tollipop

homemade spaghetti sauce

 
When I was a girl, we preserved a lot of food.  A lot.  Like, if we were driving along and my mom saw a tender green shoot peeping from the earth, she'd stop the car and make me go pick it so we could put it away for the winter. 

We did so much canning that if you could only know how much canning we did, you'd drop whatever it is you're doing, build a time machine, and travel back to my childhood so you could rescue me from my life as an indentured servant. 

 
Don't worry, however, about building that machine for my own children.  Although they may feel otherwise, I assure you they are only making cameo appearances in the Dickensian world of putting food by.

 
Because a most fortuitous coincidence occurred the other day.  Just as my sister and I were reminiscing (read: deprogramming each other) about the endless vats of spaghetti sauce we used to make so many years ago, a friend called with some rather nebulous information about a load of tomatoes which apparently fell off the back of a truck.  

She didn't offer any information. I didn't ask any questions.  But I did purchase a few boxes of her wares. 

 
And it was fun to watch my girls treat the experience as a novelty...for the first thirty minutes.  After that, they grimly realized we were not flittering through the kitchen, playing our usual games of make believe.

This was actually work. 

Which is when I explained to them: however did they think I came up with games of make believe in the first place?!  

Listen, dear reader, when your mum has you up before the break of dawn each day of summer vacation, canning whatever happens to be in season and you stand at the kitchen sink, peeling pits from apricots or snipping the ends off green beans, and you cast a tremulous glance over your shoulder and behold a trail of fresh boxes of produce awaiting your attention, enough boxes to snake around the corner and disappear from sight, your mind finds an escape hatch right smartly. 

It has to. 

Otherwise, and I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure I would still be standing there.

it's 11:00 am and already i've been into the ice cream

 
Dear reader, the girls are back at school!  The day started at 5:30 a.m...making lunches, helping with hairstyles, trying to keep the tenor of the house down to a fever pitch.

The middle schoolers were in high spirits with their lowkey fashions, their studiously unattended look of scruffy jeans and t-shirts. 

Not me.  I was the kid who wore a yellow blouse with matching corduroy pants on the first day of school.  The kid who still bears the scars of the incredibly creative taunts only 6th graders can conceive when a tall, skinny girl shows up looking like a banana. 

Whatever, man.  I matched. 

 
And then there was the rest of the morning wherein I listened to Caroline's steady stream of chatter.  A stream which, unless I'm mistaken, somehow seemed all the steadier as she had only one listener in the house for an audience.

How she wanted braids and a headscarf because that would allow her to work more seriously as a 2nd grader.  How her shoes fit perfectly.  How her socks matched her knapsack.  How she loved everything I put into her lunch.  How she felt it was the perfect weather for the first day of school.  How she loved me and was going to miss me, but didn't I think she was a lucky girl to be getting such a good education?  How she planned to look out for the new kids and make them feel welcome.  How would she know if they were new kids?  Easy!  Just look for the kids who are standing by themselves.  How she practiced her cello with great diligence, except that it nearly killed her not to be able to talk during that time. 

And the whole morning, for me, I felt kind of funny.  Sort of secretly crabby.  And I've already often mentioned how I have difficulty pacing myself with the gaining passage of time, and yet how I also enjoy being alone so it's not as if I can't cope with this new solitude or find many new ways to stay busy. 

I don't know.  I just sort of feel as if I want a hug from my mom. 

And I suppose that's why I had a bowl of ice cream instead. 

letting you in on a little secret

 
Dear reader, like many of you, I nurture a harmless fabric addiction.  Harmless, because I have no idea what to do with fabric and I almost never purchase it in amounts greater than that of a fat quarter.  And then I hoard it.

So when this package arrived in the mail, I broke into a cold sweat and let it sit in my studio for two whole days before opening it.  And it's not like I read Poe or anything, but I swear I could hear it beating.  Like the drums which accompany the condemned to the gallows, I knew the contents of that package were awaiting my demise.  Indeed, I knew they were the very means of my demise!

