Table for 12

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I love my dining room. Not because it’s all that fancy, or because we eat dinner in there all that often.  But because it’s become one of the places where the “Kodak moments” of my life seem to happen.  (I’m dating myself with the use of the term “Kodak moments,” aren’t I??)

My dining room is at the front of the house, just to the right of the front door, so it’s often the first impression people get when they visit my home for the first time.  In fact, if the rest of downstairs looks like it usually does, I will occasionally usher a visitor in that direction to avoid the general clutter that typically invades the direct path in.  For Halloween, when I’m opening the door for lots of people, I stage the table with decorations and candles, giving an ooohhh-aaahhh impression to those who peek in.  (It’s fine with me if they think it always looks like that!)

It serves us well for homework and studying.  The outlets in the room are usually available for a visiting laptop, and the big table is perfect for laying out flash cards or spreading out notes.

This is my first house with a real dining room.  When we moved in I had visions of fancy-smanchy dinner parties and grown-up soirees, with guests milling around, admiring my china and sipping from my good crystal.  Those events never did come to pass, but the things that have happened in this room have been even better.

I serve my holiday meals there, usually with extra tables pulled in for the family and friends who come to share special days with us.  Yesterday, as I was setting the table for Easter dinner, a wave of nostalgia came over me, and I started thinking about the memories the room had.  Snapshots flashed through my mind, and a smile came to The Lucky Mom’s face.

Christmas 2008, the year my husband was in Iraq. That year we only had 10 people at the table, but it was important to me to keep my tradition going.

We moved here in 1999.  That Christmas was the first time I was able to seat all of our guests in the same area.  We had several tables pushed together, spilling into the living room.  But we were all there.  A few years prior I had bought enough “party china” to serve more people than could possibly gather in my house.  I checked online to make sure the place settings were done right.  The room looked beautiful.

Thanksgiving of 2006 was the first holiday that our best friends (the ones we celebrate all special events and holidays with) were back in their house after Katrina.  After we sat down, my dear friend Elena said the blessing.  With her voice shaking and tears in her eyes, she gave thanks that we were all together again.  I’ll never forget that moment, for it reminded us of what really matters.

Our holiday crew has changed quite a bit over the years.  After Katrina, one whole branch of our family tree moved to Houston.  The next year, my mom went to heaven, and Gramps is now in a nursing home.  As for the “kid’s table,” 3 of the kids are in college, and 2 are over 6’ tall.  But they’re still our “kids,” and sit at their designated table without complaint.

Setting up the dining room for holidays is a bit of work — bringing in extra tables and chairs, pulling out the china, finding enough silverware for everyone.  Picking it all up is definitely a chore.

But I love it when my dining room looks like this:

because it means people I love are on their way!

Nerd + Nerd = More Nerds

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{ Source: Sony Pictures Animation }

nerd   (noun \ˈnərd\):  an unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept person; especially : one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits

(Yes, I looked it up.  It’s what I do.)

The Caboose came home from school a few days ago in a bad mood.  He went up to his room to sulk for a little while, then appeared in the kitchen a few moments later, ready to talk about it.

Him:  I’m glad I’m not going back to that school next year.

Me:  (Concerned look.)  Why?

Him:  Because they have too many bullies.

Me:  (Seething.)  What happened?

Him:  The popular kids were calling me and my friends names.

Me:  (Seething more.) What did they call you?

Him:  Nerds.

Me:  (Sympathetic look.)  Aww.

You must understand, “aww” was the word that came out of my mouth, but my brain was saying “yessss!”  For I know the path of a nerd.  And it turned out just fine for me.

You see, I’m a nerd.  To be specific, I’m an English Nerd.  My husband is also a nerd.  He’s a Computer Nerd.  Turns out that when two nerds marry and have kids, guess what their offspring turn out to be.  You got it…more nerds.

Now I use the term with great affection.  Many of my closest friends are nerds.  (Go figure.)  But coming to terms with being a nerd is a long process.  And my Little Guy just isn’t there yet.  It’s my job to get him there.

When my kids read this (…who am I kidding, they don’t read my blog…) they’re not going to be happy.  Having one’s mom tell the world you’re a nerd can’t be good for adolescent self-esteem, but deep down I think the two older kids already know.

