Light Refreshments Served

Tomorrow, my youngest daughter celebrates her 17th birthday. In honor of the occasion, I am taking the Whole Day Off. We will go shopping, take my mom to lunch, and attend a matinee of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. (We prepared for this last night by renting Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 1, after kicking all the men out of the house so they couldn’t come in making shmoopy noises right at the most romantic parts.) Then, in the evening, we will go miniature golfing and end up in the batting cages. (That is, the children will end up in the batting cages, and possibly their father. I will sit on a bench outside the batting cages and cheer supportively.)
I find myself feeling really grateful that Sylvia is still young enough to want to spend a day this way. Next year at this time, I expect we’ll be moving her into a dorm room or a student apartment somewhere. And as early as next week, she’ll be driving herself off to the high school for the first day of her senior year. I’ll say goodbye at the door of the house instead of the door of the school, and we may cross paths in the evening sometimes if she doesn’t have a study group or a madrigal performance or a seminary council meeting or Mutual or work.
But, just for tomorrow, we’ll be seventeen-going-on-twelve, and we’re going to love it for all it’s worth. It’s worth more than she knows.

The other day I was organizing some files when I found a letter written by my dad over ten years ago.  I had called home for my mom’s recipe for potato salad (because I’m picky, and hers is the best) but my mom wasn’t home, and my dad was inspired to reply in writing.  We do a lot of recipes here at Light Refreshments Served, but none quite like this.  Here’s a copy of his letter:

Dear family:

Kristy called a few minutes ago to ask for a recipe for potato salad.  Mom was not here to give her the recipe so I quickly offered to share mine — she suddenly had an emergency come up and had to hang up — something about needing to floss immediately or her dentist would be really mad.  So I thought the next best thing would be to just type it up and mail it to all of you, in case all of you had to floss.  Kristy seemed to have two parameters: 1) She wanted a small potato salad and,  2) She had two 5# bags of potatoes she wanted to use.

I believe both parameters can be achieved but considerable pressure would be necessary and the salad would  probably come out in tiny crystalline cubes which could be used for cutting glass and inexpensive costume jewelry.  (Cubic Potatium has sort of a nice “ring” — bad pun — don’t you think?)

1.  Boil 10# of potatoes in a cauldron.  Count the number of potatoes.
2.  Boil one egg for each potato.  (Boil them all at once–timing is everything!)
3.  Add one bottle of mayonnaise for each egg.  (Use only Best Foods Mayo - the other brands have too many eggs in them thus upsetting the delicate balance.)
4.  Add one dill pickle for each bottle of mayonnaise.
5.  Get a bigger cauldron.
6.  Add one sweet pickle for each dill pickle.
7.  Put on arm length plastic gloves.
8.  Retrieve all the boiled eggs and remove the shells.
9.  Add one bunch of cilantro for each sweet pickle.
10.  Add one purple onion for each bunch of cilantro.
11.  Retrieve the arm length plastic gloves.
12.  Add one bottle of Dijon Honey Mustard for each purple onion.
13.  Get a bigger cauldron.
14.  Salt and pepper to taste. (One container of salt and pepper for each plastic glove is usually sufficient.)
15.  Put plastic gloves back on.
16.  Retrieve the green and purple floaties (that would be pickles and onions) and chop them finely.  Carefully dump them into the cauldron.
17.  Boil 100# of potatoes and two gross of eggs.  (Hindsight is cheap.)
18.  Borrow your neighbor’s above ground pool.  Empty cauldrons into pool.
19.  Mix all contents thoroughly using carefully cleaned garden tools.
20.  Add chlorine to taste. (This prevents toe fungus.)
21.  Invite the Stake over for a potato salad and pool party–in that order.

Anyone care to try it????

On August 7th, the day before the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, a friend of mine was talking about Michael Phelps.  “Who’s Michael Phelps?” I asked.  For a second I wondered if had accidentally said, “Do you always dress like that?” for the way her eyes bugged out at me, but yes, I had asked the right question and no, I didn’t know who he was.  Trust me, NOW I KNOW.  I’ve been cheering him on all week with the rest of the country and when he beat out Mr. Serbia in the 100-meter butterfly I high-fived my family all around because holy crap that was close.  I wish it had been the same for Dara Torres so that we could talk about her gold medal instead of how ancient she is at the ripe age of 41, but it was not to be.  I still think she rocks. 

But this morning the Today Show was running out of ways to interview Michael Phelps so they did a little piece about iPods and what kind of music the athletes are listening to.  Their resident expert reported that music changes body chemistry, and undoubtedly plays a part in performance.  Then they went around asking various athletes what songs were most motivating to them. 

