Auld Lang Syne

The lyrics of this popular New Year's song were originally written by Robert Burns as a poem and set to music.  It is popular in English speaking countries and has been around since the 1700s (or so claims my trusty, hard to disprove friend Wikipedia) .  Translated loosely, it means 'long, long ago,' and is often sung at the stroke of midnight when the new year begins.  Tradition.
Many folks have traditions of their own that carry them through the holiday season.  Things that they've always done and no one knows quite why, other than, 'that's what we've always done.'  I heard someone speak at an educator's conference about a year ago regarding doing things the way they've always been done seemingly without rhyme or reason.  He had researched why the railroad tracks in this country had the spacing between them that they did.  Apparently it was due to the spacing on the wagons of pioneers, which he then traced back to Europe and the spacing on the wagons there and so forth.  What it came down to is that the spacing on Roman chariots were measured to fit the width of two horses pulling chariots to and fro in attempts to conquer the world.  So much history coming down to horses' asses.
My parents holiday traditions often caused me to scratch my head as a child, and I now cannot help but wonder if they had their beginnings with some drunken horse's ass losing a bet.  Whatever the auspicious beginnings, there were certain things that were absolutely necessary for merriment and celebration in our household.  Christmastime found my family with a coffee table full of hard candy, handily contained in a cylindrical cardboard container, and ribbon candy, which was wrapped in a fancier box than most jewelry ever purchased by my father.  Both of these items were purchased at the Woolworth store near our house and my father would not have allowed the holiday season to commence without these treats sitting next to a bowl of mixed nuts (in the shell) and his feet (which were always on the coffee table).  No mind was paid to the fact that these candies are nearly guaranteed to lack desirability in both flavor and texture (read: don't chew); both the candies and nuts were only eaten when severe hunger and desperation for the holiday meal overcame whomever happened to be in the living room.  It always seemed to me that the actual reason for having the nuts and candy on the table were that they gave my father a handy way to fill our stockings at the end of a Christmas Eve spent indulging in Budweiser.  Our stockings were always filled to the brim with this shitty candy, walnuts in the shell and oranges (which were thankfully kept safely away in the kitchen).  While I appreciate a good orange, and walnuts are okay in my book, they lose a certain something when stuffed in a fuzzy stocking alongside unwrapped, medicine- like candy.
The New Year brought about some other interesting traditions in our household.  Fish and pork were required eating at our house and one, even a child, cannot help but wonder what masochist came up with this combination.  As soon as the new day began, my father insisted we eat fish for good luck.  Not just any fish, either. Herring.  If you're not familiar, I suggest you don't become.  Herring comes in small jars (obviously even the purveyors of herring realize this is not something eaten in large amounts) and is found in the deli section of the local grocery store.  It is either in a vinegary sauce or in a vinegary cream sauce.  My father would buy both.  Somehow, he felt that the cream sauced fish was a more palatable offering to his gagging children.  When we got older and downright refused to eat this 'tradition,' my father settled for us eating an onion out of the jar.  Which is reasonable, considering how much children love onions, particularly ones soaked in vinegar and cream with a slight fishy taste.
After consumption of our middle of the night fish, we kids were sent off to bed to dream of the pork dinner that awaited us the next day.  I enjoy a pork roast dinner, but the trauma of the herring often trumped looking forward to any meal in the near future.  While I just threw up in my mouth a little thinking about it, I can't help but wish my father was here this New Year's eve to force feed my own children a little vinegary, creamy filth (I mean fish).
This weeks tip:  My mother was with us on the great hard candy and herring 'traditions' - she thought they sucked too.  She does keep up the having fish to start off the New Year tradition by eating smoked whitefish salad.  This is not unlike a tuna salad, but much tastier.  Whatever the nonsensical thing your family does to celebrate the holiday, suck it up and soak it in (or adjust it to include smoked whitefish), because, amazingly, you will miss it when it's gone.  Happy New Year, and may old friends not be forgotten :)

Thanks be to ye, oh Jesus sandal

My mother had the terribly annoying habit of wanting to ready the house before company arrived.  You know, dusting, cleaning the floors, scrubbing the toilet and a general round of top notch straightening.  A few days before one particular Thanksgiving, she decided to re-do the entire kitchen.  This involved removing wall paper from the wall, sanding, painting ceilings and walls; tasks that a normal person might not undertake two days before expecting a house full of guests.  Amazingly, she accomplished all of this in time for our holiday company, minus returning the fan blades to the ceiling fan above the kitchen table.  This is where me, my brother and, most importantly, my father came in.

From the bathroom, where I was busy praying to the porcelain god (after having spent most of the previous night celebrating Thanksgiving Eve), I heard my mother beckoning.  I emerged, bleary-eyed and attempting to reacquaint my tongue with inside of my mouth (it seemed to weigh fifty pounds and to be in need of a good shave) to find my mother motioning to the kitchen table and the fan blades lying atop it.  As I understood, I was to climb on table and replace the blades.  Shakily, I crawled on the table and pressed my sweaty cheeks upon it before attempting a vertical stance.  Once I steadied myself, I placed one blade in its slot and tightened the screws.  The weight of the blade caused the entire fan to move slowly in a circular fashion (as fans are known to do); you can imagine that this is not exactly the situation someone with a fifty pound tongue and a vise around their brain wants to find themselves in.  Moving faster than someone in my condition should be able, I jumped from the table top, ran into the bathroom and remained there for unaccountable amounts of time.  It's at this point that my brother made his appearance and my mother asked him to resume the job I'd started.  While he was too young to drink excessive amounts of anything but Mountain Dew, my brother soon found himself also overcome by the dizziness and nausea of the slow moving fan blade.  Two down.

