You May be Jésus to Your Mama, but you're Jesus to me

It probably could have been easily predicted that I was destined for trouble when my parents colluded to lie to a Catholic priest in order to have me baptized.  Christening under false pretenses is, no doubt, a venial sin at the very least.  Because my parents had not been married in the Catholic Church, and because my grandfather called my mother, and then subsequently me, a heathen, they decided they better christen me. This was not such an easy matter for them.  When I was six months old they finally were able to get me baptized at St. Stanislaus, the only church in the borough of Queens who was willing to christen the child born of two people who were not even considered married in the eyes of the Church.  And while they could have chosen to depart completely from Catholicism (and I truly believe my father would have been all over that), my parents chose to raise my brother and I as Catholics because, truth told, what else did they know?

Because I went to public school, my parents sent me to catechism classes beginning in the first grade.  Clearly, one needs an early start to get properly indoctrinated.  Once a week, me and all the other Catholic kids left our own school right after lunch in order to attend the nearest Catholic school for lessons, while all the kids who regularly attended the parochial schools had a half day every Wednesday and could be seen at the pizza place and park while we sat in their abandoned classrooms.  This weekly schedule of half days lasted all the way through fifth grade and beginning in the sixth grade we attended catechism classes on Monday nights after dinner.  This particular situation worked out well for me for two reasons: one - I didn't have to witness all the parochial school kids having fun while we sat in class all afternoon, and two - my cousin Joann and I could sneak cigarettes on the walk from her house to the Catholic school under a cloak of darkness. 

In all those years I learned all the things I was supposed to learn in order to become a fully functioning member of the Catholic Church.  I memorized prayers, beatitudes and commandments.  I made sacraments, attended masses, received ashes, and figured out when to kneel/sit/stand without the aid of clicking dog training tools.  I also learned the importance of confession, and the joy that accompanies having unloaded all your misdeeds on a weekly basis and starting all over again.  Ah, sweet absolution.  Although much information had been passed along to me, nothing that I learned could have quite prepared me  for the nuggets of wisdom that my own children would pass on to me from their Catholic preschool experiences.

My son's first Christmas season in Catholic school found him eagerly anticipating the upcoming holiday.  School days included all sorts of seasonal art projects and countdowns to gift exchanging (and possibly Advent?).  My son returned home from school on one of these December days to inform us that there was a new guy in his class.  My husband and I heard somewhere that good parents listen and ask questions of their children,  and so after our son telling us for a few days about this new guy, my husband broke down and asked all about him.  Enthusiastically, our son told his father that the new guy was a baby.  A baby?  Yes, a baby who had a birthday coming up. The baby's name was Jesus and his birthday happened to be on Christmas.  Pretty cool, huh?

Deciphering pre-school talk is a pretty daunting task, and if you've never been around a four year old, think of an overly talkative, occasionally annoying, drunk friend.  When we entered the Easter season, our son was again fairly keyed up.  He talked endlessly of guys sleeping behind rocks and rabbits bringing eggs.  It was at this time that we were told that our son had solved the mystery of why we celebrate Easter.  As it turns out, this guy Jesus (not recognized by him as the same baby who had been in his class in December) had some friends who nailed him to a tree.  Then they put him a cave and let him out after a few days.  When he came out, there was a party with colored eggs, ham and chocolate.  Pretty cool, huh?

Our daughter now attends the same school as her older brother did.  This past Christmas season she returned home from school one day wearing a Dora birthday party hat.  When asked where she got the hat, she informed us that their was a birthday party at school that day.  Whose birthday was it?, we asked her.   Jesus.  As it turns out, Jesus enjoys a Dora themed birthday party as much as the next guy.  Pretty cool, huh?  I'm looking forward to her Easter revelations.

My son now attends the local public school and his sister will follow his lead.  The indoctrination process in our home ends at the age of five.  I highly recommend not correcting the half truths and misunderstandings that come out of the mouths of babes.  If nothing else, they will have an interesting worldview and you will be provided with a lot of laughter.

This weeks tip:  You need not buy egg dyeing kits in order to do your Easter up right this year.  You can use produce that you probably have around your home in order to dye your hardboiled treats, such as: red cabbage juice (for blue), boiled yellow delicious apple peels (for greenish yellow) and red wine for violet.

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.