More Love

September 20, 2013 / roughwighting / 25 Comments

When I think my heart is filled to the brim with love – for my man, my children, their spouses, my parents, my brother and his family, our friends – grandchildren arrive.

I wonder how more love happens. Somehow I don’t have to squeeze each one into an already full heart – they suddenly occupy a huge chunk of it with no one else kicked out.

opera in the alley, San Francsico, street opera, love

Street opera on a San Francisco alley.

Flash. My guy and I walk the city of San Francisco with our son and two of his boys, 3 and 1 ½. We watch the ice skaters in the middle of Union Square, eat vendor pretzels, pant up hills (with the boys sharing a stroller), listen to the opera singer standing in the alley, and then somehow end up in a men’s clothing store, one that my man has bought clothes from since our son was his sons’ age.

As we finger the cotton shirts and silk ties, the two shop owners, now in their 60s, exclaim, “three generations of one family!’ and I feel a burst of pride. I don’t why. I haven’t done anything.

The 1-year-old runs around the store with his pudgy bow-legged stance, finding everything at one-foot-high level that is dangerous.

The 3-year-old just sits on the floor looking up at the four men talking about important topics, like football and the stock market.

Suddenly, out of the blue, he touches my guy’s leg. “PaPa,” he says. The men don’t hear him. My little grandson waits patiently.

“PaPa,” he says again, not any louder.

PaPa stops talking and looks down at his grandson.

“PaPa,” our little grandboy continues as if in the middle of his quiet bedroom. “I love you.”

The busy clothier store grows quiet…

…and see?

My heart bursts open wider, to let in even more love.

More love.

Just Say You’re Sorry!

June 21, 2013June 21, 2013 / roughwighting / 28 Comments

During my travels back East, my brother and I treat my mom to a dinner out – just the three of us – a rare occurrence. But on the way to the restaurant, my brother’s car is rear-ended – hard – as he yields to a car in oncoming traffic.

I scream (embarrassing, yes, a girly scream, but I’m sitting in the back seat and my head bobbles like a linebacker hit on both sides).

My brother does the manly thing – he curses, loudly and emphatically.

I can’t quote him, because this is a G-rated blog, or at least PG. But his expletives are descriptive enough that I worry for the other driver, who begins to unfold his tall, lean body out of his car.

I can’t tell how much damage there is, but I’m most worried that my brother’s much-loved auto is scratched/bent/harmed, and our special dinner with our mom is ruined.

I hold my breath. Usually my younger sibling (by 18 months) behaves with well-tempered patience, but when he gets pushed too far…well, things can get ugly.

My mom and I stare straight ahead, still seated in the car, while my brother and the other man inspect both vehicles.

Voices raise. With eyes closed, Mom squeaks out – “Are they arguing? What’s going on?”

I listen closely, still not turning around to actually view the scene.

“No. They’re talking in a civilized tone,” I whisper, puzzled.

“But what’s the noise?” she asks, fearfully

“Um, they’re chuckling…?”

Gently opening his car door, my brother sits back down in the driver’s seat with a small smile on his face.

“What did the guy say?” I wonder out loud.

As if in partial shock, my bro states: “As soon as I climbed out of the car, the guy says, ‘I’m sorry – it’s all my fault.’ ”

The three of us sit still, stunned.

No one acknowledges fault these days. In this litigious world, we are all grilled to NEVER SAY YOU’RE SORRY or admit fault. Never.

My brother’s car is moving us along now to dinner. Bro’s face is clear and happy, and I don’t think just because his car’s bumper saved him from a crashed and ugly fenderbender.

I think he’s smiling because the guy who hit him immediately took credit for the crash, shook hands, and said, “whatever the cost, I’ll take care of it.”

Life is full of fender benders. How we respond to them, – that’s what really counts in the long run.

After dinner, Mom with her two “kids.”

The Newness of Being

May 10, 2013 / roughwighting / 27 Comments

Grand I feel and

Radiant, each time an

Arrival occurs of a

New Baby, a type of

Diety, in my eyes, because at the

Moment of each birth I revel in the newness

Of being. And then, as a grand

Mom, I sink into thankfulness.

Happy Mom’s Day, from my family to yours.

As Easy As Peanut Butter and Jelly

May 3, 2013May 3, 2013 / roughwighting / 31 Comments

We are always children to our parents.

No matter our age.

I find that comforting.

This past week I flew across country to visit my mom. I have adult children now. I have grandchildren, but my mom waits on me as if I’m still her (young) child whom she must care for and nurture.

You know how tenderly we parents watch over our 3-year- old, our 11-year-old, our 16 and 20-year-old? Well, guess what? We do the same when they’re 29, and 45, and yes, even older.

“I bought a wheat bagel for your breakfast, just what you like,” my mom chirps at 8 a.m. our first morning. I don’t eat bagels. I munch on wheat toast with organic peanut butter and blueberry jam every morning, but I so appreciate the thought that I slice the (just thawed) bagel and search for the toaster.

“I don’t own a toaster,” Mom explains five minutes into my opening and closing cabinets.