As for The Caboose, I’ll tell him over and over that he shouldn’t listen to what other people say.  I’ll reinforce the philosophy that “it’s what’s inside that matters.”  I’ll remind him that he has many friends who like him just the way he is.  But he’ll still want to be more like the  popular kids.  And he’ll want to be one of them.  It’s part of growing up.

This week is my College Boy’s Spring Break.  (Some of my friends have been expressing woe over their kids going to the beach for Spring Break.  I can’t even imagine that level of worry.)  When he said he planned to stay home, I was quite relieved.  Then a magical thing happened:  his girlfriend came to our house, and tucked under her arm was a physics book.  I almost cried.  They spent the afternoon at the dining room table with laptops and physics books. He has (at least on a sub-conscious level) realized he’s a nerd, embraced it, and is seeking out others like him.  The circle of life is complete for that one.

The wild-card among my children appears to be Slick, the middle child.  He has cool hair, a quick wit, and a free spirit.  He plays two team sports.  This apple may roll a little farther from the tree than the others.  (He’ll probably be a Democrat.)  But he did set his alarm for 3:30 A.M. a few days ago to wake up and study for a Latin test, so he’s clearly showing nerdy tendencies.

Raising a house full of nerds has made me happier and prouder than I ever could have imagined.  I’ve realized that the world has enough Alpha Males.  It needs more Nerds.  It needs more people who value intelligence over attention and substance over style.  I’m happily doing my part for the greater good!

So, to all the popular girls who called me names in high school, thank you.  (I’m sure some of you turned out nicely, too.)

Braciolone Note: Barding

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I have learned from my nephew in culinary school that wrapping something in bacon or other fatty meat to enhance the flavor is called “barding.”

Now, I have wrapped the rolls in prosciutto to keep them from falling apart without the use of messy string.  While I realize my intent is different from the stated purpose of “barding,” I’m going to employ the term, anyway.

So, what I meant to say was that I was “barding” the braciolone rolls with prosciutto.

Mama Mia

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Twenty five years ago, I married a half-Sicilian New Orleanian.  Anyone who knows anything about Italian boys from New Orleans knows that means he came with a big, loud, Italian family, and an Italian mother who loved to cook.  And her signature dish was bracioloni.*

This dish was served at all high holidays, and whenever an out-of-town relative was visiting.  All those gathered anticipated it, raved about it, and devoured it.  It was the apex of the food experience. 

Now, I myself come from a long line of good cooks.  Half Cajun and half redneck, I jest frequently that I can cook anything —  whether it comes from a grocery store or comes home in an ice chest.  From my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings to my mother’s duck, I’ve been taking it in my whole life.  But once I figured out the relationship between my husband and his mother’s cooking, I vowed I would never cook Italian food while she was still alive.  There was just no reason to put myself through that  process.  It would never be as good, and I would never hear the end of it. 

But the fact is, I really like Italian food, and my kids really like it, too.  So I started introducing some entry-level dishes to my husband and kids, like lasagna and chicken cacciatore.  They gave them rave reviews, and boosted my confidence.  When I saw a local chef presenting his bracioloni recipe on TV, he captured my attention.  I listened intently to his technique, and paid a visit to his grocery store/butcher shop the next day.  Armed with his advice, a small container of his “secret” seasoning blend, and a perfectly cut flank steak, I decided to give it a try.

It was quite different from my mother-in-law’s version of the dish, which made me feel better.  Rather than trying to out-do her, I was exploring my own variation of this favorite.  I did all the work while no one was home, thinking I could throw it away without anyone being the wiser if it was lousy.  But it wasn’t.  It was terrific, and my husband raved that it was better than his mother’s.**  I didn’t know if he was just being kind, or if it was actually that good, but when he asked me when I was planning to make it again I was validated.  Even though my mother-in-law was alive and well, I had shaken off my fear.  An Italian chef was born! 

As all good Southern cooks do, I’ve tweaked the recipe a bit, and my family loves it.  So when College Boy came home for Spring Break I decided to pull out the stops and reward him for spending the week with us, instead of going to the beach like everyone else.

Following this post is the photo-essay/recipe for The Lucky Mom’s bracioloni.   If you feel like trying it, let me know.  I’d love to hear how it turns out.

Fine print:

*The exact spelling and pronunciation of this dish is disputed everywhere.  Braciole, bracioloni, brocioloni, whatever.  It’s a fabulous stuffed, rolled meat.

