The Truth About Santa Claus

My nearest sister called me yesterday with some tragic news: her youngest daughter, who is not quite 10, found out the day before that Santa Claus is not real. Or as her newly-enlightened classmate who told her put it, "your parents have been lying to you all this time."


My niece is the youngest member of our collective family, so this sad milestone is particularly grievous, as it is the stark demarcation between childhood and the Real World. This marks the moment in time when all her childhood beliefs and fantasies will come into question under the harsh light of reality and be found wanting. Innocence is set aside and is replaced with sly knowing and a gradual forgetting of that in childhood that is sweet and accepting. As Abby passes through this portal, the generational shift moves perceptibly further down the line. Her newfound knowledge reminds me of my own aging, my own loss of childhood joy, my own crumbling mortality.


The year she turned five, Dear Daughter turned to me while we were decorating our scraggly artificial Christmas tree. It was still just the two of us, living in a small apartment with our little bird and our hopes and dreams. "Mom," she said. "Are you lying to me about all of this Santa Claus stuff? Because if it's not true, I don't want to have a tree or presents or Christmas or anything."


My heart sank to my shoes. Who could have been so mean-spirited as to cast the shadow of doubt in the heart and mind of my sweet, trusting little girl, and at such an early age. I pulled her to the couch and we sat and looked at our tree with its polyglot of ornaments--pine cones rolled in glue and glitter, cut-foam figures coated in buttons and marker, a construction paper reindeer with a preschool photo glued to its flank, and assorted strings of beads and lights. We talked about Christmas--the infant Jesus in the manger, the gift of a loving God. We talked about Advent--the candles, the waiting, the time of examining ourselves. We talked about St. Nicholas of Myra and his care for children and how he came to be the figure we know as Santa Claus.


I told her that Santa is most certainly real. That even if there isn't really a man in a red suit with flying reindeer and sleigh, he is real in the love that makes the miracles of Christmas happen. Santa is real in the excitement and preparation that surrounds the season. Santa is real in the love that we share when we give and receive gifts. Santa is another reminder of the love we are given from God through the baby Jesus. Even though we choose to portray him as a portly old man with a smoking habit and questionable fashion sense, he really looks like love.

Dear Daughter was satisfied with this explanation, and even years later her own eyes were opened by an older cousin, it wasn't a traumatic moment, because she'd already rationalized it in her own mind. Santa still pays his yearly visit to Dachshund Downs, and she's every bit as delighted at 14 by the magic and sweetness as she was at four. I'm sorry to hear that my niece is upset about finding out the "truth," but I know she'll be all right. Santa will still come to her as well, because Santa is love. Santa is magic. Santa is real.

Who Put These...Snakes on my...Driveway?

I won't include the universal adjectives that make this paraphrased quote from a notable movie starring Samuel L. Jackson so memorable, but I think you get the message.

Today is seven days before our wedding. Our home wedding. Our OUTDOOR wedding at home. In the yard. I'm in the kitchen making 300 grissini, chocolate classic buttercream frosting to frost the groom's cake I just assembled, and I've got a pot of homemade tomato basil soup on the stove just in case anyone should want. The Norwegian is off playing golf. Miss Baby is layering double chocolate cake with raspberry preserves. The dog is at the door staring at the driveway and whining.

Miss Baby took her out and suggested I come outside and see the snake. I'm thinking grass snake. Ha. That would be easy.

The neighbor's brother, a naturalist, came and caught it in a trash can for us. It's still out there and I'll upload pictures later, but please tell me how I can host 75 people at my house next Saturday if there's a nest of COPPERHEAD SNAKES somewhere in the yard????

Just this morning at the Farmer's Market I ran into an old friend from school and she remarked how calm and collected I am considering my wedding is in seven days. I recounted the tasks I'm trying to finish up and she laughed out loud at me. I do still have to bake the wedding cake and decorate it, hem my daughter's slip, teach Sunday school tomorrow, bake 300 grissini, mold fondant decorations for the groom's cake, make about 35 gallons of variously flavored buttercream frosting and iron all of the cloth napkins in the free world. But I really do have have it all under control.

Until now. Snakes in the yard. If anything could turn me into Bridezilla, this would truly be it. I bet Martha Stewart never had to plan a wedding with reptiles in the yard.