Completely disgusted, my mother continued preparing our Thanksgiving feast all the while cursing and muttering about the utter uselessness of her children.  It is here that my father made his appearance, pretending that he had come to see what the fuss was all about when we all know he had come into the kitchen searching for beer and snacks.  She quickly brought him up to speed on the situation, at which point he offered to hop up on the table himself and get the whole damned thing done.  It should be mentioned here that my father was not a small man - neither in stature or weight.  My mother scoffed at the idea and continued her cooking.  Mere moments passed and I swear I heard the low whine of protest from the hardware that held together the solid wood kitchen table followed by what I imagined to be the sound of a sonic boom.  The next sound was that of a wounded animal; low moaning and whimpering. One never imagines the day will come when they will find their father lying amidst the rubble of the kitchen table while his Birkenstocks sit neatly by bearing witness (as any good Jesus sandal would); but this is exactly what I found when I entered the kitchen, my hangover pushed aside out of curiosity.  My mother was standing by, spoon in hand, with a look of equal parts fascination and irritation.  "I told you you couldn't get up there" she said as she turned back to the stovetop.

We managed to get my father into the living room and clean up his feet which were cut up and bleeding.  After the moaning subsided, we laughed our asses off.  We wondered aloud what would possess such an intelligent man, of his size, to attempt to stand on the kitchen table.  In fact, tears were streaming down our faces as we watched him hobble into the kitchen to fix the table before company arrived.  Yep, my mother insisted that the table be fixed, as soon as his feet were tightly bandaged and could hold him up.  He assessed the damage and decided that the only thing that saved him were his Jesus sandals. After some considerable time, and the utilization of power tools, all was well by the time our guests arrived - if well means that there are screws sticking about an inch out of the top of your kitchen table while one lone fan blade remains in constant slow motion (not unlike the Eternal Flame).

We had obtained some semblance of normalcy as a family unit and promised my father we would not mention his earlier lapse in judgement, his ensuing injuries, nor his wonder at the saving properties of his sandals(we managed to keep these promises until Christmas).  Shortly after our company had arrived, my mother went to check on the bird and side dishes only to find that the oven had quit working at some point, and that dinner was no where near done.  Another person might have considered the day completely ruined and gone back to bed at this point, but not my mother.  She promptly put the turkey into the microwave and refreshed the drinks and snacks for everyone.  It is here she proves that she is unflappable: one fan blade spinning around in a mocking fashion, a kitchen table a little worse for the wear, children who have proved useless and an underdone bird will not put a damper on her day.  We ate dinner somewhere before bedtime and chuckled to ourselves on this day of thanks.  It is interesting to note that I don't believe that those blades were ever returned to the fan as no one was ever brave enough to attempt replacing them again.

This weeks tip:
My mother's kitchen savvy saved her meal that day.  The use of the microwave oven was genius on my mother's part and the turkey emerged from it fully cooked and quite tasty.  Whenever my mother has had to buy a new microwave in subsequent years, she has made sure that they were big enough to accommodate a turkey, because as she says "You never know".  In order to fully cook a turkey in the microwave, it is highly recommended that you place the bird breast side down for juiciness purposes.  The turkey can be cooked at full power for six minutes per pound.  A twenty to twenty-five pound turkey should be at approximately 180 degrees (farenheit) internal temperature when fully cooked; this can be measured with a meat thermometer, but make sure not to touch bone when you put thermometer in as it will give you an inaccurate reading.

Another Year Older and Deeper in Debt...

We forgot my mother's birthday exactly once. And really, that's all it takes. Once and you will never forget it again. I mean completely forgot - no cake, no presents; not even a hastily crayoned piece of construction paper reading "Happy Birthday". The day after, in a pathetic attempt to make it up, my father brought home a cake; my mother laughed - a humorless, bitter sound if ever there was; a sound to make you want to wrap yourself in woolen blankets and move out of the house. We would not be celebrating a day late, we blew our one and only shot. Any other day but the actual day was going to be too late and we hung our heads in shame for an entire year. I mean, honestly, this is the only person in the world who will never forget your birthday, considering she was one of the main characters in the event of your receiving the gift of life. While we never forgot again, we often screwed up her birthday gifts - ugly ill-fitting robes with zippers (giving the wearer, regardless of size, the appearance of a poorly packed sausage), perfume purchased at the Woolworth counter (next to the lip balm and bubbalicious), handkerchiefs (again Woolworths) and I barely have the nerve to mention the slippers that appeared to be boots, which would work I suppose if your mother was Robin Hood. Gifts clearly purchased in haste, or worse, not taking the honoree into account at all. Gifts that screamed 'You are an after thought' at best and 'I hate your f*@*ing guts' at worst. It's amazing that she didn't throw these paltry items at us, or discontinue feeding us. We would have done better to throw greasy coins in an envelope, or to give her her own wallet. As we got older, we did a better job by actually asking her what she wanted; exactly what she wanted or needed. My father improved his practices as well opting for jewelry most of the time, although I was always sent around the corner at the last minute to purchase a card.

Alternately, our mother never once forgot our birthdays or provided shitty, useless, downright embarrassing gifts. Our birthdays she always got just right, except for one little, barely noticeable piece. If we didn't have a party (roller rinks, bowling alleys, McDonalds, or some other outside venue - mom was not a fan of having large numbers of children running around the house with a donkey tail and moving her dining chairs around) we got to have the meal of our choice. Sometimes it was pizza, sometimes chinese food; more often than not it was something homemade that required some large amount of time be spent by her in the kitchen. We still request the same meals: my brother gets stuffed peppers and I get loin of pork with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes and my husband has been known to get a veal cutlet request fulfilled. Our gifts were always something we mentioned we wanted or needed, or something we didn't know we wanted but realized that we did when they were presented - video games, the right boots, real perfume, hockey tickets. We asked and we received.