Yards and yards of fabric.  Enough fabric to lasso the moon.  Enough fabric to swathe the ocean.  And I had purchased it willingly enough, I suppose, only perhaps not having first ascertained whether I was competent to stand trial for doing so.

 
Anyway, I have three sisters.  They all possess the sewing gene.  The one which allows you to plunk a bolt of fabric on the cutting counter and look the attendant straight in the eye and tell her you want ten yards without your face beginning to twitch and her getting all suspicious and blowing a whistle which gets you kicked out of the store.  The one which allows you to pick up a pattern and interpret instructions in 3D ten steps in advance of the one you are actually on.  The one which allows you to throw around terms like woof and weft and selvage and other words which leave me huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, singing softly to myself.

I somehow missed out on that gene. 

But I really, really wanted new curtains for Isabella and Caroline's room.  And at night I would lay in bed using my powers of visualization, wooing myself with positive thoughts, whispering over and over that me and my straight edge ruler could make this thing happen.

You know, like that POW who spent years in solitary confinement and used his time to repeatedly visualize every detail of a golf game, only to play the world's most stupendous game of golf when he was eventually released...

You know that POW?

Well as it turns out, dear reader, visualization is only part of the secret.  So is positive thinking. 

You still have to know how to sew. 

 
Listen, I'm not denying there are now curtains where before none existed.  But I'm not exactly touring with the PGA these days, if you know what I'm saying. 

It could be awhile before you see my face on your box of breakfast cereal. 

the little party girl...tollipop original giveaway

 
Dear reader, how was your weekend?  Ours was nice, I think, but please don't ask me to account for it in any particular detail.  I seem to be having the hardest time collecting my thoughts lately.  They are all over the place, which is not especially unusual for me, but it seems something has happened to make me drift a bit farther out to sea. 

It could be the heat.  It could be the approaching of a new school year.  It could be any number of things.  I sometimes worry about my mind and its seeming inability to stay connected to anything real, sequential, and happening.

For as long as I can remember, I've always been that way.

And do you know one thing that brings me back into the moment?  Writing.  Which is odd, because writing can be an escape in its own way, but it also forces me to reflect with greater purpose, to be more linear and finish my thoughts. 

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to have another head.  I have friends who are so competent!  Who know their schedules backward and forward, who can rattle off social security numbers, interest rates, the day, the month, and the year. 

Listen, I know I have a husband and three kids, that they have places to go and things to do.  I know there are people who are counting on me.  But I tell you, half the time I'm living in some sort of fairy forest.  Some sort of chocolate factory.  Some sort of enchanted tree fort.  In short, half the time I have no clue where I am. 

My husband assures me this is one of the reasons he married me.  But sometimes I suspect it was a lot cuter in my twenties than it may be today. 

However, this is neither here nor there.  I made a little party girl today.  Someone who may be standing in a room full of people and find herself fully engaged in the moment.  Or it could be that her head is a million miles away. 

And I would love to give her to you.  Just leave your name.  And the date.  And the planet we are living on, because sometimes I'm not too terribly sure...

matching

 
Dear reader, lately it seems so many sweet baby girls have been coming into the world!  I just love it.  I think I enjoy it with an added awareness, having experienced firsthand how quickly the miracle of these early moments moves along. 

The girls and I have been making lots of beaded jewelry lately.  It seems to go hand-in-hand with summertime.  We made this little set for a dear mum and her new baby girl...the smaller piece is an anklet adorned with a tiny bell.  In Thailand I understand there is a certain tradition to adorn one's babies with these bells to keep track of their whereabouts.  Indeed, I once made a necklace with such a bell for Caroline and for the next six months I felt as if I was being stalked by the world's most affectionate kitten. 

Do you think it is cool to match with your baby?  I never trust my instincts on such matters, but decided to go with it based on a conversation I had with the mother wherein we both noted how everyone commented on the lack of resemblance between us and our first babies. 

