You plan, you clean, you order ahead.
You invite company
You anticipate will enjoy each other.
The time arrives
Along with certain expectations.
But those hopes
Quickly go up in smoke.
The guests you were hoping to impress
Defy not just etiquette but decency too.
Apologies are whispered,
Eyes and noses of the young, diverted.
And here you sit
More alone in this full house
Than you were this morning.

I spent the day with my nieces (my brother’s girls), my sister and my daughter.  Not the eight girls we were prepared for, but close enough.

We ate out for breakfast, then bought some cheap craft items to do during Sun’s nap.  Then we went bowling — my nieces’ choice.  I forgot just how bad I bowl!  I think Sun scored more points than me, and that’s with all of us using bumpers.  But I wasn’t there to score points on my bowling game.

And then there was dinner.

Let me back up here for those not following me on twitter.

I am on the hunt for a cookbook published by D.H. Holmes Department Store in the mid-80s, “Bayou Banquet: Recipes From a Potpourri of Cultures.”  I took a chance that my grandmother may have had it, and I looked at a few of her cookbooks last time I visited my grandfather.  She did not have my Quest Book.  But she did have another nugget of NOLA cooking love: “The Picayune Creole Cook Book.”  Her’s was the Fifth Edition from 1916.  I asked my grandfather if I could have it; he said yes.

This book had to be either my grandmother’s mother’s or her mother-in-law’s, either way, my great-grandmother’s.  Inside the cover, there is a handwritten note that reads, “Pg. 48,” and a check mark next to a recipe on page 48. Here’s that recipe (modified by me not as to ingredients but only as to updating how to prepare):

Beefsteak Smothered in Onions

3 Pounds of Round Steak
6 Onions, Sliced Fine.
1 Tablespoon of Lard (I used vegetable oil).
1 Tablespoon of Flour.
2 Tablespoons of Vinegar.
2 Sprigs Each of Thyme and Bay Leaf.
3 Sprigs of Parsley. 1 Clove of Garlic.
1 Pint of Water.
Salt and Pepper to Taste.
Beat the Round Steak well with the rolling pin or steak hammer; cut off the outer skin and press the meat back into shape.  Place the tablespoon of lard in the deep frying pan and let it melt.  Then lay in the beef-steak, which has been well seasoned with salt and pepper and dredged with the flour.  Cover closely.  Let it simmer over a hot fire for a few minutes and then turn the steak on the other side.  Let the flour brown well.  Remove steak from pan.  Add the onions to the pan and cook until translucent.  Place steak on top of onions.  Add remaining ingredients and enough water to cover the steak.  Bring this to a brisk boil and set the pot back where it can simmer gently for about 2 hours.

My sister did not stay for dinner. My brother and his girls did. His finicky girls went back for seconds; he asked for the recipe. My husband asked that I make it again.

My grandmother was in my kitchen tonight. As was her ancestor too. There was something very powerful about cooking a dish, a simple dish, that was cooked using the same recipe some 90-odd years ago by my great-grandmother. To my recollection, my grandmother never cooked this dish for me. I suspect it was probably more of a Sunday dish she’d prepare for her children and husband. It’s been decades since this recipe has probably had my family’s eyes on it.

I am certain to make this dish again. And I am pretty sure I will not only always think of my ancestors when I do so but also my own siblings and children now too.

That’s one hell of a day if you ask me.

When I was a child, there was no camp.  Well, maybe there was but no kid I knew went to one.  Why?  Because it was rare that our mom’s worked.

What did we kids do in the summer?  We played outside a lot.  Kickball in the streets, rode bikes, swam, jumped rope.  We also bought home-made freezies from other kids in the neighborhood.  We played with our friends in and out of all of our homes all summer long, calling everyone’s mother, “Mom.”

In Louisiana, many of us kids also spent time at fishing camps.  My family went to my grandparents’ camp one week in August every summer — the week that rang in the opening of Shrimping Season.  We’d fish, and swim, and eat s’mores.  We’d build puzzles in the evenings and crab off the docks if we didn’t go on the boats during the day.  We’d chase rabbits in the back yard and play with the Sleanky in the stairwell.  Those summer days were the best.

The kids in my family also spent time at relatives — a week with an aunt, a week with each set of grandparents.  We had friends all over town.

But today?  Katrina claimed our fishing camp.  Moms work.  Kids are not “ratting the streets” free and loose.  Kids’ days are filled with Camp and Gymnastics and Dance and Soccer. . . .

However.

Tomorrow my sister, her niece by marriage, our two nieces, my aunt and maybe even my cousin’s daughter are coming over so we can all spend the day together.  Eight girls ranging in age from 2 to teens to 60.  And we’ll do it again next Wednesday, and the next after that, and every Wednesday through the summer.  We plan on going to museums, the Insectarium, the Aquarium, the movie theater.  We also want to go roller skating, bowling.  We may even do trips to the French Quarter or maybe even further!  Sleepovers may be involved.  And s’mores are a requirement.

