Covered Dish Pot Luck Casserole Surprise

Everyone has a love language.  For some, it's random acts of kindness.  For others, it's a hug and a kiss.  And for Southern women, it's supper in a Tupperware with our names written on the bottom in Sharpie.

I can't think of a celebration, tragedy, family holiday or neighborhood gathering of any kind that does not involve food.  My memories of childhood can be bookmarked by homemade chicken and dumplings, fried mullet, collard greens and pound cake.  On my mother's side, all events involved miles of tables filled with food, as evidenced in the photo below.

Look how cute I am.

In those days, everything was homemade from scratch.  One simply did not show up with a store-bought pie.  Not only would you shame The Aunts with your lack of cooking know-how, but you were clearly stating that you didn't love the family enough to try.  Our matriarchs lived on the same street and did that type of cooking every day.  If they went to a restaurant in their small town, it was to the Women's Club or somewhere that served food just like theirs.  Aunt Leona hadn't even tried pizza until age 90.

So how did food become equal to love?  I know, for me, it's sometimes the only thing I can do to help a loved one.  A death in the family?  Let me bring you dinner.  Going through chemotherapy?  I'll be by at 6:00 with soup.  Bunion surgery?  That calls for barbecue.

Because if our mouths are filled with food, then we don't have to admit our helplessness, that we don't know what to say or do.  It feeds our need to fix a problem, even though deep down we know we can't.  And because the meal is not just food, but an expression of love, it has to be perfect.  That is why --- and I can say this now because enough people have passed since the above photo ---- I order out.

It's not that I can't cook.  I can.  I pull out the big guns on the holidays, and spend hours on casseroles that invoke the days of old.  BUT, I am a one-trick pony the rest of the year, and my kids take bets on how many nights each week they'll be served chicken with rice with beans. Or that Dad is cooking.

The reason I turn to Super Suppers Family Style Gourmet To Go is directly tied to The Aunts' disdain for such things.  Failure is not an option, the stakes are high, and everyone is watching.  So, rather than falter, I'm going with the winning horse and take my trot in champion's row. 

In the beginning, it was a secret.  I would buy cookies at the store and then put them on my own plate, and when people asked for the recipe, I said I would try to find it.  But as I got older, I learned to be OK with my truth, that while pie baking and sock darning skills bubbled up in my gene pool like a geyser, they clearly skipped over me and splashed down onto the next generation.  My 10-year-old son is a better baker than me, and yet, I can still sleep at night. 

Food brings people together, and better yet, it keeps us at the table.  Doesn't matter how it gets there, and just like a secret, it's much more delicious when shared.

Until next time, keep crowin' and learn to speak Take-Out!

Emergency Auxiliary Services

Remember "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty?"  It was a short story published by James Thurber in 1939 and then turned into a movie with Danny Kaye in 1947.  It tells the tale of a regular Joe who spends his time daydreaming about an exciting alternate universe, full of danger and heroics and adventure.  He is not the boring old man who watches life from a desk chair, but the military general, the wrangler, the renegade.

If only.  I sometimes think that I am the Mrs. Walter Mitty.  If you could see what I have accomplished in my "other life," you would be duly impressed.

Today, the tornado sirens went off in our neighborhood for hours, starting at 8:00 a.m. While my kids were engaged in duck and cover at their schools and my friends were in their basements, I fearlessly kept typing away on my computer, taking calls from my boss.

Boss: How's the weather your way?
Me: Well, the sirens are going off.  But I'm not scared.
Boss:  OK. So, getting back to this eblast ....

Courage! And yet, no tornado appeared.  My mettle was not tested by a flying house, and I did not get to save Oz.

Two days ago, my good friend and neighbor was lucky enough to be on the scene for a car fire.  Ah, how I wish it had been me!  She got the news of the fire, ran outside, triaged the situation and grabbed her fire extinguisher.  There she was, with a guy named Larry, squirting foam on an overheated van.  The drama!  The adrenaline!  She was even there for the fire trucks and big hose.

And I missed it.  No hero's parade or honorary badge for me.

One of my greatest regrets is not becoming a Police Woman of Atlanta.  I could do it, I know I could.  Never tell me no.  My college boyfriend told me I couldn't handle being sorority President, and so I didn't run, and guess where he is now?  Who knows, but I bet it is somewhere very, very bad.  And I am President of Something (truly, I am - visit MAT AWARDS).