When I had Sophie, it was during a difficult time in my life.  Everything was turned upside down due to some very sad family circumstances and I suddenly found myself living in the strangest place on earth, Las Vegas, with a new infant and about a hundred thousand strangers who seemed unable to restrain themselves from vociferously exclaiming upon how my daughter and I looked nothing alike. 

It seems like a harmless enough observation, I suppose, but at the time I felt so raw from those unrelated struggles, and the fact I was fielding such comments incessantly somehow made me feel a bit desperate about finding my way through the new and bewildering world of motherhood.  I remember feeling so grateful to one older woman who remarked how obvious it was that my baby belonged to me. 

At any rate, to this day I always try to think of the most positive and reassuring words to share with a new mother.  I always look for the resemblances.  I always congratulate her on a job well done.  And I always mean it from the bottom of my heart.   

I don't know if this particular mother will be keen on the idea of a matching mother-daughter jewelry set, but I hope she always feels how much of her is in that baby, how physical resemblances come and go, change and evolve, but the sweetest connection, the one that really matters, has nothing to do with eye color, hair color, genes or DNA, and whether or not they have the same button nose or sweet, dimpled chin.  

.........................

Dear reader, next week we are gearing up for a return to school.  Did you hear that sound?  That's me swooning off my chair.  At any rate, I'm not sure how punctual I'll be in visiting Tollipop for the next little while, but will try to stop by as often as I can. 

Wishing you an utterly lovely weekend. 

xo

may all your dreams come true

 
Dear reader, the other day I found myself in one of those awful clothing stores geared to the generation gap: darkened rooms, pulsating music, extremely disappointing and massive images of scantily clad young bodies. 

Don't judge me, dear reader.  Don't judge me until you, too, have travelled the seven seas in search of bluejeans for a daughter with no hips and legs from here to Mount Olympus. 

While I was waiting for Sophie to try things on, the door opened to another changing room and a gentleman of a certain age and a certain je ne sais quoi stepped out with a look of confusion on his face.  I correctly assumed he was European and he erroneously assumed I was an associate of the store (which, actually, is a huge compliment when you stop to think most such sales associates have barely earned a driver's license).

At any rate, he looked at me and asked a question in halting English.  And that's when I knew, dear reader.  Oh, happy day!  He was French!  Possibly, too, his name was Anatole!  And although he was a younger version of my dear little man on the park bench, yet he was every bit as charming. 

And in that moment I had a choice.  I could either gesture the living daylights out of the situation or I could take a deep breath and go for it.  I could speak French. 

So what do you think I did?  What do you think I did in that profoundly terrifying moment?   

Dear reader, don't be fooled by my insipid fear of scorpions.  As I child I used to run with wolves and could take down a caribou with a single nip to the heel...

J'ai parlé français, bien sur! 

And he understood me! 

I don't know if I can quite convey the significance of this little exchange.  What it meant to me.  How one of my greatest dreams in life has always been to be at least bilingual, for my children to be bilingual, for us to live in another country, experience another culture, another language.

And how nowadays I speak French so rarely I fear it won't even sound like French when it comes out of my mouth. 

But we got along swimmingly.  I explained I was waiting for my daughter to try on some clothes.  In the meantime he wanted my opinion on the fit of his t-shirt and I was happy to oblige.  We both agreed the music was too loud.  He asked me how it was I spoke French.  I said it was terrible French to begin with.  But he looked deeply into my eyes and insisted it was very nice French, very nice indeed, which is a classic example of why Frenchmen are famous for making inroads with members of the opposite sex within seconds of saying enchanté de faire votre connaissance.

But none of this is really my point today, dear reader.  It's just that the experience simply got me thinking about my dreams, the ones that really mean something to me.  The ones I hope will happen even though I often fear perhaps they won't. 