The only problem came when it was time for cake. As children, we didn't realize this was a problem and could have gone our whole lives without noticing, if our mother did not make such a drastic turnaround with the birthday dessert in recent years. Sara Lee or Pepperidge Farm frozen desserts were served without fail on our birthdays. You know those frozen cakes (iced) that cost like two for five dollars (well actually they're two for seven now, no doubt due to inflation). Chocolate iced, vanilla iced, coconut (you know it - iced) and I believe there was a strawberry shortcake type of offering as well. If defrosted in time, these cakes are quite tasty and provide a refreshing perspective on the idea of cake. I actually looked forward to my frozen, uniformly square cake each year and knew we were having a larger group than usual if she purchased two. My favorite remains a devils food treat with chocolate icing, but I won't say no to the coconut one either (coconut flakes included).

Somehow, along the way, my mother has picked up the knack for baking, so no more frozen delicacies for us. She now makes candy, toffee, brownies (with candy bars and powdered sugar that will make you need to change your underwear) and you guessed it - cake. These things are made from scratch (which I understand is hard to come by) and will blow your hair back, or at least make you re-think your love of Sara Lee. With my birthday coming up, my mother offered to make something that contained cherries and involved the word ganache. I'm certain that I looked confused and then requested Duncan Hines. Baby steps my friends.

This weeks tip: What with all the baking and confections being made in my mother's kitchen, it behooves her to figure out how to do these things with a little less fat than ordinary recipes call for. I like me some cake, but I like to fit in my jeans as well. For yellow cakes you can use applesauce or non-fat plain yogurt to replace the oil (equal measure) and for chocolate cake you can also use pureed prunes to replace the oil portion. While I haven't actually tried the prunes trick, I can attest to the applesauce tip. Really yummy, moist cake. Complete aside, I have used non-fat plain yogurt instead of mayo in chicken salad and it was fantastic.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

My mother's laugh is like the peal of an alarm bell. Not the new obnoxious bells you hear now in public places(eh-eh-eh with accompanying flashing lights). No, the old-fashioned school alarm bell - metal on metal. A sound when heard that I could never confuse with any other, a sound that compels you to join in even if you don't know the joke; a sound of home. Laughing is not the only thing my mother does loudly, its just my favorite loud sound she makes.

I'm not sure if my mother's loud and carrying voice is a learned skill or a talent she was born with; having grown up in New York City, a loud voice could come in handy if you wanted to make sure you were heard. Thing is, I know other people who grew up in the same spot she did and do not carry the power within their voice that she commands, so perhaps she was destined to yell in utero. She has an uncanny ability to be heard, regardless of circumstance or situation; when you hear her beckoning, my advice is to pay heed. Grocery stores, public events, church - you hear it, you better answer. I know people she has worked with who made her place their unpleasant phone calls for them, so powerful is her voice. Even now, at the age of thirty six, I sit up straight and my arm hair stands on end when I hear her call.

I never witnessed embarrassment on my mother's part when she would call for us. Out the window was her specialty. There was not a neighbor within a ten block radius who was not familiar with mine or my brother's name. I always expected strangers on the street to say, 'oh, you're the Kellianne we keep hearing about - why don't you learn to get home on time?' Time to come home, she yelled. I was caught crossing the street without permission, she yelled. I rang the bell too many times, she yelled. I once heard my mother's voice calling me home from around a corner and across a street. Not too terribly remarkable you might scoff (especially if you've forgotten that we were in New York); the thing is, I was underwater at the time, swimming in a friend's pool. Another time I fell down cement courtyard stairs while riding my bike, so startled was I when I heard my mother's voice. She called, I shook, and down the steps I went. Yelling was not necessarily indicative of emotion for my mother - angry, happy, indifferent - yelling was her currency and we always paid in full. The beauty of my mother's yell was that once she got it out of her system, she was done. Case closed, and we moved onto the next thing.

Alternately, and significantly more frightening, was my mother's ability to speak without moving her lips. This, I know for a fact, was a learned skill. I've seen her sister do it (actually, without using any facial muscles at all) and my grandmother was quite adept as well. If you got to a point where my mother was speaking in a hiss, you knew you were up shit's creek and silently prayed for the yelling to commence. My mother didn't curse when we were children, but she did say frigging quite a bit and sommana. I believe sommana to be a melding together of sounds found in son-of-a, most often followed by bitch. She never said the bitch part, but when talking sans lip movement, one is granted certain liberties, as this is a feat unto itself. And really the bitch would have just been redundant because when someone seems completely composed to the outside observer, but is making you almost mess your pants, curses are unnecessary. Usually this occurred in public when you were bordering on embarrassing her. You knew you had no one to blame but yourself because there had been fair warnings of yelling and stink eye. I've always wondered how someone with occasional lockjaw could sustain talking like this, but like so many things with my mother, it remains a mystery.

It is my firm belief that my mother could have pursued any number of careers - fish monger, street crier, professional spy; instead she chose to teach us how to laugh.

This weeks tip: As someone who uses their voice for a living, I have found this particular motherly tip to come in handy quite often. If you find yourself with a sore throat, nothing beats gargling with salt water. Hot salt water. Fill a juice glass with water as hot as you can stand to put in your mouth. Throw some salt in and swish it around. Gargle, spit, repeat as frequently as you can and especially before bed. This works extremely well at soothing a sore throat and is especially handy when pregnant and over the counter medications are out of the question.