Recent Stuff

The past month has been full of all kinds of exciting things. We went to New Orleans twice in July--once to drop Miss Baby off for art camp, and then once again to pick her up. The Junior Norwegian was with us by the time we went the second trip. Since he'd never been to New Orleans, he had an adventure. He trekked through the French Quarter with his dad to see the wonderful D-Day Museum and the Aquarium of the Americas, while Miss Baby, my sister and I went to Crabby Jack's and had this:

If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, Crabby Jack's roasted duck po boy would definitely be a contender. Miss Baby ALWAYS opts for the catfish, but I also love the half'n'half (half oyster and half shrimp). Pour on the Louisiana Red hot sauce and stand back peoples. Crabby Jack's is small, hot and crowded, but so worth it. The photo above represents HALF of what you get for $9. You couldn't buy that much duck to roast for sandwiches for nine bucks, much less the crusty bread and dressings. I believe a fully dressed and wrapped sandwich could be used as a weapon, much like a Louisville Slugger. And in New Orleans, sometimes that is a good thing.

Baby Britta is now teenager Britta, and that means we finally had to make the decision to have her altered. This was not an easy task, since she is truly a terrific little dog and would have beautiful and smart puppies. However, an excellent personality is not always a guarantee that a dog will be a good mother, and we do think there are enough animals in the world who need good homes without us operating as amateur breeders. The Norwegian made the appointment and took her to the vet, where she was pampered and loved. Two weeks later, she's doing fine and has regained the weight she lost. Saturday she basked regally in the sun on the side porch with her dad.

Somewhere about that same time (early August), Miss Baby had a most eventful orthodontist appointment. After being in the chair for about an hour, she went downstairs to the parking lot and completely tanked. She swears she didn't really pass out, but the Norwegian had to fireman-carry her limp, unconscious self back upstairs for a mop-up of her bloody knees.

By the time they got home, she was bleeding again. I took her on a circuitous tour around town, in an un-air-conditioned Subaru in 100 degree heat (while wearing panty hose, no less), of some of the nicer minor medical clinics, one of which didn't accept our health insurance and the other which had closed mysteriously. We finally ended up at a hospital emergency room 15 miles from home (did I mention we live two miles from an excellent teaching hospital?) where she took seven stitches in her right knee. There was some high drama for a few days surrounding pain, itching and the general novelty of having black thread in your kneecap, but she healed up pretty nicely, and even removed her own stitches in the bathroom, much to my combined relief and disgust. Plus, showing up on the first day of seventh grade with a gaping wound apparently earns you all kinds of kid-cred.

Wedding Sweatshop, part 1

I'm getting married in 37 days. It's only taken me fourteen years, countless miles, more bad dates than I care to think about and just a few sleepless nights to get to this point. Some people do marriage the easy way--they find someone wonderful at a young age, get married, have some nice children and live comparatively happily ever after.

I actually tried this route, twice, with Bad Mistake Number One and Bad Mistake Number Two. Without going into a great amount of detail, let's just say I got the worst of my life's crises out of the way while I was still young and healthy enough to withstand them.

So now, at the ripe old age of forty-mumble-something, I'm getting married in 37 days. The Norwegian tells me he loves me, he tells me I'm beautiful and that I'm a good mother, he tells me he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I'm awed and humbled and excited and amazed at all of this, but in the sweet way that he has, he doesn't just say these things, but helps me to believe them about myself as well. There's so much to love about this man, but I guess to sum it all up would be to say he's just himself, and that is so wonderful.

Planning a wedding at this age is completely different from planning a wedding at an earlier age. Having been down this ahem, aisle before, I'm not only older, but I've learned a few things along the way. Not that there haven't been the giddy moments of bride-like excitement and anticipation, but for the most part, this has been a dream-time of thinking small, looking deep within ourselves and finding what we really want--from life, from marriage and from this one celebratory day as well.

And this is how it really should be.

We're getting married at the best possible place--home. Several reasons--the desire to keep the festivities small and intimate and health and mobility issues of various family members -- played a key role in this decision. In fact, our house-hunting centered as much around "could we have the wedding we want in this house?" as did "could we finish raising our two teenagers in this house?" We found the perfect place in our half-acre of greenspace. The house has been duly blessed by our parish priest and is now a fit place, even in the eyes of the church, to start our life together.