So today I'm wishing for your dreams to come true.  I really am.  And on top of that, I wish you a coconut cupcake...in a pink, polka-dotted, unhoarded cupcake liner.

pretty pretty cupcakes

 
Dear reader, you are looking at a gift given me by a dear friend for my birthday last year.  When I opened the package, I actually gasped, that's how lovely I thought it was.  Since then, I've been doing what any fallible mortal being would do who receives such an exquisite set of cupcake liners: hoarding them. 

Alas, many meritable cupcake occasions have come and gone over the past year but try as I might, I simply could not come to terms with the ransacking of my treasure.  Because then they would be used up.  And gone.  And would anyone even care to save their cupcake liner and fold it into a tiny fan and take it home and press it in the pages of a memory book to be preserved for the reverence and awe of generations to come?

I highly doubted it.

But last night I was invited to a baby shower and asked to bring along a treat.  And this shower was extra special, as I've known the mother since she was quite young and it was very exciting to see her with a sweet baby girl of her own.  So I decided to make some of those lovely coconut cupcakes.  And I realized there could be no better moment to debut my precious cupcake liners.

And as it is with all things I accidentally hoard, whether it is paper or fabric or stickers or cards...it felt so good to finally share.  It was such a relief to send my little cupcake liners out into the world. 

So I guess I really am one year older and wiser, too. 

I'm not sure if the cupcake liners caused the commotion that was certainly their due.  I'm not sure if anyone secretly folded theirs up and took it home and set it on a pedestal. 

That's because I was too busy admiring the real treasure: a brand new baby girl, as sweet and dear as they come. 

And for the first time ever I happened to bring two of my own girls with me for the evening.  Caroline made a fortune teller for the baby and filled it with predictions like: 

You are going to be smart.
You are going to kiss a frog.
You are going to marry a prince.
You are going to get a talking hamster.

And the whole time we sat there watching as gifts were unwrapped and baby outfits were passed around to be admired by the entire circle, Caroline was in seventh heaven and simply unable to get over the fact that this little baby girl had absolutely no idea of all the amazing gifts she was getting!

close brush with a nervous breakdown

 
Dear reader, this morning I wandered through the house collecting beach towels I'd laid out the night before from our trip to the pool with the cousins.  I draped them over my arm and put some dishes in the dishwasher.  I straightened a pretty china figurine and noticed how dusty she was.  But that's all I did: just notice.  I went here, I went there.  I thought about this, I thought about that.

Then I went upstairs and set the towels on my bed.  I picked up a giant striped towel and folded it, just the way my mother taught me.  I almost always think of my mom when I am folding towels.  Somehow it is very soothing.  I picked up another and Izzy came into the room.  She flopped down on the pillows and we talked for awhile.  She wanted me to examine a bump on her wrist. She wanted a detailed description of what it meant to be an organ donor.  She wanted to know if she could have carrot cake for breakfast.  You know, the usual small talk. 

Then she suddenly leaned forward.

"What is that clinging to the towel, Mum", she asked, "Is it a ball of dust?" 

A ball of dust?  I dropped the towel like greased lightning.

Dear reader, I've lived long enough to know there are no balls of dust clinging to towels in the story of my life.

There are only scorpions. 

As we stood there twitching and gawking, Izzy suggested we capture it in an Ikea cup.  Caroline appeared on the scene wielding her dad's shoe.  I grabbed a massive wad of toilet paper, but Izzy assured me the scorpion would jump onto my hand and prong me with its tail before I'd get within ten feet of the little rotter. 

Like a fool, I believed her. 

So we all stood there staring at each other, gaping at the scorpion, hardly daring to breathe. 

The doorbell rang.  We screamed. 

Then I realized it was only Sophie's ride to volleyball practice.  I hustled Sophie out of the room, leaving Caroline and Izzy with explicit instructions not to take their eyes off the scorpion, since everyone knows scorpions are just like leprechauns, only minus the pot of gold. 

Finally, as scorpions are wont to do, he got tired of staying all hunched up and waiting for us to make our move.  So he made his move.  Unfurling himself to the size of a Clydesdale, he began cantering around the beach towel.

