 and 10; and I don't think they have very clear memories of this.  It was before 9/11 so I was allowed to wait at the gate with them.  They would wear their little tags from the airline for kids flying alone, which made them feel proud but made me feel guilty.  I don't think flying alone was very hard for them;  but it was agony for me.

I was definitely capable of chasing them down the jetway, flinging myself at them in tears.  I'm fairly certain that scene played out only in my imagination.  In real life I'd stand at the entrance to the jetway and reluctantly let them go-- after they allowed me to smother them with as many hugs and kisses as they could tolerate in public.  Finally I'd let go and they'd walk down together and they always looked so fragile and vulnerable wearing their backpacks that looked so huge compared to how small they were.  At 6, Daniel  instinctively understood that I needed him to look back at me before he disappeared from my sight.  He always did.

And then they would disappear into the plane and I could let the tears go.  I'd stand at the window while the other passengers boarded, wondering where the kids were sitting.  Then the plane would pull out and I'd stay there, jealous of all the intact families traveling with their kids, while I would be returning in two hours to an empty house. 

I won't even go into the scenarios I would imagine about what could happen between the time the plane rolled away from the gate and the moment their father would meet them at the other end.  In  case technical problems forced the plane to return to the gate, I would have been ready; since I always waited until I knew their plane was in the air before I walked back to the car. 

It turned out that there was actually a benefit to this.  Learning how to let go and let my kids fly alone turned out to be a valuable and important step for me. 

A few months later I had cancer.  I had to let go of control and and let go of my kids in lots of ways.  And this lesson wasn't just for me but more importantly, for them.  Maybe I'm just trying to see a negative aspect of divorce in a positive light.  But I think flying alone helped prepare my kids for harder stuff ahead.  Those small steps helped give them the confidence and independence to know they could take bigger steps without me standing right there.  

More than anything else, I desperately prayed my children would not have to take all their steps in the future without me there at all.  But if the worst happened, they needed to know that they could.  And I needed to know that, too. 

Christmas Present

Christmas Past for V always included all the trimmings.  Until he married me.  If you walked into our house today, you'd never know it was Christmas.  Around here, Christmas is just another day.

When we first got married,  we celebrated both Christmas and Hanukkah.  In addition to the full eight nights of Hanukkah, we also hung stockings and had a tree.  My kids loved it---going out to pick out the tree, collecting ornaments, decorating the tree, the whole works.

What put the kibosh on our Christmas celebration was, oddly enough,  putting my two Jewish kids in Christian schools.  The religious aspect at school was confusing enough; I didn't want to add to the confusion at home.   V said he wasn't attached to having a tree, and offered to give it up.  We never made much of Christmas in our home again. 

For me it was a relief; for  V the tree was another thing in a long list of things he's lost since he married me.  Like an orderly home. Like solitude.  Maybe even sanity.

V would probably insist that he is fine about all this; because for everything he's lost, he's gained things.  A few pounds.  A few laughs.  The love of two step-children. 

And this year he's gained something else: my blog.  For better or worse. 

Not every husband would be so generous.  Not everyone would accept having our life together spilled out any way I decide to spin it.   V never reads what I write until he wakes up the next morning, like everyone else.  He accepted this blog wih the same grace that he accepted the loss of a Christmas tree.  Or the fact that I stopped making a homecooked meal every night for dinner.  Or any night for dinner.

He doesn't complain about any of that.  Unlike me, V is not a complainer.  In fact I think WASP does not stand for White Anglo Saxon Protestant.  I think WASP stands for: What A Stoic Person.  Or Without A Single Protest.  That pretty much describes the attitude of my WASP husband. 

So I thought I would dedicate this post in honor of what V has relinquished over the years, the tree and other traces of his Christmas past.  And since I know V will read this first thing on Christmas morning, it seems perfectly in keeping with our new public/private life via blog to say: I love you.  Merry Christmas. 

Just one shopping day left

All signs point to a "Bah Humbug" Christmas for many people this year.  Even the ultra-rich are feeling the pinch, and the luxury market is taking a big hit--according to an article I read today.   Saks and Neiman Marcus are dropping discounts down as deep as Costco; and people aren't buying  many big ticket items.    Or if they are, they're embarrassed about it and believe they should be sensitive to the current economic crisis.

For those in the market for a special gift who also want to stay in touch with the times, this could be the ideal choice.

It's way ahead of the curve-- the Aptera is not even on the market but the aerodynamics are so revolutionary,  there are already blogs drooling over it. 