Keeping it small means doing a lot of things ourselves, but that's okay. A lot of the websites and magazines ground out by the behemoth wedding industry devote a great deal of time and space to wedding budgets. There are even charts to advise what "average" weddings generally cost in a given zip code. For instance, the "average" wedding in our zip code of midtown Memphis, Tennessee suggests we should be spending roughly the cost of brand new SUV to tie our particular knot. Thank goodness this wedding will be anything but "average." The Norwegian and I are, admittedly, unusual people, and naturally, our wedding will combine our religious and family traditions, but on a scale manageable enough to keep it enjoyable for everyone involved. And that certainly includes us, first and foremost.

Once we decided on a budget, we immediately began looking for ways to come in lower. This has become something of a game almost, as we delight in great finds at estate sales and thrift stores and continue to come up with accoutrements that are just the right thing. This entire experience has been a great pre-marital exercise for us both, as we have the opportunity to examine closely what truly matters to us individually (him--family traditions and Navy heritage; me -- comfortable shoes and a taste of vintage) and as a couple (all of the above, along with a good photographer and a caterer who understands us). It's been so easy to agree on just about everything--from old Blue Willow serving pieces, to the vintage lace dress for Dear Daughter found at a yard sale, to the quasi-Mediterranean menu Elio the magnificent has planned for us. Along the way, we've ditched everyday wedding expectations (cheesy favors, garter tossing and flower girls) for homemade cakes and candies, a wonderful Gipsy jazz quartet and his family's heirloom wedding solje.

We designed our own save-the-date cards and invitations, using the great Alfred Eisenstaedt V-J day photo, and printed them on the Mac'n'Smac. Here they are, drying on our dining room table. The joy and exuberance captured in this photo illustrates perfectly how we feel about one another and our family, and was the perfect image for the invitations.



Friends and family are helping out with decorations. Here, MelBoe and Dear Daughter try out combinations of colored tulle for swathing our side porch. We're draping our leprous old wrought iron railing in the equivalent of two football fields of six-inch tulle. It really makes a difference!


Dear Daughter has started helping me make candies for the reception. Last night we dipped the first batches of about 300 creme de menthe chocolates.


A small, at-home wedding will require at least 100 yards of assorted colored ribbon. Don't try to fight it. Resistance is futile. Just make the run to Michael's. Then plan to go back again for more. At least twice.

Jolies Maries

Back in June, I blogged about my growing collection of religious figures. As we settle into the new place, with new people in our lives and a new concept of family, I find myself drawn more and more to the Holy Family. These three people: a carpenter, a young girl and their infant son, sum up so clearly (for me, anyway) the everyday struggle of humans everywhere to live in obedience to God, unified by a common thread of love for one another.

Early on in our search at estate sales and yard sales, I found this lovely Mary vase.

She stayed awhile on a shelf in my kitchen, holding the occasional gardenia and bringing a sense of peace and serenity to the area around my sink, which is often anything but peaceful and serene.

A couple of weeks ago, she found a new home, with someone who needed her more than I did. Best Friend of Dear Daughter is moving away with her family to the magical land of N orthc Aro Lina. Dear Daughter called me at work one day, sobbing in that soft, breathless way of a child whose heart has been utterly shattered, devastated by the realization that while she was in New Orleans on her annual summer adventure, Best Friend would be packing up and heading east. She was searching the house for something to give Best Friend as a memento. She'd come up with a few personal items, but wanted something really special. After a bit of thought, I suggested she give her Mary. She waffled for a while, not wanting to give away something of mine, but I assured her it was really okay. Finally, she made the decision and took the vase to Best Friend, who by all accounts, seems to love her.

I love the idea of this version of this Sweet Mother coming into our life for a brief while, and then going on to watch over and be loved by someone so dear to our own hearts. Besides, I know that even without the image, Mary never really leaves us. Her fingerprints really are everywhere.

Saturday, at another estate sale, I walked into a homey little Midtown bungalow near the cathedral. In a downstairs bedroom, waiting for me on a night table was this beautiful lady.
She now occupies the same spot in my kitchen as the previous figure. It's good to have her back.