Mary Wineberg, a 400 meter runner for the USA cited Beyonce.  Heinrich Barnes from South Africa enjoys himself some Eminem.  Another USA shot put athlete pumps up to Garth Brooks’ The Dance and Dwight Thomas from Jamaica gets fired up listening to (Wait a second, did she say “Garth Brooks”?  You’re getting ready to throw a ten pound ball across a football field and you’re looking to a slow country song about getting dumped by a girlfriend to fire you up?  No wonder you lost.) some lame rap artist Lil’ Wayne.  Here’s how much I know about Lil’ Wayne.  When they said his name on the TV I thought they said “Will Wayne”, so I googled it and learned my mistake.  And just a sidenote – I think a rap artist who is trying to be taken seriously loses credibility by putting Lil’ in front of his name.  Wait, did I just say “rap artist” and “credibility” in the same sentence?  My bad.  Anyway, when they got to Michael Phelps it turns out that he and Mr. Jamaica boy love the same music.  Could it be that Lil’ Wayne helped Phelps capture those precious 8 gold medals?  And if so, don’t you think he should change his name to Big Ol’ Wayne The Gold Medal Helper? 

I do.

I’ve never taken a trip to Ikea by myself that didn’t end with profuse sweat and anxiety. I understand that Ikea is a wonderland of reasonable prices and organization. It’s just that I hate it. I’ve come to believe this is the Irish in me. We don’t do well with blond wood and flat-fold boxes. It makes us want a drink–not out of a tiny little glass upstairs at The Cafeteria.

Note James Joyce dejectedly pondering: How many Allen wrenches is it going to take to assemble this at home?

I had a good experience at Ikea when I went with my Swedish guide, Carrie. It all makes sense to her–the carts, the floor plan, the self-serve system. It’s great. But every time I go back by myself I break down. The Irish are not well-suited to this store. I think the furniture is nice but it just doesn’t say “stubborn and domineering” to me. I’m as likely to burn the Hensvik to keep the fire going as I am to assemble it. Every trip ends with me abandoning my so-called “cart” in frustration and hightailing it out of there. Like the father in Angela’s Ashes, I just can’t make good.

I wish I could effortlessly toss bundles of candles and piles of rugs into my cart. I guess it’s anger, humiliation, and vague poetic disappointment that trips me up. I love the idea of Ikea but once I’m there I’m suddenly seized with indecision. What size? Where could this go? What is this for? I know I need it and will regret not buying it but in the heat of the moment, it’s all too much. There’s a certain traffic pattern at Ikea with “shortcuts” and rules about entering and leaving. The self-checkout appears to be the only way out. Let my people go.

Note Bono seated uncomfortably in the Tullsta:

Don’t worry. I will never give up. Like my scrappy ancestors, I will keep at it until I get it or they politely ask me to leave. Each visit to Ikea brings with it the promise of a fruitful and pleasant shopping trip. As I pull into the flag-lined parking lot I ask, “Is this a great big box store altogether?”

T’is.

Today is National Joke Day.  I could tell you about the origins of this holiday, but it isn’t very funny, and therefore defeats the intended spirit of the day.  Living with an 10 year-old aspiring comic myself, I feel like everyday is Joke Day (help.  me.)  In honor of my son, Miles, and in celebration of this day, I thought it would be fun to leave a few corny jokes for you today.  If you left one of your own in the comments, just think of comedic power we could surge throughout the world wide web!  That, and you could give Miles some new material for his stand-up routine.  (Again. . .save.  me. . .)

I copied these jokes from this Energy Quest/California Energy Commission website. Enjoy!

• How many board meetings does it take to get a light bulb changed? This topic was resumed from last week’s discussion, but is incomplete, pending resolution of some action items. It will be continued next week.
• How many dull people does it take to change a light bulb? One.
• How many feminists does it take to change a light bulb? Sixteen. One to change it, and fifteen to form a support group.
• How many grad students does it take to change a light bulb? One, but it takes ten years.
• How many science fiction writers does it take to change a light bulb? Two, but it’s actually the same person doing it. He went back in time and met himself in the doorway and then the first one sat on the other one’s shoulder so that they were able to reach it. Then a major time paradox occurred and the entire room, light bulb, changer and all was blown out of existence.
• How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? The bicycle’s broken.
• How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? To get to the other side.
• How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to hold the giraffe, and one to put the clocks in the bathtub.
• How many Taoists does it take to change a light bulb? You cannot change a light bulb. By nature, it will go out again.
• How many Zen masters does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to change it, and one not to change it.