So that aunt who made being an adult look like so much fun is getting a crack at teaching her great-nieces that aging isn’t too bad either.  It’s gonna be a good summer.

UPDATE:  Curly made it through the 5+ hour surgery just fine.  She did need a blood transfusion, but the docs did all they had hoped to do in the surgery.  So much so, there may not need to be any other surgeries!!  She’s doing fine, and should be going home in a couple of days.  She half-opened her eyes post-op and said, “Mama, booboo.”  It broke our hearts.  The spica cast is HUGE and purple.  Thanks for all the thoughts and prayers.

My great niece was born six months before Sun.  I’ll call her Curly.  Curly, like Sun, was a breech baby.  In the hospital with Sun’s birth, they did an ultrasound of her hips due to her having been breech.  I knew this was a concern because Curly went through it also and she had an issue.  Sun’s hips were fine.

Curly was treated for developmental dysplasia of the hip.  She was given a brace to wear when she was days old.  As the months passed, things were not improving.  They gave her a more aggressive brace.  It didn’t help.

Time passed and Curly started to walk.  With a limp.  Her condition is the result of a hip ligament being too flexible thus allowing her hip bone to have popped out of her hip socket.  So even though her legs are the same size, one leg is resting higher than it should.  By not being in the socket, the hip bone is impinging on nerves, blood vessels, etc.

Curly’s parents were told earlier this year that her condition is worsening.  If they do nothing, Curly could lose her leg. Lose. Her. Leg.

Curly’s mother lost her own mother at a young age.  The mere thought of putting her daughter under anesthesia for major surgery stops my niece-in-law in her tracks.  I don’t blame her.  If this were Sun, I’d be freaked out too.

So tomorrow they are doing the first of potentially three (3) surgeries to fix things.  This round is rough.  They’ll make an incision in her hip area, clear out the fatty tissue that has grown in the hip socket and place the hip back into place.  That seems easy enough.  But that’s just the first part.  The second step is the doozy.

They’ll make another incision into her thigh.  Then they will cut about a half inch out of her thigh bone.  Then screw the two ends together.  They need to shorten her leg so that the hip, once replaced, isn’t too tight in the socket such that it will pop right back out.

And to top it off, Curly will be in a body cast for six weeks.  And she’s not allowed to move.  For six weeks.

I love Curly so very much.  She’s sweet and gentle and has the cutest heart-shaped face framed with amber curls.

This is breaking my heart.  I can’t stop thinking about her and the ordeal this will be for her, her mother (her father, my nephew, is in the Navy and the surgery cannot wait until he’s home in August to do), my sister.

Even if all goes as best as it can, I KNOW there’s no pain like bone pain.  She has no idea that tomorrow she’ll go to the hospital, be poked and put to sleep only to wake up in a body cast and in pain. Then she’ll be released to her home in three days where she’ll have to stay still for six weeks.  In pain.

Then there will be physical therapy.  And future surgeries.  And early onset arthritis in that hip.  IF the surgery goes through (the first attempt did not happen as Curly had a runny nose and diaper rash) is a success.

Please take a moment to send up a prayer or well wishes for Curly and her family.  It’s going to be a difficult day for us all.

Sun’s first day at daycare was yesterday.  During the summer, it’s called Camp.  I did my best to hide my nerves from her.  I knew she’d be fine, that in fact she’d like it.  But I couldn’t help but feel this was the first true test of a parent’s job: prepare your child to fly away from you.

I felt a lot of guilt about putting her in daycare at such a young age.  And I know many, many parents must put their babies in when they are but weeks old.  And I know I had an amazing setup for Sun’s first two years (eternally thankful to SoMo).  But this is me and my feelings of inadequacy.

The drop off went smoothly, overall, as did her first day.  I picked her up at 4:15 instead of 6pm just to make the transition easier for us all.  She did not run to me when I walked in the room.  And she was verrry quiet on the drive home.  I think she was thinking about the fun day she had.  And she yawned a lot.

My little bird! They told me she was a “delight,” that she was quiet, ate well, and took a good nap.  Not news to me.  But meaningful to hear it from a stranger that spent the day with her without us.

There will be many more nest-pushing-outs to come in Sun’s future.  And I suspect they may actually get harder.

But yesterday evening, Sun and I hugged each other a bit closer, we were happy just to be together maybe a bit more than we were Monday.

And now today, Wednesday, is one of my two days a work-week with Sun.  She’ll be at Camp only twice a week for the summer.  There’s still so much time she and I have to frolic and live and love together.

Friday night was another wedding for us, as was Saturday.  These two both had a bittersweet element to them.  Each had a family member that died too soon.

Friday’s wedding left me somber and sad.  The death of the bride’s brother some ten years ago still stings us all from time to time.  I couldn’t help but have the ghost of his memory follow me home Friday night and permeate my thoughts.

