Thanks for appearing in my dream last night! The party was really fun, even though the staircase had weird turquoise and brown carpet and there were chickens inside your house and there was no soup in my mug.  I’m sorry to say that you are 30 years too late in your proposal.  I will give you back your bandana next time I see you.

Love,

Emily

PS You probably still love Joanie anyway.*

*I have not listened to this since I was in 3rd grade.  It is truly awful.  Apologies.

We had a bird feeder outside our kitchen window growing up and I remember gazing at the robins and blue jays. I also remember them crashing into the sliding glass doors and falling to their premature deaths while we ate waffles.  My mom’s remedy was to have us make window and door cut-outs so that the birds might understand that this was NOT AIR.  Glass is solid, friends.  I seem to recall this tactic worked, but this might be the grown-up tendency to smooth the details.

My husband had a bird right before I met him.  I say “right before” because this justifies the fact that there were still feathers on the carpet when I first went to his medical school apartment.  ”Oh, do you have a bird?” I asked.  ”No.  Well, I did.” “Um, recently?” He shrugged and grinned.  ”About month or two ago…”

I nodded and knew instantly that I would trade a few feathers on the rug for the man in scrubs in front of me.  He tried to brush the feathers away with his shoes. “Did you have a bird?” he asked.  I shook my head. “No, but my little brother did.” And I told him about Mohawk, the 80s cockatiel. “Oh,” I added, “And then we had peacocks.” He looked at me with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “It seemed normal. At the time,” I added.

And it’s only now that I realize how many of my stories from growing up sound bizarre. They seemed normal. At the time.

When Heather turned 40 a couple of years ago (she’s older! this person need not be your age) her older brother collected stories from her friends to share at a family gathering.  I wrote the one that made everyone cry.  It was either that or the one that made everyone gasp in horror at our bizarre and sometimes profane sense of humor. Heather and I have called each other from miles apart, from her crooked house in Brooklyn and mine in Boston, from hospital rooms filled with joy or sorrow.  We’ve shared fresh goat’s milk and Italian cheese, picked green tomatoes roadside in the midwest, watched each other’s kids, stayed up too late with spouses playing word games, and edited each other’s work for years.  Our kids call each other frousins (not real cousins, not just friends).  She is my first reader and close soul.

In short, if I had to deliver a baby in a field, I’d want her there.

All this AND she is talented with crafts and games.  Got an old shoelace and a paper towel?  She’ll fashion a prom dress or an accordion.  How?  I have no idea.  No use for your packing kernels and partially melted birthday candles?  Heather will show you how to turn them into a child-friendly game that will take care of after-school hours.

Heather’s latest book is PLAY THESE GAMES  – and it’s a must-have for every parent, grandparent, caregiver or frugal enviro person out there as it shows step-by-step how to make games from objects you have around the house.

I suggest you send it to a friend – a good friend.  And then have soup.

Julia (age 7 3/4): Can I have a song?

Me: Which one?

J: Met my old lover in the grocery store.

[my husband is apparently working his way through the entire 1970s singer-songwriter genre, a guilty pleasure of mine while driving, so I knew she meant Same Old Lang Syne]

I proceed to sing about old flames meeting at the Stop n Shop (they did NOT meet at Whole Foods), surprised to see each other in the frozen foods aisle (they did NOT fondle persimmons or gush about the organic produce on offer), reuniting over a six pack of beer (not microbrew, more like Miller Lite), the emptiness of time passages washing over them until the snow turns into raaaaiiiinnn.

Julia: [sings] We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to now…hey, this is a kind of a sad song actually.

Me: Yup, it is.

Julia: How come she says she’s not happy being married to the architect?

Me: Not every marriage is happy. [thinks we are about to have a segue into divorce or architecture but...]

Julia: Oh.  Is it true that a long time ago if you stole something, they would CUT. OFF. YOUR. HAND?

Me: [trying to reconfigure] Yeah, I think so.