This afternoon when I came home from work, there were two packages waiting. One was addressed to me, and contained the shattered results of a recent eBay purchase (more on this in another post), but the other was sent to my dear Norwegian. In it, was this delicate figure.

I love her Italianate features and her red hair. She's on a shelf in the Mom Cave up front. I love that the Norwegian thought to find her and bring her home. Of course, I also love the idea that it could be the other way around.

Measuring Up/Day of Reckoning

Dear Daughter, my 12 year old, has been going through a growth spurt. I've always known that she would be tall, based on the size of every branch on her family tree (but me). The day she was born she clocked in at a respectable 24 inches long and 10 pounds, 11 ounces. Yes, you read that right. I gave birth to a two foot tall infant weighing the same as a sack of Yukon Gold potatoes.

Anyway, I was still not prepared for today when we stood side-by-side and looked in a full-length mirror and I realized she now has a half-inch of headspace above mine.

Wow.

I'm going to bed to drown my sorrows in some Geritol.

Domestic Tranquility

Continuing with the theme of being happy at home, here are some more recent photos. They are in no particular order, and represent nothing except a few of the reasons why "East, West, home best."



I call this painting "Mommy and Me." Dear Daughter painted it two years ago at school during a workshop by a visiting artist. She and the artist really clicked, and DD still raves about what she learned in a 45 minute session with this woman. I love this painting--it's simple, happy and sweet. It will always have a special place in our home.

Sleepy space. The paint was chosen by the previous owner, and we simply love it. There are plantation shutters along one wall. I open the top shutters to let the morning light in. It's beautiful. Oh, and Mrs. G, please note the Laura Ashley comforter and bed set chosen by the Norwegian (who is about as gay as Mr. G!). Not bad! The furniture is a matched set dating from the 1940s found at an estate sale. The pieces still have the tags on the back from the factory. The bed is in an upstairs bedroom awaiting the arrival of the Norwegian's son, but we love the dresser, chest and twin nightstands. It's all very Ozzie and Harriet, kind of like us.

This is our downstairs family room. Yes, we also have an upstairs family room. It's not conspicuous consumption; it's delight in finding an antique house with tons of room for both adults and teenagers. This room is 19 x 28, and features "vintage" flooring (that's pronounced "funky old linoleum"), a giant window overlooking our sweet, green backyard and gardens, and a long stone hearth with a gas fireplace. I have trouble picking a favorite part of this room--there's so much to love in here. It could very well be the stunning view. It could be the built-in cabinets on three sides of the room. It could be the lovely old tongue-and-groove panelling. It is very likely the half-timbers in the ceiling that were milled from a tree that once grew in the backyard several decades ago. This is the Norwegian's Man Cave, and is gradually filling up with memorabilia from his thirty year career in the United States Navy.

This is the Mom-cave. It's really the living room, but upon seeing the wooden radiator covers and the gorgeous paint, I staked this out as my own little piece of paradise. There is a wood-burning fireplace and a set of French doors leading to the side porch (where the Norwegian and I will be married in 88 days or so). There are two built-in cabinet/bookcases on the wall leading to the dining room. This room has a set of antique mahogany and brocade furniture we found at an estate sale for a ridiculously cheap price. It is perfect for this room.

My piano will go in this room eventually. This is such a peaceful and sweet room.

Cinnamon/brown sugar raisin bread, cooling on the kitchen counter this morning. Can you understand why I hate to leave this place to go to work?

Most of us. The Norwegian, Dear Daughter, Baby Britta and me. Not pictured are Alix Bunny, Roselle Rabbit, Eulalie the Lovebird, and the Norwegian's son, who will join us in September. Do stop by and see us sometime!

St. Joseph lives in the Mom Cave, watching over our family. I found him in front of a small shop in Franklin, TN weekend before last. He has been our family patron for many years now. If you really need something, ask for his intercession. Here he basks in the early morning sunlight. We visit often. Unfortunately, Britta thinks he's after her Secret Squirrel and unleashes her Dachshund sailor language on him. You can click here (I hope) to see more objects in the Mom Cave.

Peaches from a local orchard fill my giant pottery mixing bowl. Can you smell the sweet scent of summertime?