Hair it Loud

My cousin Terri cut her hair with a hole punch when we were kids. She hid under a coffee table crying and refusing to come out, so afraid was she of what my aunt would say or do upon discovering the ridiculousness that was her hair. I don't remember if there was any punishment (other than looking kind of foolish) for her; mostly I remember that we laughed. Terri was maybe four or five, definitely no more than six when she made this bold gesture that one can only can blame on the folly of the young; it grew out eventually and she remained the cherubic little cutie she always was. I, on the other hand, spent nearly my entire childhood with hair that made others scratch their heads and remark "aww, look at that nice, little slow girl".

Now my mother could braid (double french braids being a specialty), and do pony and pig tails like nobody's business. Beyond that, it was as if I had committed a grave crime that my mother was hell bent on revenging with continuous hairtastrophes. She offers her left-handedness as an explanation for the sadistic acts performed, repeatedly, on my unsuspecting head, but honestly no one who makes such errors in hair styling would continue to do so unless there was a genuine dislike for the victim.

The first such horror found me at the age of three or four nearly shorn bald due to my mother hacking away so much. One of my aunts had to intervene, at my father's insistence, and I feel certain that people asked my mother if was recently returned from some sort of work camp or on the mend from a horrible illness. Like I mentioned previously, one would think that my mother would stop there; no dice. She claims she kept it so short at a young age on purpose, so that it would grow in thicker when I was older; downright suspect if you ask me.

The haircuts continued through my childhood, and while not quite as drastic as that first one they were absurd in their own right. My mother is left handed, however she did not own a pair of scissors made for left handed people, nor did she even own scissors meant for cutting hair. What she did have was a cutting implement left over from my grandmother's house that in size and rustyness resembled civil war era pruning shears(we could have carbon dated that mess). This was the tool with which my mother performed her magic. She might have better served her purposes with a plastic butter knife.

Other than the time in the second grade when my mother sent me to get a Dorothy Hamill cut - you know if Dorothy Hamill was a lesbian living in the Eastern block - my mother kept my hair style simple: long and straight with bangs. I'll grant you that long and straight is not difficult to maintain even for the seriously inept at cutting hair. Even if cut sloppily (as mine always was), it is not that noticeable and can be 'covered' up with the creative use of barrettes and bobby pins. Bangs are another story altogether as they sit at the top of your face. My mother never learned to cut them straight and in an attempt to straighten them out, she would go shorter and shorter. The cutting only stopped when I bore a striking resemblance to someone who was just released from an insane asylum. The little bit of bang left was an uneven tuft of hair, approximately six inches from my eyebrows, giving me a look of perpetual surprise. I want to say that this was the worst of it, but I do not like to lie. It was far from okay, not by damn sight. The antiquity of the cutting implement coupled with my mother's left-handedness added a succession of dents in the skin on my forehead. Affectionately called 'poke holes' by my mother, my forehead would remain battered and remarkably red for days following a haircut.

Unfortunately, for me, the cutting of my hair was not nearly enough for mom. My mother was a fan of using curlers and hot rollers on my head as well. Picture days at school, holidays, family parties - all of these events found me the night before with hard plastic gnawing at my tender skull. Here's a headful of plastic and metal, now go to sleep. That's right I (and every other girl who grew up in the seventies) had to sleep at a sixty degree angle giving one a crick in the neck and a headache at best. If it wasn't the innocuous looking pink curler with a styrofoam like material wrapped around my hair and clipped in, then it was very large yellow rollers (looking like wiffle balls that were made into cylinders) held in place with metal pins and clips. Whoever is responsible for the creation of these beautifying implements was a sick, sick puppy. Probably the same bastard who came up with the eyelash curler.

Thankfully, my mother put down her scissors (or they gave up the ghost) when I entered the sixth grade. She took me to a real haircutting salon and allowed me to pick my own haircut. I chose the mullet.

This weeks’ tip: For someone who was so abusive to hair, my mother believed it should be soft and shiny. When she was a kid she says she used beer for shine and mayonnaise for silkiness, and there was some mention of eggs. Above all these home remedies, however, she recommends a product made by Alberto V05, which has apparently been in use since the 1960s. It is called conditioning hairdressing and comes in a tube. It has the consistency of vaseline and a little tiny dab will do ya - shiny, soft hair achieved for under five bucks. The tube lasts forever too (the tube I have currently has been in my possession since the 90s), and it has different sets of directions on it depending on the outcome you're looking for.

Burning Daylight

My mother will readily admit to not knowing the first thing about cooking when she first got married at the age of nineteen. My father was fond of remarking that she was incapable of boiling water at the start of their wedded bliss. Thanks to the diligent efforts of my father and his mother, my mother became a pretty damn good cook. The older I get, the more refined her skills get, but I have to say that things were pretty touch and go there for a while when I was a child.

My childhood memories are enveloped in a shroud of hazy smoke emanating from the broiler and the taste of burnt meat etched on the back of my tongue. In my mother's kitchen, everything was well done; if not slightly burnt, then it was deemed not quite ready. If a little too burnt, one could always use a butter knife to scrape off the black parts. While some things are truly better when a little crispy (fried chicken, pizza cheese), let me assure you overdone london broil requires a true sense of adventure (I tried every condiment to make this dazzleless gem of a meal more palatable) and overdeveloped jaw muscles. I've read in recent years that chewing your food a certain number of times is better for digestion and will help keep off the pounds. Perhaps my mother was wise beyond her years and aiming to keep us at fighting weight? Whatever the case, I feel truly fortunate to not have developed the distinguished look of a pit bull.