I'm not really a car person.  To me a car just needs to get you where you need to go.  I've never understood why so many people make such a big fuss about them.

But I do understand why the Aptera makes so much sense, and why it might change me into a car person someday soon.  100 Miles per gallon.  300 MPG for a version coming in the next few years.  

You can reserve one on the website for a $500 refundable deposit.  Just the thing for last minute Christmas shoppers.

In the meantime, whatever car you drive, stay safe, and Happy holidays.

Technical Difficulties

Just a few days ago I said I love my fantasy kitchen.  Well, as usual the universe has quite the sense of humor. 

Basically I ignored the kitchen over the past few months.  But since Daniel's been home, it's gotten quite a workout.  I figured the kitchen would appreciate all this sudden attention.

Nonstop cooking--Daniel's and mine.  Baking.  Crowds of kids rummaging around eating everything in sight. 

I've loved every minute.  But I think the kitchen is in shock.

Like everything else with moving parts, it  waited for the perfect opportunity to rebel.  

And that time is now.  In my hour of need---I have lost the use of the disposal,  dishwasher and the kitchen sink.  In the dark of night when I am vulnerable and helpless. 

At a time like this, I don't need Liquid Plumber.  I need a real plumber.

The kitchen is closed.  And no blogging is possible for me under current conditions.  Please come back tomorrow.  If you're a plumber, please come right now.

__________________________________________

Next morning:  I feel really embarrassed when I wake up and remember that my post last night was a whine.  With all the stuff going on in the world. I can deal with this. I go to assess the damage. 

When I went to bed everyone was asleep.  I know I did not imagine the disaster zone because I briefly considered taking a picture.

This morning no one is around.  But apparently there really is a Santa.  He sent an elf ahead of time, to work his magic on the mess.  Santa himself will come later in a truck instead of a sleigh bringing tools instead of toys.  

My Christmas gift is the elf--I'm married to him.  Ho ho ho. 

Jews and Saints

Alli's post about her latkes proves beyond a doubt she shares my DNA.  Both Jewish drama queens with a genetic mutation--Alli and I come from a long line of Jewish mothers who can't cook.  I had one Jewish grandmother who burned everything and one who never cooked at all.  I never ate a homemade latke till I was married and got the recipe from a friend.  How ironic that of the few dishes I cook well, most are Jewish recipes, and latkes are the JEW-el in the crown.  Even more ironic,  some of my favorite latke memories are from All Saints Episcopal Day School.

As someone who grew up in a kosher home,  among the things I didn't sign up for is that both of my children attended Christian schools.   Alli went to a Catholic middle school and Daniel to All Saints; at night they would sit at the dinner table discussing whether or not they should each take communion.   My father would roll over in his grave.  But in the end they both learned a lot about Christianity, plus valuable lessons on tolerance and acceptance.  And the learning process works both ways.

For Daniel, who was younger, the mixed messages were a little confusing, especially early on.  He started at All Saints in first grade, and stayed for 8 years--- the only Jewish kid in his class.  Every day he went to Chapel and sang Christian hymns and learned the names of the Saints-- and then after school he would learn to read Hebrew for his future Bar Mitzvah.  

How do Jewish kids adjust to an Episcopal school?  Maybe the answer to that (and the answer to almost everything) is food.

Every year during Hanukkah, the school Chaplain would add "The Dreidle Song" to the mix of Christmas carols sung during Chapel.  And every year the Chaplain would call upon Daniel  to stand up in front of the entire student body, and Daniel would explain about the victory of the Maccabees over the Syrians, and why we light 8 candles during Hanukkah. 

And then I would go into his classroom and cook latkes.  I was never sure who had more fun--the kids or me, and I'm sure there are Jewish mothers doing this in Christian schools all over America.

Through this quintessential Jewish food, for the first time these kids at Daniel's school also got a taste of Jewish traditions. The tantalizing smell would drift down the hall and I'm convinced that many kids and not a few teachers would have signed up to convert on the spot.  More than one classmate of Daniel's went home and insisted that her parents buy a menorah and light candles.  To this day they reminisce about the latkes.  Ten years later, a girl from Daniel's class recently emailed him, asking for the recipe.  And ever since they met in first grade, Daniel's friend Christian got hooked on latkes.  He comes over every year to get his latke fix; one year he was so eager he even came a day early.  I can't think of latkes without thinking of him, and we can't celebrate Hanukkah without Christian.

Sometimes I think if the entire world could be open minded and enjoy each other's traditions, maybe food could be the secret ingredient to world peace---one latke at a time.