Here’s a bit of comedy trivia:  As reported in THE WEEK magazine (August 15th, 2008), “researchers determined that the oldest recorded joke-dating to 1900 B.C. Sumeria-is, ‘Something which has never occurred since time immemorial:  A young woman did not fart in her husband’s lap.’ ”  I’d like to say we’ve come a long way in comedy, but I just don’t feel comfortable saying that.

When I first moved here I joined a nice, little, local health club, and I loved it. I had just given birth for the first time, and when I would show up for the 9am class my instructor would go crazy over my baby. The teacher let me keep my daughter in the Snugli while she instructed us in the art of step aerobics, which lulled my daughter to sleep every time without fail. (A baby who slept through exercise – we were definitely related.) The class was routinely attended by the same people; some old, some young and incredibly fit, some nursing through injuries, one who battled multiple sclerosis, and another who was running for Senate. The instructor took a genuine interest in her class members, and we were a content little group.

Until Big Bad Corporate Health Club In The Sky and Haters of Happy Little Gyms showed up and crashed our party. They bought us out, lied about keeping our facility alive, and eventually merged us over to their heinous edifice of ten thousand treadmills and 21-year-old boys with egos the size of Michigan who really just wanted to get more dates but went by the title of “personal trainers”. I was greeted by the King Of All Meatheads on my first day who gave me a tour of the new digs – he used my first name excessively, the way a used car salesman might to get me to buy a car that was out of my price range. With no better alternative, I joined the gym. I have been there for ten years, and other than my two-year stint with an instructor named Marty who brought me joy every Tuesday night with his Hip Hop class, I have hated every minute of it. No, I could not bring my baby to class in a Snugli. No, I could not even bring her past the front desk without her social security number, birth certificate, fingerprints, and hair samples. No, they would not take her in the nursery until she was at least a year old. No, they would not turn out the lights during Spin Class because it was against policy. No, they would not warm up the room or dim the lights for Yoga – against policy. No, you could not use the group exercise room equipment unless you were in a specified group exercise class, because you are too lame to use a rubber band by yourself and you might whack yourself in the forehead and shoot your eye out and sue us. It’s against policy.

Like staying with a bad boyfriend because nobody better has come along, I stayed at this gym. But I never gave up on the dream. Someday I would waltz into the club and be able to declare, “Hey, meathead! Yeah, you – the one whose ego is writing checks your body can’t cash. You guys stink. We are sooooo over.” My new housing development comes with access to a gym that we pay for through our HOA fee. My dream has come true. My mornings of listening to the grunts from “Testosterone Corner” (a.k.a. the free weights section) are finished, and my days spent standing in line for a drink of water or donating a kidney to borrow a basketball from the front desk are a thing of the past.

I called the 800#:
Me: “I’d like to cancel my membership.” We are breaking up.
Josh From Corporate: “May I ask why you’d like to end your amazing membership with us?” What’s wrong baby? Don’t you know you’ll never find anyone better than me?”
Me: “I belong to another club now, and I don’t need two memberships.” He’s cuter. Funnier. And all the treadmills have their own TV.
JFC: “Well I’m sorry to hear that.” Good riddance. I’ll have another girlfriend in like, three hours.
Me: “Uh-huh.” Liar!

My first day at the new club starts on Monday. Sorry Josh From Corporate, we just weren’t meant to be together.

I don’t want Lisa to get mad, but I love reusable shopping bags. Unfortunately for the environment, I don’t often use them for grocery shopping, but I use them for just about everything else. That pink bag in the middle of the bottom row? It is my “Primary Bag” and I’ve been using it for almost five years to haul all sorts of Sharing Time projects, props, and treats for the Primary kids. I use bags like this (polypropylene, recycled, or polyester) for swimming bags, library bags, for trips to Grandma’s house, and trips to the park… you get the picture. They are big, colorful, mostly indestructible, and you can wipe them down. Love ‘em.

They are all available online, but keep an eye out and I bet you’ll find some at a store near you. Envirosax (who produce the set of three on the top row) recently started distributing through Target. I found my beloved Blue Q Primary Bag at a store in Trolley Square (a shopping center near me), and I have seen the Market Bag brand at Whole Foods.

We’re off to school, the schedule, and all of it, so it’s time to reflect on our fun summer.  I looked on the list we made at the beginning of the summer, and all things considered, I think we did a good job.  Like I predicted, there was a lot of “going to get ice cream” and we didn’t really ever “go hiking.”  I’m proud that we did “try to catch snakes,” but wish we would have “looked at the stars at night through a telescope.”  Since Topher’s been gone, the kids have been going to bed earlier and earlier in the name of getting ready for the earlier school schedule, but stars or no stars, self-preservation is self-preservation.