Julia: Well, they wouldn’t know WHICH hand you used. So there.

So…there…you have to love the non-sequitors and segues and connect the dottedness of kid life…

And appreciate even more the recipes that will always hang together, no matter what you throw in.  Don’t like chicken? Do salmon or tofu.  Add different vegetables.  There are biscuits involved – how bad could it be?!

My oldest son and I went on a volunteer trip to Central America  - great experience, rewarding, challenging, fun, and yes, recipes to follow…

Middle son went back to school, which has been a transition for everyone…

And I wrote a book. Or two.  Most of the time I juggle kids, novels, and cooking and sharing recipes, but these two books took a ton a focus and demanded I put the recipes aside.  So I listened.

However – I am back now and prepping for jam-making season and re-stocking the decorative objects (I’m almost sold out)…place your orders (including special requests for low-sugar, private batches, teacher gift baskets) for jams, butter, syrups, and granolas now.

And as you consider which jam you’ll spread on your buttered baguette, throw this easy, supremely healthy and delicious dinner together (it really takes 5 minutes of prep and 15 of cooking).

But not for someone who decided the LGBTQ subject of the novel and the award is enough to end our Facebook “friendship.”

Okay.  I wonder why this person friended me in the first place.  I love a Rainbow connection.  So I say to you, ex-friend, may you find freedom from judgement this season.  May you find the friends you need (elsewhere).  May your kids (if you have them) find love in the world with the person of their choice.  At the Passover seder tonight, our door is always open – for anyone, no matter their sexual orientation, race, or beliefs.  Even you, my friend.

And now, for something sweet!

We had a gaggle of kids, and the kind of laughs that are only shared with very old friends, wind-red faces from our blustery walk, and a cozy lunch at our friend’s house deep in the countryside.

Outside, the rain came and inside the kids and grown-ups alike tucked into traditional fish pie, buttery potatoes and bits of tender fish.  It was the first dish my daughter asked me to make when we returned home with stories of our trip and a recipe I remake often.

While I love comfort food, which fish pie certainly is, I like doing a modern twist on it, adding vegetables so it becomes a meal-in-one, working in layers for ease of serving and presentation, adding in whatever I have on hand.

This time of year I begin to dig through the freezer, using up whatever vegetables I picked and cut and froze last summer, the stray handful of corn or whole bag of purple peppers.  Soon the freezer will be empty and it will be time to restock.

For now, though, it’s fish pie and old friends.

Happy spring.

All this is to say that I should be able to think of myriad songs at bed time.  But there, in the dark, perched on my daughter’s bed, I come up with one or two. Or nothing.  I’ve done all the usual suspects and my kids will probably hear James Taylor or Carly Simon in college and feel the urge to suckle or sleep, but aside from a few Beatles’ I’ve been blank lately.

So what do I do when there’s pleading – come on, Mom, something – anything – new.

I sing, “Here’s the story, of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very lovely girls…”

The Brady Bunch?  Who knew all those years of back-to-back episodes would come in handy.  Trite, short, and easy to remember, the theme song worked.*

*And in case that wasn’t bad enough, last night was “The Search is Over”, Survivor’s greatest hit that up until now brings back Frankenstein hands on shoulder dancing in 7th grade.  Needless to say, my daughter loves it.

BUT.

But.  The day will come – rudely interrupting this blissful, hazy-edged life – when you and this person have a disagreement.  You might, for example, yell and cry and then fly 3000 miles on an eleven-forty pm flight with four kids sprawled across your combined laps, you might not have eaten in a few days because of fighting and travel and feel quite miserable only to arrive at your house to find that your enormous dog has crapped all over the dining room rug.

You might, say, have to crouch down with this person, in your pale and fatigued body, and scoop handfuls of poop into a bag.  You will be face-to-face with this person and literally picking up the shit, the fallout of your life.

And here’s my advice: at the end of the day (or first thing in the morning after the red-eye), if this person is the person with whom you want to pick up shit, then yes, this is the person for you.