There's a wonderful man in my pottery class. Any man that spends more than five hours a week with a studio full of women must have something special within his heart. These women talk about everything from hot flashes to arguments with their husbands to nude cruises. And this man listens quietly, laughs occasionally, and always lends an ear and a hug when someone is in need.
He's also talented - he can take a lump of clay and turn it into a functional casserole dish within 15 minutes. And his work has that manly touch - he's not into delicate details or flourishes. For potluck he brings one of three phenomenal dishes - a chocolate cake that's more like fudge, firehouse meatballs from his firefighter days, or fruit salad. He invites his wife to every potluck, and never says or does anything even approaching inappropriate.
I find him refreshing, as do all of them women in my class. We adore him.
A few months ago he walked into class late, which is unusual. His eyes seemed a little puffy to me. He said his sister, Sissy, was sick. Come to find out, Sissy was very sick. Leukemia. She's younger than him, and his closest sibling, from what I understand.
They sent her to Duke. And that's never a good sign. I think we all, including him, knew it was only a matter of time. He and Sissy's husband took her to Duke and subsequent treatments locally. She met her newborn grandson. But several weeks ago she entered the hospital, and stopped eating.
I asked him each week how Sissy was doing. "Not good. But her spirits are good."
I skipped this last session of pottery class because of the holidays. My friend's sister died the next week. And I didn't know. I didn't know in time to attend the funeral like I had planned. And now I just don't know what to say. I'll call my teacher and get his number, and dial the phone. And then I'll probably begin to cry.
And it's not just crying for him, but for my fear of losing my sister.
I'm pretty sure my sister is the missing link to my DNA. She's got the street smarts, common sense and can read people. She can also add and subtract without using her fingers. All of these things evade me like a seasoned common criminal.
She's a second mother to my child, and I love her daughter like she's my own. I know it's clique, but my sister truly is beautiful inside and out, and is an inspiration. The only reason I know I could survive if something happened to either of my parents is because of my sister.
I'm relying on her to help me through life. And to do that, she needs to be here. Basically I'm praying that she outlives me. If something happened to her, I don't know how I would get through it.
So, when I call my dear friend tonight, I'm sure that lump in my throat will be about my sweet sister almost as much as it is about him.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Pickled Pigs Feet
People tell me I have a heightened sense of smell. My olfactory glands must be directly connected to my memory, because smelling specific scents springs memories to mind. And I think people are correct - I think I do have a powerful sniffer.
That's a good thing. And a bad thing. It's an especially bad thing when cooking something that just down right stinks.
Such as pickled pigs feet. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have never, nor will I ever, dine on any sort of foot. No offense, but it just doesn't appeal to me one bit. Toe jam just isn't a flavor I'm up for experiencing.
But Jasen's grandfather, Buddy, loves pickled pigs feet. It's important to understand that this man lived in a home with a dirt floor when he was a child. It was during the Great Depression, and the family hid their chickens under the house so people wouldn't steal them. He ate turnips every night. Pickled pigs feet were a treat.
Pickled pigs feet are not easy to come by. I searched three grocery stores, and never found any. I did, however, find uncooked feet at Food Lion one day a few years back. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to cook Buddy a big pot of pickled pigs feet.
Yes, it was a sweet idea. But smart, absolutely not. The feet take hours to pickle. And you have to skim scum off of the top of the water every few minutes. Not to mention you actually have to handle a pigs foot.
But those issues pale in comparison to the smell. The smell singes your nose hairs. It creeps through the air, and before you know it has completely invaded your home.
The problem is that the smell invades so slowly that I didn't notice. Plus it was winter, and therefore I didn't think to open a window or door. My sister stopped by for a visit.
My sister doesn't share my olfactory gift. She does, however, posses a fairly strong gag reflex. She dry-heaved for half an hour before we went outside. Once we came back in, I dry-heaved for three days before the stink left.
I'll never cook pigs feet again. Believe it or not, Harris Teeter carries the feet pre-pickled. And so, every few weeks I pick up a jar, vow to the teenager ringing my order that I've never have and never will eat them, and surprise Buddy. He says they're not as tasty as my batch, but I'm thinking that's just too bad. My nose just can't take another pickling session with a swine's toe jam.
That's a good thing. And a bad thing. It's an especially bad thing when cooking something that just down right stinks.
Such as pickled pigs feet. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have never, nor will I ever, dine on any sort of foot. No offense, but it just doesn't appeal to me one bit. Toe jam just isn't a flavor I'm up for experiencing.