This silver ewer held holy water for our house blessing last Saturday. I love how it looks against the blue slate of our back door foyer in the late afternoon sunlight. After everyone left and we were cleaning up, the Norwegian and I added the water to our backyard waterfall. We have birds and squirrels that make daily visits. Nestled in the shady southwestern corner of our backyard, it is a haven of beauty and serenity.

The built-in butler's pantry in the kitchen. I've posted a photo before of this, but it had some stuff placed there by the decorator hired by the realtor. That's my antique tole platter with a giant shrimp painted on it. The rabbit tray often holds bread for our family meals. Behind the glass is my modest collection of Blue Willow ware. I pick up occasional pieces when I find good, old ones. I don't want an entire set, but the tiny bowls and dessert plates are graceful and delicate. I love the old colors and the sound the china makes when it clacks against another piece.

Hasta La Pasta

Continuing with the dual themes of do-it-yourself, locally produced food and hearth and home, here is a recap of two consecutive evenings from earlier this summer. I had been reading Barbara Kingsolver’s most excellent “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral” and it occurred to me that my own daughter had never taken part in the ridiculously simple, yet enormously satisfying process of making pasta. When she was small, I used to make homemade ravioli, which, because she was small and much less sophisticated than she is now, she absolutely refused to eat.

Times have changed though, and it was high time to introduce her to the happy world of homemade noodles.

The ingredients are simple:

The process, even moreso.

The most time-consuming part of making noodles from scratch is the drying phase, but luckily, it can be combined with all kinds of alternate activities, such as…um, sleeping.
She did all the work herself, from mixing the ingredients, to rolling out the dough with a juice glass, to cutting it with a paring knife.

The end results looked good, and tasted better than anything in a red cellophane package. Even before cooking.
The next day, Dear Daughter lured Best Friend over to the house, where they proceeded to ransack the pantry and refrigerator and create a four-course meal, complete with hand-written menu, and served with red-headed panache. We dined on a lovely green salad, cucumber and buttermilk soup, Hasta La Pasta, served with tomato sauce and sautéed mushrooms, and finished up with peachy blackberry cobbler. We couldn’t have dined finer at any price anywhere else in town.

And our hostesses were far more charming than any local wait staff I can think of.

The Norwegian, through a glass, yellowy.


Our dining room is just one of the places at home that warms our heart. Some of our best times are around this table, eating simply, laughing deeply, loving warmly.

What Fruits These Morsels Be!

With local beauties such as these, who could be worried about salmonella?

I can’t really claim to have jumped on the recent “locavore” wagon, because for the most part, I’ve eaten locally grown (and often homegrown) produce most of my life. Naturally, I don’t raise bananas or pineapples or kiwis in the backyard, but I’ve resisted the ugly produce in big-box supermarkets for years. When Dear Daughter was about seven, she saw some pretty half-pint containers of blueberries in the local Kro-zhay and started pleading for them. As it was March, I was suspect. The fact there was no price tag made me even more wary. I asked a nearby stocker what the price was, and he told me seven dollars.

Whoa?! Seven bucks for approximately 50 berries the size of my thumbnail? I so don’t think so. As I put them back, he looked at me like I was the unreasonable one and said, “They came from Chile!” I retorted, “Did they fly first class?”

Know your foods, people. There is joy in growing your own (okay, it’s also work, but it’s good, useful work, unlike say, moving piles of paper from one bureaucratic office to another). Stop by those local produce stands. Meet the guy with the truckload of melons. Not only will you likely avoid salmonella (or worse), you’ll be stimulating the local economy, and not some megalithic farm corporation run from an office, rather than from the seat of a Farmall.

In Absentia

I know I haven't written. I' ve been thinking. I promise.

In the meantime, here's a lovely photo of someone so dear to me.

Spring Snow

I'm late blogging about this, but I was so busy enjoying the weather, and then recuperating from the cold/sinus infection/walking pneumonia thing I got as a result of the weather that I just haven't made time until now. Last Friday, after a few warm days, I was sent home from the Major Military Installation where I work as an Anonymous Paper Shuffler on account of...snow!