** If anyone tells her this we will both categorically deny it.

Braciole — or Bracioloni — or Brociolone

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  • 2 onions, chopped
  • 1 red sweet pepper
  • 1 yellow sweet pepper
  • 2 tbsp minced garlic
  •  ¼ cup of chopped Italian parsley
  • ¼ cup pine nuts
  • 2 cups of bread crumbs
  • 6 slices of provolone cheese, chopped
  • 1 cup of parmesan cheese
  • Olive oil
  • 10-12 pieces of very thin beef – Flank steak or Milanese cut steak
  • 10-12 slices of prosciutto
  • Lots of red gravy (marinara sauce)

Pan prep:  olive oil in the bottom of the pan.  (I like to use a glass pan.  It doesn’t stick as badly, and is easier to clean.)

Saute the first 5 ingredients in a little olive oil, until the onions are clear. 

Saute veggies til onions are clear. (There are no streaks that became visible with the bright flash of light. That is an illusion. My stove is spotless.)

Set aside to cool.  In a large mixing bowl, mix the bread crumbs and both cheeses.  Add the sautéed mixture, and add olive oil until it is thoroughly mixed and crumbly. 

At this point in the recipe, all chopping is completed, and sipping wine is permitted.

Place the meat on a cutting board and spread the stuffing across the entire piece. 

Roll it carefully, starting from the narrow end.  Wrap each roll in prosciutto to keep the roll from separating while cooking.  My mother-in-law Some recipes will tell you to use string to tie the roll closed.  DON’T DO THIS.  It makes a huge mess and gets red gravy all over everyone’s clothes when you have to remove it.

The prosciutto will tighten and secure the rolls while they cook.

Place the rolls in your pan, and bake in a 450 degree oven for 10-15 minutes, until the prosciutto tightens and the rolls are lightly browned. 

This is what NOT TO DO. I poured the sauce over the rolls before putting them in the oven to brown. Even though I scooped off as much as I could, there was too much moisture, and the prosciutto didnt shrink enough. Oh, well. They still tasted good.

 Remove from the oven, and reduce the temperature to 225 degrees.  Pour marinara sauce over all the rolls, and cover the dish with foil.  Return to the oven for 1 ½ hours.

Serve with pasta and warm bread.  Listen for the yummy noises from your family.

Variations:

You may use a very large piece of beef, and make one family-sized braciole.  If you do this, wrap the prosciutto slices along the entire length of the roll.  Serve it on a big platter, sliced.

I make some without cheese for one of my kids who can’t have cheese… still yummy!

Next time I’m going to add some chopped sun-dried tomatoes to the stuffing.

The Long Goodbye

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Those who have a loved one with Alzheimer’s know what this means.

The term was made famous when Nancy Reagan described her husband’s slip into a distant world.  We all get its meaning, but only those of us who live with it truly understand it.

My father-in-law, “Gramps” to all of us, started experiencing lapses in judgment about 15 years ago. At first it was of little consequence, just slight confusion and poor decision-making.  It slipped into forgetfulness and some short-term memory loss.  Within a few years the confusion grew, and the memory loss became more profound. Simple household tasks were becoming off-limits, and driving was no longer safe.  His wife assumed the 24-hour responsibility, and the 36-hour day.  As it became no longer safe for him to be left unattended at home, Gramps became a frequent face at our house, allowing his wife a few precious hours to herself.  Then sitters became part of the routine, and eventually, a search for an appropriate facility to relocate him.

While this was happening, the impression my kids had of their grandfather changed as well. Only my oldest son has memories of Gramps when he was “whole” – when he worked, drove a car, and remembered their names. My middle son remembers him in the beginning of his decline.  He recalls going fishing, throwing a ball, going on vacations together.  But my little guy has only known Alzheimer’s Gramps.

In a way, the little guy has the easiest load to cope with, because he only remembers Gramps the way he is now.  He didn’t have to watch him slip away from us. He understands what Alzheimer’s is, and knows first-hand what it means.

In his prime, Gramps was an amazing man.  He worked tirelessly for his family.  In a story we can all relate to today, Gramps worked two jobs to rebuild his family’s losses after Hurricane Betsy.  He was generous, kind, and polite to a fault.  His wife never touched a vacuum cleaner, or pumped gas.  When his children cried at night, he paced the floor with them.  He served in the Navy with his twin brother, and served his community as a Shriner.

