tollipop

time travel

Dear reader, I finally figured out a puzzle that has been confounding me for ages: namely, how to get from point A to point B in the twinkling of an eye.

Bring a good friend with you.  

Over the weekend my friend and I made a quick trip out of town.  All by ourselves. We left early one morning and returned late the next night.  I mean, on paper that is what happened. But in some ways it feels we distilled 48 hours into one thrill-packed roller coaster ride, over almost as soon as it began. Then again, every moment was filled with such fun that the experience lingers on in my mind as if it is somehow still happening.  

We wandered through rooms filled with dusty old doors, old chairs, old toys. 

I found my prom dress, the one I would have worn if I would have been asked to prom.

It may be this discovery set me back a little in the healing process, but don't worry: I'm not bitter.

We ate here.  Twice.  

Coconut sticky rice gelato.  Yes.  I will go to prom with you.

We drove through some of the loveliest neighborhoods I've ever seen.  They were so idyllic it felt as if we were in a dream.  

We had bread pudding for breakfast from this magical place.  

Bread pudding for breakfast?  

No one was the boss of us. 

We walked through pretty places and looked at pretty things.  We admired, we debated, we ate more gelato.  And through it all, we talked.  I think we pretty much talked non stop.  We talked about ourselves, our children, our families, about life, spiritual matters, social issues.  We laughed.  We got off on tangents.  We forgot the original point of our conversation, suspending relevance in a way that made perfect sense to us. 

And when we pulled into my driveway late Saturday night, we were still talking with such urgency we actually sat there awhile longer.   

I guess this is the secret to time travel, and perhaps it is something you want to use judiciously in case time vanishes altogether: fill it with people you love.  

But how can one be judicious about that?  How can one parcel out the heart?  I think you just have to go with it.  Love as many people as you can, let time roll on as it may.

That is the beauty of memory.  Doors, chairs, and toys may grow old and get covered with dust, but in the mind there is a place where moments can be summoned, fresh and new, and where the pleasure of a happy day may live on forever as if time stood still. 

lately

Dear reader, how are you doing?  How are things in your life?  I want the 30 minute response, not the one word one.

Here are a few snapshots of what we've been up to lately.  They only reveal a moment in time, but these are the moments I want to remember.  

Lots of volleyball.

Lots of cello and polka dots.

My husband, the pizza artisan.

Izzy and her favorite drink.

Composing music is more than just sprinkling dots on a page, franchement.

My smoothie pal.

Perfect weekend movie party: Tin Tin, sour gummies, snuggling. 

We can't get enough of baby cousins.

Or grandpas.

Salads,

Sun, sisters, and gelato...feels like summer is on the way.

Actually, I want the 40 minute response.  Plus a fizzy lemonade.

I hope you are doing well.

lemon pound

Yesterday morning I came into the kitchen to find my husband up to his elbows in batter.

I was all: Oh!  Are you making waffles?
And he was all: No, I'm making cake.
So I was all: Cake?  As in.....coffee cake?
And he was all: No.  Cake, as in lemon pound.

"Really?," I said.  "Yup," he replied, "I figure you never know when it's your last day on earth, so you might as well have some cake to go with it."

His logic, at 6:30 in the morning, was so morbidly awesome I was simply at a loss for words.

So.  Lemon pound cake for breakfast.  Why not?  That's my husband's job around here.  He's the fun guy.  

I'm the type who's more: Final call.  Do I have any takers for a sewing circle?  How about a spelling bee?

Thank goodness he's here to tip that scale. 

In other news, I just returned from walking Caroline to school. On the way, she announced, "Mom, can we talk about my wedding?"

I didn't even know she was into guys.

Well, she's not, apparently.  Her overriding concern was whether or not she could have fruit salad at the reception, and should she consider a simple, elegant dress, or one that twirled when she spun around?

:::::::::::::::::

Dear reader, it seems inevitable that I need to take another break from Tollipop.  I am just so behind with everything, it seems.  I'm always a bit mournful this blog is the first thing to get cast off the lifeboat when it starts to sink.

If you were in a sinking lifeboat, what would you rather keep?  A sweet, affectionate blog or a ton of surly boxes that need to get unpacked??