Then Saturday, the groom’s sole groomsman was not his brother, as it would have been were he still alive.  The  absence of the groom’s twin was poignant.  But unlike the sad memories recalled the night before, the memory of this deceased sibling felt more like a sprite dancing and smiling with the bridal party.

And again, there was that restocking of my own marriage that weddings have the effect of on me.  And again I’ve come to the conclusion that my husband and I just down right have it good.

It’s Sunday now.  And we have a baptism to attend this morning.  And then we need to go out and buy Sun a lunch kit.  She starts daycare on Tuesday.  Damn these long days and short months!

And as I sit in the quiet, as Sun “reads” to herself before falling to sleep for a nap and my husband showers, I have my own ghosts and sprites sitting with me in the room.  Some whisper regret, others undying support.  They may be with me ’til I die, but I AM determined to live Happily Ever After.

It’s wedding season here in New Orleans.  We’ve been invited to not less than six weddings in six weeks.   Some are the traditional New Orleans’ wedding: Cathedral ceremony and country club reception.  And some are less traditional: all-in-one wedding/reception at a room in a local restaurant.  And several in between: home ceremonies, French Quarter brunches, decadent escapades.

Tonight was the least frilly of them all.  After all, it’s on a Wednesday night. Now, I am not a weepy gal.  I didn’t get teary-eyed when I got engaged, when I learned I was pregnant, or at any wedding I have ever attended.

Until tonight.  Ok, I am lying.  I didn’t cry.  But I did get teary-eyed.  And that takes a lot.  So what did it?

Well, the bride was a lot like me.  She swore off marriage and kids just as I did.  Until it was undeniable.  And that raw emotion showed in her eyes.  And her unsteady hands that had to be held by her beloved during the ceremony.

And the minister was superb.  He called on us in attendance not only as witnesses to the marriage but as advocates of their marriage.  So that when one of the spouses called on us in time, as they will as our friends, facing a rough spot, that it was our duty, OUR DUTY, to vie for the marriage.  To rise against their walking out on the marriage as so many do nowadays.

Being married now, I always listen more intently at the exchanging of the vows.

Do you take this person, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and health, and to be true to in good times and in bad, and to seek no other.

Because when you are taking those vows, health and wealth and infidelity are far from your mind.

They should say, “Not if, but when, this person is sick, and you are too, and money is tight, because that day will come, and when it comes, do you still promise to forsake all others and be true to just this one?”

CS has engraved in French on his wedding band, “You and no other” for the days, and I am certain they exist, that he doubts our survival.  It’s there as a reminder to both of us.  We exchanged vows six years ago and I still feel complete devotion and commitment to those vows.

I do.  I will.

Always.

I am a “tight” knitter: my stitches are tight.  I have to remind myself to ease up on the tension of the yarn; relax my fingers and my mind.  I knit a cap for CS years ago, and it was a big hit.  It was a straight knit 4, purl 4 pattern, your typical skull cap.  Several friends wanted me to knit one for them.  I was happy to oblige.

The day I was given the (erroneous) news that I had a severe infertility problem, I boarded a plane for a weekend in New York.  That flight was delayed and we sat on the tarmac for what seemed like hours.  I was working on one of those skull caps for a friend.  My gauge was off.  Way off.  I knit several inches worth then ripped back to nothing at least four times sitting on that miserable tarmac.  All the while, my ears were plugged into my iPod listening to Bob Dylan.  And tears ran down my cheeks.  I couldn’t bother with what the 50-something business man thought sitting next to me of the mess I was.  What could I say to him to excuse my bizarre behavior?  No eye contact was the best bet.

After a few days, months, I would try that cap again and again.  My gauge was never right.  I’d check my gauge before starting, a task I loathe, and still seemed off.  I ripped out this cap another four or so times.

The yarn I had selected for my friend began to show signs of my struggle.  It was fraying, cracking, and in time, breaking.  After a year, I threw the yarn away and decided CS could knit the cap for our friend.  (He’d learned to knit Sun a blanket).

More years have passed and CS still has not knit that cap.  I am now picking that project up again.  I have a new ball of yarn.  Different colors even.

And yet.

My gauge is off again.  The size 8 needles I used so easily the first time are way too big.  Even 7s won’t do the trick.  I will be testing 6s this evening.  And as I knit 4, purl 4, I am reminded of that damn day in the plane.  And the sting of disappointment I’ve endured with this cap.

I am realizing I should have knit this cap years ago.  So now I am determined.  I will knit this cap.  I will exorcise this demon.  I will release that tension.  Once and for all.

With a sprained ankle

and a bruised ego

I turn to my garden

to lick my wounds

and salve my soul.

Relationships change,

friends disappoint,

clay feet are discovered.

So in I go

back to myself,

like a groundhog

seeing his shadow.

Back to my yard,

my own sanctuary,

to tend to my own garden.