I’m glad my kids like school.  For the past two weeks, Phoebe has asked me, by tapping me on the arm and whispering in my ear, “Tell them I’m going to kindergarten soon!”  or “Tell them I’m going to school–a real school–for the first time!” to everyone from the bank tellers to the grocery checkers, to the random lady at Target today.  When I do, the strangers give an appropriate response that leaves her satisfied.  I thank them for that.  I pretend I’m just humoring my five year-old with a roll of the eyes and an apologetic “Oh, she’s just so excited for school!”  but I love it that she’s so excited and wants to tell everyone.  I can’t put my finger on it, but it reminds me of someone.

Back to School Night at the local elementary school signals the end of the season.  My kids go back to school on Monday, and it seems a bit early.  I’m having a hard time convincing Phoebe, a sparkling new kindergartner, that wearing wool tights, a long-sleeved black tee under a knit shift dress is probably not the best idea.  While I admire her commitment to fashion, I don’t think heat stroke is the best way to introduce her to the nurse’s office.  She should save that inaugural visit for something important:  a “headache” when there’s a substitute teacher, a “stomach ache” when the novelty of going to school wears off, or on “sloppy joe day.”  It should mean something.

Kristy’s post has me thinking about food storage. It’s another topic which stirs up a lot of feelings and opinions. What is yours? Choose one and please leave a comment if your food storage style hasn’t been covered.

 Loading ...

This always happens to me. I think I’ll just watch my “favorites” on the Olympics, and then I get sucked in and I end up in a stupor in front of the TV because, my gosh, I don’t want to miss synchronized diving, and then Michael Phelps is going to be making his daily appearance for yet another record-smashing gold medal, and the Chinese gymnasts are head-to-head with the Americans . . .
The main problem (besides the obvious one that this has now slurped up my whole home life for nearly a week) is that it just goes way too late. I’ve been staying up past 11:00 every night, and I’m too old to do that anymore. So I cheer sleepily when the race ends and then stagger off to bed, annoyed at having sat through so many commercials to get to the less-than-two-minutes of drama.
But there’s one commercial I’m glad I saw, an image that will stay with me for a long, long time. It shows historic footage of an Olympic runner who has obviously been injured in some way, being supported across the finish line by an older man. The narrative goes something like: “So-and-so didn’t finish first in his race. He didn’t finish second, or third. But he - and his father - did finish.”
It moved me because of his determination to just get over that line, no matter the condition he was in. I was also moved by the notion that it’s not always the medal winners who score the greatest victories. But I think what moved me the most was the fact that when he just couldn’t do it on his own, his father was there to help him through.
It’s what I hope for as a parent.
It’s what I long for as a child of Heavenly Father.

I just watched an episode of What Not to Wear featuring a woman who wants to be a Life Coach. She was a slob. I can’t help but wonder what makes her think she is qualified to be a life coach. Clinton Kelly asserted that she might be able to coach other people about being a hobo, but nothing else. Oh no he di’ent!

You kind of have to have it together if you purport to be a life coach, right? I don’t have a life coach but if I did I would be incredibly judgmental. Hey, you asked for it when you signed up to coach me in all matters of life. That shirt needs to be ironed–you’re fired. Cake for breakfast? Fired. Your car smells like tuna fish. . . um. . . Fired!

Real Simple features an article by a life coach every month. Her name is Gail Blanke. She seems pretty with it but frankly, the less I know about her–the better. I won’t be able to stand it if I find out Gail lives in squalor or has a crush on Kevin Federline. At any rate, Gail gave some life-changing advice. In one of her first articles she explained that you may as well interpret things to your advantage instead of assuming the worst. Many people do this naturally, but it was earth-shattering advice for me. For example, when someone says “Where did you get that lip gloss?” I assume they are asking so they never accidentally buy the same lip gloss because it is ugly. See what I mean? And when I met David Sedaris at a book signing he asked my friend if we had all gone out to dinner together before his reading and I assumed he detected a stinky food smell on us and was trying to place it. (I still think that, by the way.)

According to Gail, that’s just stinkin’ thinkin’. Why not assume my lip gloss looks good? What harm is there in that? Of course, as David Sedaris himself says, “Like most seasoned phonies, I roundly suspect that everyone is as disingenuous as I am.” These are words to live by, too.