But Jasen's grandfather, Buddy, loves pickled pigs feet. It's important to understand that this man lived in a home with a dirt floor when he was a child. It was during the Great Depression, and the family hid their chickens under the house so people wouldn't steal them. He ate turnips every night. Pickled pigs feet were a treat.
Pickled pigs feet are not easy to come by. I searched three grocery stores, and never found any. I did, however, find uncooked feet at Food Lion one day a few years back. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to cook Buddy a big pot of pickled pigs feet.
Yes, it was a sweet idea. But smart, absolutely not. The feet take hours to pickle. And you have to skim scum off of the top of the water every few minutes. Not to mention you actually have to handle a pigs foot.
But those issues pale in comparison to the smell. The smell singes your nose hairs. It creeps through the air, and before you know it has completely invaded your home.
The problem is that the smell invades so slowly that I didn't notice. Plus it was winter, and therefore I didn't think to open a window or door. My sister stopped by for a visit.
My sister doesn't share my olfactory gift. She does, however, posses a fairly strong gag reflex. She dry-heaved for half an hour before we went outside. Once we came back in, I dry-heaved for three days before the stink left.
I'll never cook pigs feet again. Believe it or not, Harris Teeter carries the feet pre-pickled. And so, every few weeks I pick up a jar, vow to the teenager ringing my order that I've never have and never will eat them, and surprise Buddy. He says they're not as tasty as my batch, but I'm thinking that's just too bad. My nose just can't take another pickling session with a swine's toe jam.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Great Pooptastrophe of 2009 (and other innard exerpts)
It's amazing how our lives change with children. Whatever seems important in their world at the moment suddenly becomes paramount in our lives. Our everyday lives revolve around these tiny creatures and their entry into the world.
I assumed potty training would go like every other milestone in Juni's life: he'd find a way to make it as difficult as possible, but throw in a few laughs for comic relief and to keep me sane. I was correct.
Juni takes after his dad. No bladder control. And he has taken to peeing outdoors. And I'm not talking about on a tree in the woods. I'm talking about off our front porch. In front of my uber-clean friend, and at the beach on a holiday weekend.
He shows no shame. He once pulled his swim trunks down in front of my germiphobe friend and pooped in the rocks beside the pool. I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he replied "it's okay mommy. Just squirt the watergun up my my butt, and Duchess (our dog) will eat my poop." I didn't even know what to say after that.
Then there was the time he proclaimed "mommy! daddy! Come watch me poop! It's gonna be a big one!" When a potty training toddler asks you to check out his business, you check out his business. And I've got to admit...it was huge. Of epic proportions.
And there was the time he had an accident in his undies, and while in transit from the undies to the toilet the poop took an unexpected detour...to my son's head. It smacked him right upside the forehead. To this day I don't know how that happened, but it did. It bounced off his head and plopped itself right in the toilet. A perfect landing.
After a particularly large sushi meal of avocado roll, my husband once beckoned me into the bathroom to show off his son's prized poop. "Mommy! It's as big as a dragon's tail," Juni proclaimed. My redneck husband was so proud.
But nothing compares to the Pooptastrophe. Nothing.
I'll be the first to admit that the Pooptastrophe was my fault. Mine and Levi Strauss. Whomever decided it was a good idea to fasten a size 4t pair of jeans with a button in lieu of a snap needs to be slapped. Hard. With a large, dead fish. Right in their big, fat, non-toddler-thinking mouth.
Juni was just learning to center himself on the toilet. "I need privacy" became his favorite bathroom saying. And he meant it. The kid likes his privacy. So he'd sneak into the bathroom, and call me when he was ready for a good butt wipe. Never leave the job of wiping up to the toddler. You will absolutely find three results: a great loss of toilet paper followed by a severely clogged toilet, and a toddler with his finger in his ass, telling everyone who will listen that his butt itches. But I digress.
It was early morning, and I was busy checking the business email upstairs. I heard him close the bathroom door, which meant it was poop time. Then I heard him say "mommy! I need you help me peeze..." Of course I assumed he needed a wipe. I obviously assumed wrong. Very wrong.
You see, when a four-year-old boy has to poop, he waits until the last possible moment before leaving his toys. Using the toilet serves no purpose to that four-year-old, other than to interrupt his playing tractors. And so therefore, there is a very limited amount of time between when he begins moving toward the bathroom, and when the turtle head starts to pop out.
I hopped down the stairs about 30 seconds later and was hit in the face with two things. First, the smell of a very ripe bathroom. Second, the sight of my son, his urine-soaked pants around his ankles, a giant turd resting in his underwear, and his hands reaching down to pick it up.