I'll be back once I'm halfway afloat.  

p.s.  and thank you for your lovely comments and curiosity about the creosote sachet...it made me realize what a fantastic way to share the essence of the desert!  I am hoping to make more soon...xo

karma chowder

The other day I finally got around to making my New Year's clam chowder.  You know--the one I was supposed to make for New Year's Eve which got downgraded to spaghetti when I realized just how many youngsters would be coming over and how awful it would be to confront their mutinous glares once they were apprised of the menu.

As it was, my own girls took one look at the chowder and promptly fished out their clams.  

Can you imagine?

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact I used whole clams.  Have you ever seen a whole clam, dear reader?  It looks like Gollum is floating around in your soup. 

I didn't use whole clams on purpose, mind you.  In case you didn't know, there's a rare strain of beings out there who are literate yet completely capable of ignoring labels.  Yes, it's true.  And they correlate closely with the demographic who'll open a can and dump its contents into their dinner without inspection.

Watching one's children fish the signature ingredient from a slaved-over chowder while trying to control their gag reflexes does not exactly make for a magical evening, dear reader.  It doesn't feel like a home run.  

I wonder if it has anything to do with all the bad energy I've been putting into the universe lately?

I wonder if it's in response to my attempt to paint every nuance in the spectrum of taupe on the walls of our new home and then ask my husband to tell me what he thinks.  

Incidentally, I suspect he thinks a lot more than what he's telling me.

I wonder if it's in response to giving my daughter super hard words on Hanging with Friends and not feeling even a twinge of remorse when her mascot plummets into a live volcano?

In my defense, this is because of the karma of her messy room.

I wonder if it's because I went running with the death squad yesterday, left them in the dust, and didn't say anything gracious or sporting when they straggled across the finish line?

Listen, it gets tricky with those guys.  Karma works in reverse for them.  Being gracious and sporting is actually a sign of weakness, which is the last thing you'd want to reveal in their midst.  

In wolf talk, that's like saying: hey, look at my broken paw!  I'm too old to hunt!  You better kick me out of the pack.

rule of thumb

This morning I went grocery shopping.  Unless I'm at Trader Joe's or an international market, grocery shopping doesn't exactly knock my socks off.  If anything, it hammers my soul to smithereens.  Something about huge buildings, industrial lighting, vast quantities of food shrink-wrapped together, people pushing pallets stacked with frozen waffles, shrimp platters, gallons of dip.  It goes down like rain at a picnic and mud all over my new party dress.  

At any rate, I parked as far away from the store as I possibly could, since I read somewhere this is the French woman's secret to staying slim and fabulous.  

Was there perhaps more to that article?  Did someone rip out the second page which divulged even better secrets?  Maybe so. Because I've been parking light years away from stores for ages now and I have yet to waltz through a room and hear people whisper, "Fabulous. How does she do it?!"

As I walked across the parking lot, I noticed a trail of raspberries along the way, some no more than a smear, others sadly tattered, a few still plump and luscious.  And for some reason it was all I could do not to pick up the good ones and pop them in my mouth.  They looked so tempting!  

The only thing stopping me was a small litmus test I often apply to such situations wherein I ask: Would a mother scold her toddler if he did what I'm about to do?

If the answer is yes, I generally reconsider my plan of action. Unless I don't care about getting scolded.

So I went inside and purchased some raspberries of my own. That was the better choice, right?

But I still think it such a shame--so many pretty, ruined berries! Perhaps I should have eaten them, after all.

I hope whoever dropped them went on to have a vastly better day.

same old ordinary day

There really is nothing ordinary about a day. 

They might seem the same, but that's not because they truly are.  It's only because you forget to notice the differences.

Take a look around.  Same old ordinary day.  Many, many differences.

Pasta for a zillion to be served at Sophie's volleyball banquet: not especially common.

Attending a master class by Rachel Barton Pine: way, way, way out of the ordinary.

Rachel Barton Pine.  Who are you?  What child in the 3rd grade elects to practice eight hours a day?  What child must be persuaded by her parents to set down her violin and come have dinner?  

How fascinating to make your acquaintance.

Korean bakeries: not exactly a standard feature of our day.  

But they should be.

Tofu mushroom soup, sizzling in a stone pot: you should make yourself more familiar, as well.  

Friends around the table: what a treat.