My mother served applesauce with nearly every meal, and while she swears to love this innocuous baby food item, one cannot help but wonder if she just wanted to provide a lubricant for the extremely cooked meats she served most nights of the week. My mother's efforts were applauded by my father who thoroughly enjoyed overcooked food (I only ever saw him spit food out twice). Whenever the burning got out of hand, my father would laugh and inquire if my mother was burning daylight again.

Aside from the burnt meat, my mother's cooking was just fine. Food stuffs from a box or can are pretty hard to mess up and when you add a little salt and a little butter truly everything tastes better. Except for gravy, I had never witnessed my mother make anything from scratch throughout my entire childhood (my love of frozen Sara Lee cakes stems from this fact). She did attempt to make tomato sauce from scratch once that I recall, but when the blender broke while she was pureeing the tomatoes, we had a meal that was sparkly, gritty, and I can only hope provided us all some much need roughage.

As I grew older, my mother got better and better at cooking (or maybe I just got more used to it) but my father was genuinely confused when I refused to eat certain things anymore. "Since when don't you like broiled (again, read burnt) chicken breast? he'd implore. Um, since never; generally people buttering their meat (and by buttering their meat I mean...) can be safely assumed to not like it very much. While I have never been a huge fan of animal flesh (I prefer cream of wheat, pea soup and anything else that doesn't set my teeth and jaws into doing the work equivalent of a spinning class), I have to admit that I honestly enjoy a pork chop with the look and texture of a hockey puck - you know if hockey pucks were made from pigs. Some salt, some butter and you got yourself a little piece of heaven.

This weeks tip: Well versed in the clean up of a burnt meal, my mother swears that nothing removes burnt on food from a roasting pan, frying pan, or pot better than your everyday dryer sheet. Just put the dryer sheet (or two depending on the size of the pan) in the bottom of the pan and run some lukewarm water into it. Let it sit for a little while and then rinse. You will not have to use steel wool or have a pot soaking in your sink for days on end. You can use the dryer sheet to wipe off the gunk that has magically been lifted off of your cookware and clean as you normally would. Dryer sheets will also clean gunk off of the burners on your stovetop as well as your oven. They are quite handy tools to keep around the house and seem to work much better at removing gunk and grime than any of the stuff that comes in a spray bottle.

Of Urchins and Friends

My mother used the term 'street urchin' to describe and define a broad category of children running around the streets of New York City in the seventies and eighties. Generally, she used the term to talk about kids whose parents didn't know where they were or what they were doing at any given time of day, although you could also be called a street urchin if your fingernails weren't trimmed or had dirt underneath them; like I said, broad term. My mother didn't usually want me spending a lot of time with street urchins, and usually she was right - they were tougher kids who seemed to derive joy from breaking toys or fist fighting. Kids who weren't going to be nice enough to me, or who would use me were not the kind of friends my mother preferred I had. Like most other things, my mother had clear cut opinions on whom I should spend my time with.

As I got older, I got better at choosing my friends, but like most kids, I wasn't fantastic at it. My mother's opinions remained, but she was less vocal as I think she realized she had less control over who I spent my time with & truthfully you can't stop a kid from making mistakes ALL the time. In about the fifth grade, I realized that girls were mean. Spiteful, gossipy, superficial, bitches. This was the time of my life where it wasn't uncommon for me to be best friends with someone one week and arch enemies with them the following. After an entire school year of this, my mother sat me down and explained that the friends I had then weren't necessarily the friends I would have later in life. I was going to grow up and out of the friendships, and that a girl only needed one good friend as opposed to say five or six . It was her way of telling me not to sweat it, things would all work out for me and I shouldn't spend my time bemoaning such trivialities. I listened respectfully and then rolled my eyes when she left the room; because really what the hell did she know?

The thing is she was right. I had already met my one true friend, but didn't know it yet. Thirty years later, she sits across the room from me having driven across the country to be my son's godmother. The past two years have been rough on her, but she's well now and we're together; not just friends, but family. Below is something I wrote when she first got sick:

She is one of my oldest memories. My grandmother's house, three doors down. The little girl whom I call for at her window. I stand on the concrete steps talking to her at her window. Our conversation is silliness, not memorable, but it is. To me.

" Want to come out and play? My grandmother lives just there. We played the other time I was here" I nod my head down the street, where my cousin Scott sits in front my grandmother's house playing Pink Floyd on his boom box. Scott is older, does bad things and doesn't have any interest in the likes of me. We don't need no education.

"I'll ask my mother, I can probably sit on the stoop." she says. I don't know her name. We go to the same dancing school, but I don't know this then, not until later when we compare.

I remember this clearly even though I was only possibly five when I visited my grandmother on 67th street, before her second marriage and the move two blocks away where she remains until she dies.

We don't meet again until I am twelve. I am in love (really? no) with the boy whose father owns the old lady hair salon on Myrtle Avenue. My grandmother goes there for her perms. Strange connections to my grandmother. Now I live in the neighborhood and am new here and flat chested. I like to play softball with the boys in the schoolyard. I like the tall, skinny german boy whom she likes too. He sees me first, but it is no matter, because she is beautiful. Not like a twelve year old, not like me. I'll be thirteen at the end of the year, but I will not have her breasts, or her smile. She is now my nemesis, but only for a little while.

I decide to hate her, just as she has decided that she will conquer me in this love game with the german boy. He cannot help it. I am no doubt fun to make out with, and play ball with, but with her, the possibilities are endless. I can tell. My friends side with me. They tell me things about her. She goes to Catholic school, she goes to parties where they play spin the bottle. She dances; in competitions. I do none of these. I am new.