“Oh.” I turn on the oven to Broil.

“I’ve never used Broil. Do you think it works?” Mom asks, her voice tinged with wonder and curiosity.

I never use Broil either, at least not for toasting bread, so we stand in front of the oven and wait for four minutes.

I open the door. Bagel’s still soft.

Mom rinses some blueberries and raspberries, throws a few on her cereal, and makes me a bowl. “Sit down and eat,” she demands. “I’ll watch the bagel.”

I ignore her and open the oven – bagel’s still soft.

She pours milk into her bowl and I order her: “Eat before your cereal gets mushy!” She ignores me, and we check the oven.

Bagel’s still soft.

Simultaneously, we hit the Broil button off, and then I select Bake at 450 degrees. “Really, Mom, start breakfast. I’ll be right there.”

Mom stares longingly at her now soggy shredded wheat waiting for her on the dining room table but says, “Let me get the peanut butter out for your bagel,” as if I can’t reach up to the cabinet and pull out the Jiffy jar.

I check the bagel – it’s actually getting a little toasted. Nonchalantly I ask, “Do you have some jam?” but inwardly kick myself as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

Crestfallen, she opens the refrigerator and responds, “How about Seville Orange Marmalade?”

“Um, no, I really don’t like marmalade.”

“How can you NOT like marmalade? Here, try it.”

I hate marmalade. Don’t know why, but I have since I was a kid. So like a kid, I shake my head no. I probably pout too.

Mom pulls out another jar. “Oh, here’s Apricot Preserves.”

“Isn’t that like marmalade?” I ask. By now, I’ve pulled out the crispy browned bagel and start spreading it with peanut butter.

“Try it!”

“I really don’t…”

A spoon with some apricot preserves is suddenly swung in front of me, so I place a smidgen on my bagel and take one bite, making a face. “Nope, don’t like it. I’m fine with just peanut butter. Now, let’s eat.”

Her head is still in the refrigerator. “Aha! Red Current Jelly! Want to try that?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

I walk to the table with my plate of, by now, cold toasted bagel. “Mom – come on.”

She makes a noise and produces another glass bottle from the refrigerator. “Look! Fig Butter. That could taste good…?”

“Why the heck do you have fig butter?”

She shrugs. “I bought it for a recipe. Umm, that could have been quite a while ago.”

I give her a peanut buttery smile. “Join me.” Her cereal is now indistinguishable from overcooked oatmeal that is dotted with some red and blue berries.

Giving up, my mom sits down at her place, only to pop up with an excited exclamation. She races back to the refrigerator and presents me with her find:

“CHERRY PIE JELLY!”

I groan, “Noooooooooooooo.”

She shrugs.

I begin to laugh so hard I can’t take another bite of baked bagel.

How wonderful is it to have a mom who still treats you like her special little girl, the daughter she still wants to keep happy?

But still, I don’t touch the cherry pie jelly.

My mom, making me dinner as I watch and admire.

My mom, making me dinner and still taking care of me.

Spaghetti Night

April 12, 2013 / roughwighting / 36 Comments

How many spaghetti nights have I savored in my lifetime? I shudder to think of it, particularly during these low-carb days when pasta is a no no. Shaking my head, I avoid the thoughts in my head and reach for the ingredients from the shelf.

Why Spaghetti Night, I wonder as I start rolling the ground beef (lean), eggs, chopped onion, and parmesan cheese into meatballs. What would happen if instead I made, say, meatloaf, or God forbid, chicken cacciatore?

I smile as I begin to sauté the meatballs in the large pan. I suppose one doesn’t sauté meatballs, but I’m not frying them for heaven’s sake. Browning, that’s the word. I’m browning the meatballs as I envision the horrified reaction of my family if I served something other than spaghetti on a Monday night.

It all began with my guy, of course. Although he comes from an Irish mother and an Italian father, he only acknowledges the Italian genes. He may be tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, but he’s Italian, by God, and Italians love their spaghetti.

So one of the first nights our kids were old enough to sit down at the dinner table with us and enjoy a “family conference” – I think they were 2 and 4 years old – the man explained that real Italian families eat spaghetti at least once a week, so which day should we designate as Italian night?

The meatballs smell heavenly, and as the rain beats against the kitchen skylight I’m thankful that it’s Monday. I scoop the meatballs to a platter and add chopped green and red peppers to the pan, as well as a few mushrooms.

My 4-year-old daughter, that fateful day 25+ years ago, suggested that Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays would be good spaghetti nights. She loved her dad and figured more would be better. My man’s eyes lit up and he agreed, “Okay!”

I put my foot down and replied, “Mondays. That’s it.” Thus, Monday Spaghetti Night was created.

The vegetables are sautéed and I add a bottle of Newman’s sauce. I could make my own, but Paul’s family does such a good job and the proceeds go toward charity. I add the meatballs and let everything simmer for two hours. When my guy comes home, he opens the front door, takes in a big whiff and exclaims, “Monday night!”

The kids are out of college and living on their own now. It’s just the two of us. But Monday nights are still, and always will be, Spaghetti Night.