That's when my instincts kicked in.  You know.  Those motherly instincts which are generally praised on daytime talk shows but in my case, how much better off we'd be without them. 

I folded the corners of the towel over the scorpion like it was some kind of French pastry, picked it up, and threw it in the bathtub. 

After a great deal more shrieking, hand-wringing, and hysterical laughter, we managed to shake our partycrasher off the towel, where he promptly took a look around and scuttled down the drain.

And now, a new dilemma.  Caroline assures me her days of personal hygiene are over and she will never take another bath in that tub for the rest of her life.  I mean, as trials go, there could be worse things than having the world's filthiest child.  There could be things like a having a mother who keeps missing her chance to render the planet one less scorpion because she secretly believes it has the bionic ability to pole vault itself through the air and fang her eyeball with its deadly tail.

happiness is...

 
Snuggling on the couch with Caroline and watching Nancy Drew.  And commenting on Nancy's lovely manners, her darling outfits, and the lunch she brought to school which reminded us of those from Bread and Jam for Frances.  

And Caroline exclaimed how she would just love to have a lunch like that and inwardly I sighed, thinking of my signature dull lunches: a turkey sandwich, apples sliced very thin, two cookies, possibly some cheese.  Perhaps someday I really will send her to school with a white lace doily, a tiny basket of cherries, a pudding cup with sprinkles, and a hard boiled egg with a matching set of salt and pepper shakers.

And all the while, I was taking the greatest pleasure in stitching this new little dollface.  She seems a bit melancholy.  But then, all my dolls are just the least bit melancholy.  It's because they think about things, darling.  They ponder and ruminate.  Dolls who grin from ear to ear run the risk of seeming a tad vacant, don't you think? 

 
And elsewhere in the house? 

Sophie was making her signature chocolate chip cookies.  Isabella was upstairs attempting to freestyle sew a teddy bear which she sadly pronounced resembled an old sock.  But our fridge was well stocked with her latest carrot cake, so she couldn't be too crestfallen now, could she?

As for my husband, he was unfortunately away on business.  And while having him home makes everything seem complete, the title of this post refers to the fact I have three of the best little friends I could ever imagine in my daughters. 

And when it is just the four of us on an afternoon like this, there is such contentment in my heart, such an awareness of these golden moments that I wish I could capture them in a tiny glass jar and find a way to sprinkle them over the whole wide world and every single person who lives upon it.

the happiest place on earth

Dear reader, there are many places that make me happy.  To be sure, I would be hard pressed to narrow them down to the nearest hundred.  The library, a creek, the candy store, a change of season, a tide pool, the seashore, a garden, a path, a lake, the dinner table, the movie theatre, an orchard, a hidden corner, a seat on a train, a perch in a tree, an old alley filled with dusty, forgotten shops...

It doesn't especially matter where I am, to be honest, though let's not pretend location can't go a long way toward contributing to one's happiness.

 
Who can be unhappy, for example, when four black cats kick up their heels and offer you a balloon?

 
Or a cluster of matryoshka pins is all that stands between you and a very tidy desk?

 
Or there is a toadstool-shaped stack of paper which can be clipped to your belt loop, so that when someone asks for a piece of paper you can exclaim I have just the very thing!

 
And Shinzi Katoh pens...



Pens that click just so and have sayings like: tu peux venir quand tu veux, or can you hear the murmur of the forest? 

While I am careful not to overclick my pen, neither do I shy away from an opportunity to smartly announce its presence.

 
In the midst of such happiness, the only thing better is to share it with another, preferably the 12-year-old version of oneself if at all possible...

........................

Dear reader, I'm sorry I've missed the past few days here at Tollipop.  August promises to be a busy month and already it feels a bit out of my hands.  I regret to say my visits here may be a tad more infrequent for the next little while.

But I will be sure to stop by whenever possible.

Wishing you lots of ice cream in the meantime...

xo