I am ashamed that I will lose my first boyfriend, so I will fight her. I will ride my bicycle right up to her outside the schoolyard fence where she has taken to walking past frequently. I call her out. She does not respond, because this is not her way. It is my way for a long time, but never her way. I claim victory in this small challenge, because it is all I have. She really will win. Not just the boyfriend, but my friendship as well. I get over it, and we are friends she and I.

The boyfriend lasts for her far longer than he did for me. He will cheat on her, with me and others until he is nothing to her anymore. It takes us until junior year in highschool to get to this point. Another girl, another friend we know. His name called out at her sweet sixteen candle cermeony at Pellegrini's. We go to different highschools, she and I, but the cheating girl is in my class. My highschool friends side with her when the boy cheats with the other girl. There are big discussions, and endless gossip. This silly german boy did not come between us, nothing much ever does. My entire teenage and adult life is based on the comfort of our friendship.

We meet other boys. Involve ourselves in other dramas. Broken hearts, sentimental claptrap, Lisa Lisa songs sung walking arm in arm after too many Bartles and James. I will return her to her parents house dead drunk when she is with the boy that is forbidden. She will say I have spent the night at her house, even if I haven't. Take turns holding one anothers hair when vomitting. We will see each other off on prom night, whisper about what we've done. We will have sleepovers, share clothing, secrets, dreams. We are very good at this friendship.

We have other friends, some that we share, some that we don't. It does not matter. We are a unit, a fact. I will tell her everything, she me. We fight some, but it is forgiven within a short time. She is more forgiving than me, easier than me to be around I think. We laugh. We learn to drive in her fathers station wagon. It is blue and older than anyone we know. It is okay, because the learning takes place in Pennslyvania where no one can see us. Her father is very patient, but cannot help but remove himself fromt the vehicle to show us where the stop sign really is. We will go to each others functions, family parties, see each other off to other countries. Friends indeed.

In college, she will go to my math class for me. We were going to go away, be lawyers together. Schools down south. Baron's books full of school names, and highlighters to choose just the right place for us. It does not occur to us to go west, or north. We do go not away, especially not down south where we do not belong. College does not suit her, but she will sit in my math class instead of her classes and take the tests for me. I find it odd, but am glad someone is willing to participate in the requirements. We are often late when she drives, she has sneezing fits and migraine headaches. This irritates the rest of us, but it doesn't really matter. We will miss her when she doesn't come back next semester.

When my boyfriend dies, she is the only one. We are grown up, but no so much. She more than me because she has been working, I have been screwing around at school. She has a boyfriend too. One I don't particularly care for, which is often the case. I never think they are good enough for her, and mostly they aren't. Mostly I miss her and get jealous. Her boyfriend does not die, but she takes care of me. Brings me movies, buys me Gossamer. Does not make me dwell on the awful things people are saying and doing around me. She lets me be myself, tells me the truths I need to know and lets me know I am good enough. When my father gets sick, she has me over to dinner at her house a lot. Her mother makes divine things like macaroni and cheese and tarts. At my house there is broiled chicken and fish. I eat elsewhere often.

We decide to go to California. Finally going west occurs to us. This is an almost obscene idea to our families. New Yorkers are so firmly planted, but we reckon that we have our own tv's and bedspreads, so we can spread our wings and fly the nest. We will bring the right sandals, my light up phone, we are ready. I go first because I need to leave. She comes a month later. We are roommates. We are new together.

Life takes us apart. Always a man. When I leave and wind up subsequently heartbroken, she mends me with a visit. Discussions, tears, drinking. All of the things one needs to get over the latest, the last. When my father dies, she holds me in her arms. We will visit less and less as we get caught up in our things. We will marry and not attend each others weddings. I am cruel, unnecessarily so as I can be when I think I'm right. We are still friends, but distant ones. E-mail friends, Christmas card friends. Friends it takes a long time to catch up with, so we leave the big parts out.

Over the past few years, we have become close again. No animosity, she has forgiven me before I even apologize for cruelties and things unsaid. She is so much better than I. My one true friend. We take the time now to catch up. "Did I tell you?..." She is reference point for me, "remember so and so...?" I am confident in us, our ability to weather any storm.

Now she is sick. Cancer. I cannot wrap my brain around this. We are young, vital. She is sick and in pain. She is suffering and I feel compelled to hold her hand. Lay on a couch with her. Laugh and cry. Be the friend she lets me think I can be. She is one of my oldest memories.

Ears to Ya

I got to leave school early exactly two times in my academic life. The first time I was about six and my father picked me up to bring me to the Barnum and Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden (a day I recall fondly). The second time, I had the audacity to ask the school nurse to call my mother to say I wasn't feeling well. This required her coming up to school (a staggering two blocks away) and signing me out early. Although I did feel a little off - perhaps I didn't eat my lunch and was lightheaded? - I was definitely not sick enough to meet my mothers standards. I think I wanted to be like other kids whose mothers I had witnessed picking them up for illness during the day whom I imagined spent the day on the couch being spoon fed chicken noodle soup and watching cartoons under a cozy blanket. What really happened was I wound up stuck in my room (no TV even) for lying. After this anti-climatic experience I didn't even dare to try to go home early - sick or no.