Before I could mutter even the beginning of the word "stop!" Juni had grabbed the log, tossed it in the toilet, and was unravelling the toilet paper.
He'd made it to the potty on time only to find that his new pants didn't have a snap, but a grown-up button. He fumbled with the button, and my bathroom paid the price. I stripped him of his clothes, disinfected his hands, and began to scrub down the bathroom.
Too bad I didn't give him specific instructions to NOT make his own breakfast while I was cleaning up after the Great Pooptastrophe. When I finished the bathroom, I had a box of Nesquick, a bag of cereal, and a gallon of milk to mop off the floor.
Most of my experiences with Juni the Toddler make me laugh. Some make me cry. Others, like the Great Pooptastrophe of 2009, leave me in stitches. I learned something extremely important through the Pooptastrophe: Never ask a potty training toddler, especially a boy, to "hold on just a sec."
I assumed potty training would go like every other milestone in Juni's life: he'd find a way to make it as difficult as possible, but throw in a few laughs for comic relief and to keep me sane. I was correct.
Juni takes after his dad. No bladder control. And he has taken to peeing outdoors. And I'm not talking about on a tree in the woods. I'm talking about off our front porch. In front of my uber-clean friend, and at the beach on a holiday weekend.
He shows no shame. He once pulled his swim trunks down in front of my germiphobe friend and pooped in the rocks beside the pool. I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he replied "it's okay mommy. Just squirt the watergun up my my butt, and Duchess (our dog) will eat my poop." I didn't even know what to say after that.
Then there was the time he proclaimed "mommy! daddy! Come watch me poop! It's gonna be a big one!" When a potty training toddler asks you to check out his business, you check out his business. And I've got to admit...it was huge. Of epic proportions.
And there was the time he had an accident in his undies, and while in transit from the undies to the toilet the poop took an unexpected detour...to my son's head. It smacked him right upside the forehead. To this day I don't know how that happened, but it did. It bounced off his head and plopped itself right in the toilet. A perfect landing.
After a particularly large sushi meal of avocado roll, my husband once beckoned me into the bathroom to show off his son's prized poop. "Mommy! It's as big as a dragon's tail," Juni proclaimed. My redneck husband was so proud.
But nothing compares to the Pooptastrophe. Nothing.
I'll be the first to admit that the Pooptastrophe was my fault. Mine and Levi Strauss. Whomever decided it was a good idea to fasten a size 4t pair of jeans with a button in lieu of a snap needs to be slapped. Hard. With a large, dead fish. Right in their big, fat, non-toddler-thinking mouth.
Juni was just learning to center himself on the toilet. "I need privacy" became his favorite bathroom saying. And he meant it. The kid likes his privacy. So he'd sneak into the bathroom, and call me when he was ready for a good butt wipe. Never leave the job of wiping up to the toddler. You will absolutely find three results: a great loss of toilet paper followed by a severely clogged toilet, and a toddler with his finger in his ass, telling everyone who will listen that his butt itches. But I digress.
It was early morning, and I was busy checking the business email upstairs. I heard him close the bathroom door, which meant it was poop time. Then I heard him say "mommy! I need you help me peeze..." Of course I assumed he needed a wipe. I obviously assumed wrong. Very wrong.
You see, when a four-year-old boy has to poop, he waits until the last possible moment before leaving his toys. Using the toilet serves no purpose to that four-year-old, other than to interrupt his playing tractors. And so therefore, there is a very limited amount of time between when he begins moving toward the bathroom, and when the turtle head starts to pop out.
I hopped down the stairs about 30 seconds later and was hit in the face with two things. First, the smell of a very ripe bathroom. Second, the sight of my son, his urine-soaked pants around his ankles, a giant turd resting in his underwear, and his hands reaching down to pick it up.
Before I could mutter even the beginning of the word "stop!" Juni had grabbed the log, tossed it in the toilet, and was unravelling the toilet paper.
He'd made it to the potty on time only to find that his new pants didn't have a snap, but a grown-up button. He fumbled with the button, and my bathroom paid the price. I stripped him of his clothes, disinfected his hands, and began to scrub down the bathroom.
Too bad I didn't give him specific instructions to NOT make his own breakfast while I was cleaning up after the Great Pooptastrophe. When I finished the bathroom, I had a box of Nesquick, a bag of cereal, and a gallon of milk to mop off the floor.
Most of my experiences with Juni the Toddler make me laugh. Some make me cry. Others, like the Great Pooptastrophe of 2009, leave me in stitches. I learned something extremely important through the Pooptastrophe: Never ask a potty training toddler, especially a boy, to "hold on just a sec."
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