He currently resides at a skilled-care facility for Veterans, the third residential facility we’ve placed him in.  It’s not a VA facility, but a partnership between the state and the VA.  As a war vets home, it’s mostly men, and a place where he seems to feel comfortable with his neighbors.

Which brings me to today.

We had a lacrosse game in Baton Rouge, and stopped to see Gramps at his “home” on our way home this afternoon.  While we adults visit often, we keep our visits with the kids controlled, limited to times when we think Gramps will be receptive to visitors, and under conditions that won’t freak them out. 

We arrived in the early afternoon, and I ushered the boys to the family room, while hubby went to retrieve Gramps from the secure Alzheimer’s unit.  Some of the other residents are in states of deeper decline, and visiting the unit can be uncomfortable even for adults.   So Gramps greeted the boys in the game room, where the air hockey and pool tables waited, and other families visited with their loved ones.  We spent about an hour visiting with him, playing games, and talking.

Watching them interact with their grandfather was a beautiful thing. They played pool with patience, explaining the rules with every turn, and laughing along when things got confusing.  They reminded him of their names, what grade they’re in, and promised to visit more often.

As the rate of his decline continues to accelerate, opportunities like today will come less often.  Catching him on a good day will be a gift, and the number of times they get to make memories with their grandfather will decrease.  And when he can no longer interact with them, and no longer remembers them, they will have something to cling to.  So will I.

Monday, Monday, so good to me.

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I realize what I’m about to say will make more than a few brows furrow, but here it goes… I Like Monday Mornings.  There.  I said it.  I’ve always liked Mondays.

Maybe it’s a maternal thing.  You know, the whole renewal, birth-of-a-new-week philosophy.  A chance to get it right.  Learn from the things I didn’t do well last week, and incorporate the things that did go well into the new plan.

This particular Monday morning was good.  I got enough sleep, had the laundry caught up, and my hair looked decent straight off the pillow.  (This last thing is important, because it determines if I’m going to run errands on my way home from carpool.  Good hair=getting things done.  Bad hair=coming straight home.)  Sounds vain, I know, but it’s how I roll.  So the extra time I took de-frizzing it yesterday paid off this morning.  I fixed my son a proper breakfast (it’s standardized testing this week…) fed the fish, cleaned a bathroom, and watered the plants between my first and second cup of coffee.  After making my morning loop, I stopped at the grocery store, meal plan for the week in hand. 

The grocery store is nice on Monday mornings.  The floors are clean, the shelves stocked, and the employees are in a better mood than usual.  I got a good parking place and didn’t have wait in line to check out.  Evidently there aren’t a lot of us “Monday People” out there.  So I pretty much have the place to myself.

So here’s my Monday Morning Reality Check:

Lessons learned from last week

  • My friends don’t care if my house isn’t spotless.  They will come over if I invite them.  So I’m going to invite them more often.
  • It’s worth the effort to cook dinner.  (This one blew even my mind, and I can’t believe I’m putting it in writing.)  But a busy evening doesn’t get any better with a pizza box on the counter.  I’m going to reserve my dining dollars for times that I can actually enjoy it. 
  • My kids can be more independent than I give them credit for.  I shouldn’t hover so much.
  • I should never be too busy to stop and ask a friend how her day is going.  I will make that phone call.  I will put the card in the mail. 

Things I will do better at this week:

  • Not let laundry pile up. 
  • Spend more time with friends. 
  • Clear away the clutter in my kitchen.
  • Get to bed on time.

If I can finish the week with this much energy and optimism, there’s hope for me yet!

Spring Fever — or — If It’s Good Enough for Others, It’s Good Enough For You

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The Lucky Mom has been in a kind of weird place lately.  I’ve had things on my plate and on my mind that have been weighing heavy, and have been avoiding the keyboard out of fear that I’d be bitter.   We’ve been making important decisions about education for our kids, about elder care and nursing homes for parents, dealing with a 24/7 construction zone behind our house, handling a crisis with one of our boys, coping with declining property values and a rental market that has us barely breaking even on our previously-profitable rentals, and so on.  Small potatoes compared to the woes of some, but a load on The Lucky Mom’s mind.