In my mother's mind, one was not really sick unless they were running a high fever, bleeding profusely (and honestly, how many times in a grade schoolers life is one bleeding profusely? and furthermore if you're bleeding profusely school attendance has got to be low on your list of priorities, no?), or vomiting. Under these circumstances, and these circumstances only, could one stay home from school. As a matter of fact, in the fourth grade I suffered from a case of hives and the chicken pox both. While I was allowed to stay home for the chicken pox (because of both school and health department mandates), I did get sent to school with hives. I'm not talking about a slight rash here, I'm talking huge red welts whose appearance was not unlike a relief map of the United States and what was then considered the Soviet Union. In addition, my lips were so swollen it seemed as if I had just returned from visiting an African tribe who placed bones through lips for aesthetic purposes (obviously I had access to National Geographic). The accompanying speech impediment was just icing on the cake. My feet were also swollen making walking difficult but sure as shit they still fit in my ugly ass, blue uniform school shoes. My mother reasoned that not being able to walk and talk properly would keep me out of trouble; armed with a bottle of caladryl lotion, off to school I went.

This is not to say that my mother was unsympathetic and uncaring when we were sick; quite the opposite. Aside from the hives situation, she hardly ever laughed out loud at all when we fell ill. She employed all the tricks in her bag to make us feel better: St. Joseph's chewable aspirin, Vicks Vapo Rub, alcohol rubs, ginger ale, dry toast and unsweetened hot tea. When these remedies did not heal us up and get us off to school, my mother called in the big guns.

My brother and I were both prone to frequent ear aches as children. Ear infections and burst ear drums have the annoying habit of being accompanied by a fever that will not go away on its own. It was during these times that my mother called upon her friend, the sadist. Somehow, my mother had in her employ an Italian-American man whose arcane medical knowledge allowed him to perform his voodoo in our very own bedrooms. While some may have called him a doctor, I have my misgivings. In broken English he would mutter what I think he believed were soothing tones. Accompanied by a black bag the size of my six year old self, this small, balding, bow-legged octogenarian inspired nothing but fear. And this was before he went to work on my ears. I recall one time screaming "my ear, my ear" while he confidently assured me that he was not touching my hair.

He went to work on my ears with what, in hindsight, I believe to have been dental picks and miniature axes. Digging deeply into my ear canal (and once, I think, penetrating my medula oblongata) amidst screaming and crying he would determine what was already known: ear infection. His methods were less than desirable and while the memory of his remedies are fuzzy, they clearly allowed me to survive another day and get back to school post haste.

This weeks tip: I mentioned my mother's use of Vicks Vapo Rub above, but she was a pure genius in the use of the unguent when it came to ear aches. Applying a small amount to a cotton ball, she would place this in the cup of my ailing ear. She would then have me lie on the affected ear which created what felt like a an individual heating pad, without the need for electricity and minus the risk of burning. The relief was nearly immediate. Coupled with ibuprofen, or your pain reliever of choice, the sufferer can get much needed rest. This works so well that I have used this remedy, as an adult, on myself and my own children. For added comfort, I also rub Vicks behind the ear and down the eustachian tubes (the tubes that connect the ears to the throat). By the way, the store brand of mentholated rub works equally well as the Vicks brand.

On the Line

One of my all time favorite smells is clean laundry and, as far as I'm concerned, nothing can beat the smell, or feel of laundry that has dried on the line in the summer sun. The sheets and towels flapping in the breeze, running through a yard with them still damp and catching you on your sun warmed face. The unbelievable softness of undergarments blown dry by the wind; ah, the joy of it all. Whole marketing plans have been based on this very thing. And I got to live it. My whole growing up life my mother had a washing machine, but no dryer. I never knew from dryer sheets; my mother used fabric softener and hung the wash out on a clothesline that went from a hook outside the bedroom window to a hook on the utility pole out back. You might think she (and by she, I mean me) only did this in the spring and summer time, when the weather was warm, but you would be wrong. My mother never let a little thing like mother nature's timetable dictate what to do with her clean laundry (or anything else for that matter).

This wasn't too terrible in the fall when the sun could still really pack a wallop. It was slightly irritating to hang out or pull in during the fall months; sun or no, there was still a chill in the air and my bony (read: pansy ass) hands always got cold fast, and perhaps a little cramped (all right, truth be told I hated hanging out and pulling in the wash regardless of season). Irritating perhaps, but definitely doable.

Winter was a whole different story, nay a different genre. Hanging out the window, practically being blown away by fierce northeastern winds - and no it doesn't matter that we lived on the first floor and about twenty minutes west of the beach- let me assure you that wind is wind people. Frost covered clothespins, their little metal levers barely able to be pried open. The cold, red and wet hands trying futilely to open these little wooden demons. Having to use your teeth to force them open, the inevitable lip splinter, the cursing and the crying; you cannot imagine the physical horrors involved here. Woe was me.

The battle with the clothespins and elements aside, the back breaking work of actually wearing clothing that has been frozen almost made the whole hanging out/pulling in process enjoyable. You have not lived until you have placed a still cold pair of crackling blue jeans on your quivering legs. I can assure you there is no other physical sensation quite like it, and rightly so.

Now don't think that my mother hung laundry in the snow or driving rain, because even she realized these were not weather scenarios to be trifled with. For these particularly bad days she utilized a clothes rack and the radiators scattered around the apartment. The radiator, while actually drying and warming clothes left you with tell tale bumps and humps all over your crispy blue jeans, giving you the appearance of humpbacked legs or goiters if you were a fan of the turtleneck (I learned not to be). It really wasn't so bad, I mean the cold only lasted from November until March; really no time at all. Thinking on it now, I believe my mother may have been the forerunner in character education.

This weeks tip: My mother is the best stain remover I know (yeah, she's got that going for her). When I was really young, I remember her scrubbing stains with brown soap and this worked well most of the time. However, when I got older, my mother discovered Lestoil and there was no turning back. If you can get past the smell, Lestoil will remove any stain you can think of. Mom advises applying a capful to the stain as soon as possible and rub it in a little. Let it sit and then wash the item of clothing in the hottest water it can stand. Additionally, make sure the stain is completely gone before putting your clothes in a dryer as the heat from the dryer can set a stain permanently if it is not gone. Recently one of my family members left chocolate kisses in their pants pocket. I didn't discover this until I washed and then dried an entire load of laundry. The result was a whole bunch of clothes that looked like someone used them as toilet paper. Lestoil was applied and all stains are gone!!