This was a particularly lovely snowfall--big crunchy flakes that were moist enough to compact well. While it was cold outside, the ground wasn't cold enough for it freeze into ice. The roads stayed passable, the power remained on and we hunkered down in Midtown for a nice dinner of homemade soup, good bread, broiled tomatoes and warm rum drinks. The Brother of the House made an appearance, and we even took Britta to the local branch of the National Chain Demon Video Rental Retailer to help us select some entertainment.

The snow continued into the night until about six inches had fallen. Outside the world was hushed and beautiful. The backyard was coated with a thick, soft layer of white. The next morning we set out for a local park to play before it all melted away.

Britta enjoyed romping in her first snow. As it was nearly up to her shoulders, we had to pick her up frequently, but she chased snowballs and helped Dear Daughter and the Norwegian sculpt a larger-than-life "maxi-Dachshund" that earned them all a spot on the local news broadcast. Dear Daughter, the original snow-bunny, played until her cheeks were rosy and her shoes were sodden.

By day's end, the snow was gone, and with it, the last hurrah of winter. It's 60 degrees today and the sun is shining. Spring really seems to have sprung at last. The snow was a delightful treat and a happy way to mark the end of the season.

Well Baby Checkup

Like all good parents, we realized this week it was time for Baby Britta to visit her physician. The ever-efficient Norwegian made an appointment for her at a local veterinary practice, and we collected Dear Daughter and Best Friend and, of course, Baby Britta.

Cute puppies create quite a stir wherever they go, and Britta was certainly no exception. The staff carried her about and made a nice fuss over her. Dad took care of the paperwork:

Dear Daughter and Best Friend kept Britta entertained and calm while we waited:

Her Serene Highness, Britta Leafslayer listens for her name to be called:

A proud, but somewhat nervous dad checks out the exam table:

Treats make shots and exams a little easier to tolerate:

All went well and we were reassured of what we already felt: we have a wonderful, healthy and happy puppy. We celebrated by sneaking her into a local grocery store where she so charmed staff and shoppers alike that no one thought to point out the various ordinances we were flagrantly violating by bringing her in!

About Dad

Today would have been my dad's 80th birthday. Dear Daughter says she sees him from time to time--usually in the house where I grew up. She's curiously matter of fact about it, considering he died in the summer of 2006. But I don't doubt she really does see him. I don't understand how or why, but they loved each other immensely. If it comforts here to see her Papa opening the door and sitting in a chair, I'm okay with that.

I'd give a lot to see him again myself.

Going Home, But Not Getting Far

As I posted previously, we road-tripped the Deep South this past weekend. Living in the undisputed capitol of the Mississippi Delta, we occasionally have to get out and visit some of the other micro-cultures that make up this wacky part of the country. As the hysterical Florence King wrote in Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady that those not from the South often make the error that all southerners are the same, regardless of their region of nativity. This could not be further from the truth. Although the movie and television industry is the worst offender, this stereotype is all-too-frequently depicted by those who just don’t have an accurate frame of reference. To compare, for instance, a Memphian and a denizen of Nashville (a Nashvillian, if you will, and come to think of it, I know a few Nashvillians) brings to mind the old joke about comparing Americans and Canadians. If you want to know the difference between the two, just call them both Americans. Or Memphians. Or Nashvillians, for that matter.

We left home and headed in a southeasterly direction. It was a bright Saturday morning, cool and crisp. The farmlands are mostly brown at this time of year, with the occasional flash of green where a field has been sown in a winter crop of greens or winter wheat. The ride was pleasant. The Norwegian drove so I was relegated to the role of disc jockey (serving up the best of Guy Clark, John Prine and friends) and Chief Cultural Minister. I pointed out the clumps of deer, water birds, low-perching predators, abandoned farm implements, weather changes and funny signs. The best one we saw the whole weekend flashed by too quickly in a rainstorm for me to capture. The sign said “Historical Marker” and its arrow pointed straight at a dilapidated single-wide mobile home, rusting on its moorings and attended by a fleet of, ahem, vintage automobiles in various stages of repair. It looked like Jesco White’s home, although we were in the wrong state.