But I never pursued the police business, because if I can't even watch a scary movie, how am I going to be a cop?  I once considered joining the Citizen's Police Academy, but I lazied out.  And then I was in the car last weekend with my daughter's new lacrosse coaches, and guess what?  One of them was in the POLICE RESERVES OF OHIO!  A volunteer police department where he got to go on foot chases and stake outs and make arrests and such.  I practically salivated over his stories.

Sigh.  What is it that appeals to me about natural disasters and violent crimes?  What is in my nature that is itching to get out and save the world?  Like poor Walter Mitty, I can't pull the trigger, and am  left with only my dreams.

This won't stop me from always being on high alert.  Like the Bloodhound Gang from 3-2-1 Contact (google it pre-70's babies) or Dr. Who, I am always ready for adventure.  Always available to call 911.  Because they know me.

So into the blind wild I go ... hoping for a big moment, just like Walter.

“No, no! The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

Until next time, keep crowin' and looking for trouble!

Upside Down Frowns

My friends and I are at an age where sometimes the roof caves in - we have personal health decisions to make or a parent suddenly needs our care or a friend hits the wall and needs help getting back up.  Several of my friends in the neighborhood are dealing with such things, and I struggle with how to help.  Of course, a listening ear, a home-cooked meal, or childcare is always on the list.

But, since laughter is apparently the best medicine, I would like to offer some things that have made me happy.  Maybe they won't elicit a smile at first, but when someone needs to lighten the darkness, I hope they'll bookmark these gems.


When you are having a bad day, a clever prank can chase the clouds away, and freak some people out in a funny way:





Need inspiration?  How about one of those unexpected, amazing reality show auditions, where the human spirit triumphs:




And, I'm sorry, but if Ellen Degeneres doesn't do it for you, then I'm out of tricks: 



That's it, that's all I've got today.  Sometimes - all the time - life is about the people around you, and finding a way to be a blessing where one is needed.  I hope that when the people in my life hit hard times, they know they can count on me.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

Nu Beta

Happy New Year!  I'm a bit late with these greetings because I have been as sick as a dog for the last week.  It has circulated around my family since December 21, and now, on January 8, we are still sniffling and hacking.

And while Christmas itself may have been a germ fest, luckily we were all well enough for a big trip we had planned for New Year's.  We took four neighborhood families for four days to my parents' mountain house in North Carolina. 

It was refugee-style living as we put each family unit into a bedroom and left them to their own devices.  There were children in closets, mamas on the floor, and lots of overlap on the sofa.

The trip itinerary included skiing and tubing.  Now, there are two things my friends learned about me on this trip. 

1.  I don't liked to be touched.
2.  I am afraid of heights.

I overcame the close quarters because we were with such jovial company.  The heights, thing, however, was another story.

On the day of skiing, I rode with the pack to the lodge.  I filled out the waiver and got my boots on.  I walked to the bucket and got my poles.  And then I stood, ski's in hand, and watched all of the children, ages 3-13, take the beginner class.  My compadres, however, jumped on the lift and started their day of flying down the mountain. 

As the sun hit mid-sky, I summoned up my courage and took the ramp up the bunny slope.  Time to face the demon.  I slowly shuffled my way over to a quiet patch, and looked in the belly of the beast.  Several times before, beginning in high school, I had put on those death shoes and debated the pros and cons of going down ice on a toothpick, but never had I actually taken the plunge.  And I was still wearing the yellow ski jacket that I had in high school, albeit a little snug and out-dated now, which had never felt the rush of wind across its sleeves.

On this day, I tried a little sideways trial run at the top of the hill, and after encouragement from the children and my husband, and with a very deep breath, I took off my skis and headed back down the hill.

No way, José.

Just ain't going to happen.  And my friends made it OK.  They asked me if I was good, if all was well, and then they acted like this little phobia thing was no big deal.

The touching thing, however, they had a ball with.  They decided to apply pressure treatments on a regular basis, and would sit on me or give me big hugs or squeeze my toes.  And then there was the farting.  Lots of gas encroached upon my personal space on this trip, but I won't name names.

Because when you are in a fraternity of brothers, you don't rat anyone out.  You don't post on Facebook the photo of a skinny man in a jock strap or tell people who burped like a sailor.  You have secret handshakes and passwords, and you help each other's kids get breakfast.  And you pretend not to notice each other's crazy parts.