Cats Outta the Bag

My mother taught me two very important things about cats. One, they do indeed land on their feet and two, she hated them. At the tender age of six, I watched in horror as my mother opened the window and threw a stray cat out of it. Doesn't sound too terrible? It was a second story window. I was at that stage of my life where I thought I was going to be a veterinarian and rescue all kinds of animals. Up until this point, I had 'rescued' bugs, and birds (including pigeons, which I had yet to realize are filthy rats with wings); the cat was to be my crowning glory. Before I could work my magic and transform this ragged beast from stray to pet, my mother grabbed it out of my arms and tossed it right out the window. Due to the trauma of this event, my memory of it is nearly photographic (operative word here is nearly). I remember practically humming with excitement as I ran in the door to show my mom my latest treasure; cat and I both a little sweaty and grimy. The cat hissing and attempting to jump out of my chubby armed hug (he didn't know the glorious future I had in mind for him), the look of disdain (could have been interpreted as utter hatred) on my mother's face that I dared bring such a creature into her apartment. The snatching, and brisk walk (I'd never seen her move so fast) to the porch at the front of the apartment. The brief struggle with the window and screen and then finally, the tossing. I'd never seen her exhibit such strength either, what with the window opening and all. My mother turning to me and declaring "Never liked cats, sneaky damn things." That was the sum total of her excuse for tossing an animal out the window: sneaky. Even though I was in shock, it did occur to me that I too was occasionally sneaky and quite possibly this was her warning for my future if I kept up my nonsense? I can imagine the look on my face that must have prompted my mother to further tell me to quit my worrying, because everyone knew that cats land on their feet. As far as she was concerned that was that. End of conversation. Later on in my childhood my mother did allow me to have a fish named Harry as a pet. He wasn't rescued and the only form of abuse he suffered was the occasional peanut that my uncles threw into his bowl after a night of playing cards. My mother only went near the thing to clean his bowl.

In a bizarre twist of fate, both my brother and I are allergic to cats. This, of course, was learned at other peoples houses as a cat never darkened our doorstep again. Word probably got out around cat circles. Perhaps my mother already knew this and was attempting to keep us from undo suffering; or perhaps our allergy stems from an attachment disorder or post traumatic stress. Who could tell? What I can tell you with absolute certainty: cats are sneaky goddamn creatures that land on their feet.

This weeks tip: If you too are allergic to cats, my mother has just the remedy. The itchy, red and sometimes puffy eyes that accompany an allergy attack can be remedied with baby shampoo. That's right. Take a cool wash cloth and squirt some baby shampoo on it (baby wash will do too). Gently rub around eyelids and puffy redness disappears. Mom also says that you can gently wash your eyes with cool water and baby shampoo, like when you wash your face at the sink.

Introductions - Sh** My Mom Knows

My mom knows everything, and as much as it pains me to admit it, it's an irrefutable fact. I don't mean she's a quantum physicist (she's not) or has a photographic memory (she doesn't) but she does know the lyrics to any song you can think up from 1950 on, can do a mean crossword, can hook up all kinds of electronics and can answer just about any question I can think up (within reason, mostly because I'm not terribly imaginative). More and more I find she can solve whatever day- to- day conundrum I can think up, especially so since I've had children. I find myself calling her and getting the solution within a matter of moments. What's more, if she doesn't have the solution, she reaches into her bottomless bag of resources - including but not limited to: phone book (yup she still uses), newspaper (still gets it delivered, mainly for comics and crossword), or friend of a friend among her favorites. My mother is the queen of the friend of a friend who knows so and so or has had such and such happen to them or their mail carrier's cousin.

As a kid, I was hesitant to ask my mother questions. Her responses ran the gamut: how the hell do I know, I failed Spanish and just call the Brooklyn Public Library were among her most frequent responses. Maybe taking care of two kids, a husband and a household left little time for her to really show her true abilities for problem solving. It didn't strike me as odd at the time as my grandmothers didn't seem to offer much in the world of advice. One cooked exclusively in plastic bags and the other suggested either that you either "put butter on it" or "sit on the pot" as the answers to most questions.

I am nearly thirty-seven years old and recently had an epiphany, a come to mother if you will. My mother beats Google hands down. Her correct response stats are pretty phenomenal and I don't have to sift through endless information or wonder if the information is correct (thinking wikipedia here). My first thought when I encounter an issue that my useless brain cannot compute is to call or email my mother. She doesn't fail. With this in mind, my next thought was 'who am I to keep this all to myself'. When you find out something good, you gotta share, right? And, here we are.

This weeks tip: Cellphones plus water equals bad, another irrefutable fact. My husband discovered this recently when he jumped in the pool, wearing all of his clothes, with his cellphone in his pocket (another story, another day). The car keys were in there too, but the alarm button didn't seem the least bit affected. Anyway, later that night, as we were bemoaning having to get a new phone (and of course we don't have cell phone insurance), my mom suggested rice. Yup, take battery out, put the phone in a ziploc baggie with rice and leave overnight. "Try it, whaddya got to lose?" she implored. Well, sure as shit, it worked. We didn't have white rice, but as it turns out long grain and wild rice from Rice-A-Roni works too (minus spice packets). Less rice, but same phone! When I asked her how she knew to do that, she told me "I saw it on All My Children". Huh.