Barley tea in a pretty white cup: mmm.  We're going to be seeing a lot more of each other, you and I.

baked goods

The other day I walked into the kitchen and was all: You know what I'm in the mood for?  Cinnamon rolls.  

And my husband was all: That's a great idea.  You should make some.

And I was all:  Um, I think you missed the trajectory of my comment.

And he was all: No, I think I pretty much got it. 

And then I was all: Oh, it is on, mister.

And Caroline was all: You leave my daddy alone!  Redheads stick together!

And I was all: No, Caroline.  Girls stick together.  Girls.  How many times do I have to tell you?? 

It could be she'll have a few issues down the road.

favorite weekend

A favorite weekend must begin with a favorite cake.

It must feature a favorite uncle.

It must include an exciting adventure.

And a favorite aunt who will indulge every question, who will laugh, admire, listen, and make those around her feel as if they are the brightest, most amazing people ever to set foot on earth.

A favorite weekend must include candies, especially these ones.

 

It must allow for trial and error...and pretty fingernails.

As well as making rice pudding late into the night.

So that the next morning, when our favorite guests must go and nothing seems very favorite about that, there is still the rice pudding (our favorite uncle's favorite treat) to make us feel our favorite weekend isn't over yet.  

Not quite, anyway.

company dinner

Dear reader, something which draws me to my past, to some of the best memories of my past, is having company over for dinner.  

Especially Sunday dinner.

It feels like the steps of an old dance to come home from church and tie on a pretty apron, light candles, turn on music, tell my girls all I want to hear them ask is "what can I do next?", and start chopping peppers for a salad.  

The house already smells like a bear hug of heartiness from the bouef bourguignon I made earlier that morning and set in the oven.  

In the midst of all that loveliness, there is a knock on the door. Standing in the rain is the sweetest little girl in the world, one of my Sunday School students, bringing me a plate of tiny lemon cupcakes she made with her mother.

From scratch.  Right down to those darling meringue daisies.  

How I adore that little miss!  She has the cutest chirpy voice and the life force of the running of the bulls packed into one tiny frame.  

The company was lovely.  Dear friends, plus some of their friends, and my brother who is on his own while his family takes a vacation.  

The table was pretty.  The food, sublime.  

And the dessert.  Did I mention the dessert?  

You know you struck the motherlode when two of the three desserts being served require the assistance of a blow torch, dear reader.

 
But perhaps the best part of the evening was when everyone gravitated to the living room after dinner, got out their guitars, violins, cellos, ukeleles, and took turns serenading the others.

With the front door open, even more friends and neighbors stopped by.  

As the night wore on, friends got up and strayed back to the kitchen, helping themselves to seconds of dessert.  I love when people are comfortable enough to do that in our home.

At one point my husband set up some recording equipment and this (very raw on my part) impromptu collaboration ensued between me and my violin and one of the cool teenagers and her guitar.  

Dear John audio

Needless to say, it made me feel pretty cool by association.

Sometimes I long for the familiarity of the world I grew up in. Sometimes I wish I had a time machine to go back and visit certain moments from my past.  

And sometimes having company over for dinner, the very right kind of company, makes that feeling happen without having to move backward or forward, without having to get up from my chair, but just to sit there and look around the room and enjoy the moment I'm in.  

yes, i went back

Dear reader, if it seems all I talk about these days is crepes and cousins...well, there's a jolly good reason for that.

For the past little while, anytime I've tried to sit down, there's been a cousin hiding in the cushions.  Anytime I've tried to eat something, a cousin comes out of nowhere and perches by my side.  There is giggling beneath the beds, scurryings, passwords, claims of starvation, requests for flashlights and rubbing alcohol, and all kinds of scratching noises which stop immediately when you come to investigate.  

I think they may be digging a tunnel or something.  

At any rate, I finally tried the raspberries and nutella.  It was amazing.  It took me back to my childhood and the complicated yet passionate relationship I enjoy with raspberries.

But it also filled me with anxiety to get back to my original crush, Bananas Foster. 

It's called the Crepe Shack, dear reader.  And no, I'm not getting any free crepes for rhapsodizing about them like a schoolgirl in love.  But if you happen to visit, please tell them Tollipop sent you.  It never hurts to curry favor.

I think my brother curries favor there on daily basis.