We reached our destination – a small town in northeastern Alabama situated on the Tennessee River. At least one horrific battle was fought here during the Civil War, reputedly over access to the railroad spanning the bridge. The old town itself is drawing in on itself. There is still a lovely district of old houses and part of the original business district is still populated by the usual purveyors of gentrification—law and architectural firms, boutiques, specialty restaurants (an oddity here in the land of fried green tomatoes). The “modern” business district—and by this I mean Wal-Mart, Target, Kroger, Best Buy and the like—are situated out on the Beltline smack in the midst of what was, in my own childhood, farmland and woodlands.

One thing that hasn’t changed in downtown old Decatur is C.F. Penn’s Hamburgers. I’ve searched the Internet for links to anything about Penn’s, but there just isn’t much out there, save musings from expatriates who miss the…um, experience. My mother was one such person. By the time we reached her sister’s apartment, Mom was pretty much starving and nothing would do but that we go to Penn’s on Moulton Street in old downtown.

The Norwegian –who grew up all over the country, and Dear Daughter were curious. I was guarded. Been there, done that. These two had never experienced anything quite like lunch at Penn’s, and I just didn’t have the words to adequately explain it.

In a nutshell, C.F. Penn’s is a classic burger diner, and this one (there are a few scattered across north Alabama) features the original neon signage, twirling stools at the lunch counter, and probably the same frying grease they used when the place opened more than 50 years ago. Dear Daughter, having been raised in the “have-it-your-way” land of burger dining, started to tell me how she wanted her burger dressed. I laughed and stopped her. At Penn’s, there’s only two ways to have your burger—all the way, or half the way. Your only other options involve number, sides (chips or fries) and the size and flavor of your Coke (remember this is the South).

“All the way” or “half the way” refers to how far across the three-foot lake of sizzling grease you want your burgers floated. Yes, I said floated. Penn burgers are cooked in advance and are reheated when ordered by floating it from the right to left side of a commercial fryer. The time it takes to float “all the way” or “half the way” is all you get to get your lunch reheated.

This, by itself, is pretty disgusting (at least to me). But wait (as they say on late-night infomercials), there’s more.

When you collect your lunch, served on white bread buns and wrapped in waxed paper translucent with grease, and accompanied by a complimentary sheet of double-ply paper toweling, the best is yet to come. I watched Dear Daughter’s face across the booth as she unwrapped her burger. She prefers “ketchup. ONLY ketchup” on her burgers, and at Penn’s, they always come with mustard and chopped onions. She quietly scraped the offending onion and mustard off and picked up the squeeze bottle of ketchup to remedy the situation. The ketchup—apparently also original equipment—did not make her much happier. The kicker was when she took a bite. See, at C.F. Penn’s, the name “burger” is kind of a misnomer. The amount of actual “burger” in each sandwich varies from “some” to none, at least none that can be tasted. What burger is present is mixed with something approximating Hamburger Helper (which it doesn’t, really), then formed into, well, not really a conventional patty; more like a lump, then first deep-fried and then reheated in the Grease-Lagoon when ordered.

I don’t know whose face was funnier—Dear Daughter’s or the Norwegian’s. I don’t think either wanted to chew, much less swallow. Fortunately, we had ordered conservatively. No one asked for seconds, except my mom, and I was glad to give her the half I was unable to finish. Dear Daughter played with my cell phone while we talked and finished up our lunch and got ready to leave.

The service at Penn’s is friendly and unique, in the way that only a Southern diner can provide. We had a good time. It made my mother happy. I like making her happy. It made Dear Daughter grateful for what she gets back home, and it made her and the Norwegian laugh, although politely out of earshot of both my family and the staff. Later on, though, I found this message on my cell phone notepad. Apparently, Dear Daughter is not anticipating a career in reviewing restaurants.

Meet Our New Arrival

This weekend we road-tripped with the Norwegian to the mystical land of Alabama. My mother grew up in the northeastern part of the state, and you still can open just about any door on any block in any small town for a 200-mile radius and find someone standing behind it to whom I can claim kinship. Mother went with us and we stayed with one of her sisters in a tiny retirement community so newly constructed on a block of former farmland that some residents carry baseball bats and even firearms to ward off the coyotes they're likely to encounter on the way to the mailbox.