It was one of those trips that could have gone sour very quickly, 17 men, women and children in a small space.  But it didn't.  It actually went incredibly well, and we all kept marvelling at that fact.

You see, I live in a neighborhood that has become an exception to any rule.  We have made so many friends with other couples, and our kids count their best friends among the cul-de-sacs.  It is stronger than any college sorority, and as wild as any fraternity.  I call us Nu Beta, which pays homage to our neighborhood initials.

All are welcome. We hold rush each summer poolside, and if you can handle sangria in the daytime and enjoy dancing to hip-hop on weekends, you could be our next pledge.  So brush up on your card games and come on by.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

And We're Back

I was surfing around Pinterest this morning when I found something quite remarkable.  So I called my husband.

Ring, ring

Him:  Hello?
Me:  Hi honey.
Him:  Hey babe.
Me:  So, that letter you gave our son about Santa - did you actually write that like you said?
Him:  Yes.
Me:  You wrote it?
Him:  ... yes ... why?
Me:  Because I just found it on the Internet.
Him:  Oh.
Me:  Why did you tell me you wrote it?
Him:  I got it from Mutual Friend and changed some things.
Me:  But why did you tell me YOU wrote it?
Him:  Because it made you so happy, and you were crying and I felt stuck. I emailed Mutual Friend and she said to just go with it.  It was something I was doing for our son.
Me:  The illusion has been shattered.
Him:  That's why I didn't want you to post it on Facebook.

Pause

Me:  Are you on the toilet?
Him:  Yes.

Click

I'm letting him off the hook because it is a beautiful letter and because he did make the effort to restore our son's faith in Santa, and in us. And he did ask me not to post it on Facebook, which for him, also means the entire Internet.

Until next time, keep crowin' and finding inspiration in unexpected places.

Don't Stop Believing

This week, we have a guest blogger - my husband.  He is an engineer, which you normally don't associate with creative writing, but he found something so beautiful it made me cry.  I am sharing it because our country is shrouded in sadness right now, as we once again face the death of innocents, the destruction of futures, the pain of blame and loss.

Now is not the time to stop believing in good or God, now is the time to fight back with love.

Here's the letter my husband gave to our son, who accidentally learned there was no Santa Claus:

I wanted to write a note to you about who is Santa since you have been asking about it and it’s easier for me to choose my words correctly by writing it down. You asked a very good question: “Is there a Santa and are your Mom and Dad Santa?”

I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. We are not Santa. There is no one Santa.

We are the people who fill your stockings with presents, though. We also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way our parents did for us.

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though.

Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to have belief in something they can’t see or touch.

It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.

Santa is a teacher, and we have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: he has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Mommy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.

So, no. We are not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. We are on his team though, and now you are, too.

We love you and we always will.

Mom and Dad

Until next time, keep crowin' and praying for those who need God to hold their hand a little tighter tonight.

No One is Safe

You think, "It won't happen in my neighborhood"  or "Things like that only go down in the ghetto."  But today, I learned the all-too-scary reality that crime exists in even the best communities.

I am very sorry to report the murder of these elves, snowmen, and penguins.

I stumbled upon the crime scene as I was driving away from my son's elementary school.  My initial reaction was disbelief, followed by fear, and then anger.  Someone had, in broad daylight, conducted a massive, suburban, drive-by execution.

Not on my watch, people.  

I am going to contact the local news affiliates so that they can alert each and every neighborhood watch and give this crime a proper name, like The Christmas Massacre or Terror in Tinseltown.  We're going to get witness statements on YouTube, and maybe do a few remixes of their best comments.  Merchandise will be sold, and justice will be served.

Of course, there is a very small chance that these people simply deflated their lawn puppets until evening --- but why?  Who would pull down Santa Claus' pants?  Doesn't it scare the children to see the village alive one night and then flaccid and pale in the grass the next day?

The magic is the thing.

I am totally into the magic this year.  My son and I have put together a light show in front of our house that I am sure will receive magazine coverage - maybe Southern Living.

My house ablaze

And then there is my tree.  I promised that this 40-year-old fake tree would be amazing ....

Like puttin' a dress on a pig ....

There is no harsh reality in my Christmas world.  It's Charlie Brown, it's Will Ferrell, it's Chevy Chase, it's Frosty and The Forgotten Toys. 

This holiday, I encourage you to bring joy to the table - don't be the jerk that pops the Baby Jesus balloon.

Until next time, keep crowin' and keep the magic alive!