The main purpose of the trip, besides hanging out with family and eating fried catfish, was to pick up this little darling. Meet Britta, a nine-week old miniature Dachshund. She's slightly smaller than my bedroom slipper, and even the ND bunnies have about a pound and a half on her. Despite her tiny size, she's loaded with personality and charm.

Britta was born to Dixie and Elvis, who are owned by these very nice people. She lived with her four sisters and three aunts and uncles in what can only be described as Dachshund heaven.

We brought her back to the homestead across a hundred miles of twisty, country roads, through one of the worst rain storms I've ever been in. The Norwegian drove while Dear Daughter and I took turns comforting Britta. She whimpered a while, most likely as much from the noise of the rain as from the trauma of leaving home. Soon, though, she snuggled down in the baby quilt she brought from home and curled up for a nap.

Despite the many changes she had yesterday, she did really well. She played in the yard, she slept on her new bed on the rest of the trip home. She visited her new grandma's house and met her new human uncle. She met her bunny sisters and decided that they were definitely big enough for her to submit to.

Finally, it was time to go to bed. Dear Daughter pulled out the trundle in her room and put Britta's bed next to it on the floor. They snuggled in their respective quilts and sacked out. Fortunately, there was no howling or whimpering from either of them. I guess both little girls were so worn out that sleep came easily.

When I woke up this morning, I was surprised to not hear crying from either of them. I was amazed. Could it really be that such a young puppy would sleep the entire night through on her first night in a new home? I tiptoed into Dear Daughter's room and found this sweet little sight. Apparently, Britta felt that she'd just make her very own puppy pile and climbed up into the trundle with Dear Daughter. Oh well. Crate training begins today.

And so it begins...

Tonight was another milestone for Dear Daughter--the very first Middle School Dance. Despite weeks of discussion and preparation, neither of us was really ready for this. I had all kinds of reasons for trepidation-- starting with my natural tendency to be a spazz. I'm sorry--I am an overprotective mother. I can't help it. I worry. She's my only child. It's all happening too fast. And I can't say that two shootings in the local public schools inside of a week, plus the terrible tragedy at Northern Illinois University have helped. She's only 12, and events like a school dance should be happy, exciting and fun.

For the past month, Dear Daughter has moped around telling me that she has no friends and that no one likes her. Judging from the giggling squad of girls who waved frantically calling her name when I dropped her off, I'd say this might be an exaggeration. I'm not discounting her feelings. These are tough years. The Hormone Fairy is causing random mood swings and the pressure of increasingly complex school work is mounting. Girls and boys who have been friends for five years or so are suddenly looking at each other with new eyes, and wondering how to channel new, strange feelings. Dear Daughter tells me who in her class is "going out" with whom and who "broke up" with whom. "Going out?" In sixth grade? I ask her, "where do they go? 'Out' the front door into the yard? This isn't real dating (thank heavens), but it's a nervous little prelude to what will come in a few years. I don't much like it. I want her to enjoy herself, but I'd be happy if the pressures of crushes and girl-feuds and weird boys could be put off just a while longer.

I helped her roll her hair and bent my usual inflexible rules about makeup and let her wear a smidgen of mascara. She has been armed with her own lip gloss for a while now. She did look sweet and comfortable. I dropped her off and she disappeared into a sea of kids.

Two hours later I walked into the noisy din of the school cafeteria. She was easy to spot, even among the 899 other sweaty, rowdy students. She was smiling. She was hanging out with a giggling group of girls who had spent the evening taking photos, eating pizza, swilling soda and chasing classmates around the room.

She's calming down a little before bed. It was a great evening for her. It turned out okay for me as well. She's still my little girl. Right now, she's snuggling in the bed with her dear old stuffed Bunny, laughing at some shared joke between them. The future can wait. All's right with the world.

Maus im Haus

Dinner was late tonight, due to the number of errands that just had to be run right after work. Some days, I get an incredible amount of junk accomplished in that small window between 5 and 7 p.m.

I ripped open the bag of sweet potatoes that's been on the counter for a week, washed them perfunctorily, made a few slits with a paring knife and chucked 'em in a pie plate and into a hot oven. Thirty minutes later, we had the yummy smell and tantalizing appearance of a nicely browned...
mouse?

I put it on Dear Daughter's plate and she laughed. Then she ATE it.