Since I’m always ready to dispense wisdom to those who ask for it (and occasionally to some who don’t), today I decided to turn the tables on myself, and pretend I was one of The Lucky Mom’s friends who came to her for advice.  As I did, I had to prepare myself to be ready to take the advice I was about to give, even if it was tough.  And I made a promise that I would find the positive side of each issue, no matter how tough.

This, too, shall pass. I use this one all the time, because of its universal truth.  No matter what “it” is, “it” will eventually change.  Change is the one thing you can always count on.  Whether it’s a bad haircut, or 2 years worth of construction noise, it won’t last forever.  And hey, when the new levee is finished, my flood insurance premium may go down.  (Smile.)

Perspective:  there’s someone out there who wishes she had your problems. I didn’t have to look far for illustrations of this point.  Not long ago a friend was excited to announce that her daughter didn’t need another open-heart surgery.  Another was pondering how to help her stepson handle his first birthday without his mother.  The list is long of friends who are shepherding their kids through much greater ordeals than mine.  I can hug and kiss my boy and soften his blow.  I need to quit making such a big deal out of it.  Then he will probably do the same.

Keep the faith. Another universal truth.  As a woman of faith, I believe that God’s plan for me doesn’t skip any details.  I believe that all the experiences of my life contribute to the plan that He has for me.  Even if they seem difficult.  Even if I don’t understand.  I have an enviable life.  I need to remember that more often.

So after a little positive self-talk, I feel better.  I’ll embrace the coming Spring, noticing the new leaves instead of the pollen, the green grass instead of the weeds.  After all, we’re in the heart of lacrosse season (my fav!) and crawfish are just around the corner.  So what was I worried about?????

I’ll pray for you, you heartless jerk.

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It was up… it was down.  Now it’s up again.  My cooling off period is over, and I’ve decided I’ve got to say what I’ve got to say.

_________________________________________________________________

I’m so angry right now I don’t know what to do with myself.  The kind of angry I don’t get very often.  The kind of angry I don’t understand, because it is so unlike me.  The kind of angry that makes me wish bad things on people.

I don’t get like this over a wrong committed against me.  This level of ire is reserved for those who commit a wrong against one of my peeps.  One of my kids.  The details of this will (I’m sure) come out eventually, but for now I’ll keep it vague.  Not because I’m trying to protect anyone, just because I’m certain if I start, I will spill spew vitriol the likes of which the world hasn’t seen from me in decades.  There will be words spoken – and written – that can’t be taken back.

I think you get my point now.  I’m pissed.

So here it is in a nutshell: Someone has done something that has caused one of my children pain and humiliation.  Big pain.  Big humiliation. Which leaves me with the cleaning up part.  How to teach a child to deal with anger and disappointment, how to hold your head upright in an extremely awkward situation, and how to move on. I’m thinking I’m going to have to break this thing up into manageable chunks to deal with it.

Dealing with anger is a work in progress for me.  I do it better now than I have in the past, but shrinks everywhere make a living coaching people on how to do this, so I don’t feel bad that I haven’t mastered it.  I do know a couple of rules:  1) Resist the urge to confront immediately.  A cooling-off period is mandatory.  2) It always looks different to the person on the other end, so consider this before responding.  It may change your perspective, or it may give you good ammunition for sniping later. 3) NEVER put anything in writing after having consumed alcohol.

The next part is harder: how to reenter the public eye after being humiliated.  My instinctive maternal response was to shelter the boy.  To open my wing and tuck him under like a mother duck would do her baby in a rainstorm.  Then the rain would have to roll off of me, not him.  But that ain’t how it works for us humans.  Sooner or later we have to face the world.  A friend shared a cliché with me once, “If you have to eat a shit sandwich, there’s no point nibbling.”  Good advice.  Just get it done.  Expect it to be awful, and get it done.

Then, moving on.  Ahhhh.  The other part that keeps the mental health profession thriving.  Any and all advice is appreciated.

This particular kid faces more trials than most kids.  But then, not as many as others.  As I’ve shared before, when my mama was feeling down, she’d invoke the old saying, “I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.” There are parents out there today crying for much greater pains their kids are feeling.  And I reminded myself of that last night.  His problems are small compared to the big, scary world.  But they are BIG to him.  They are HUGE to him.  And his perspective is the only one I care about right now.

So the person who has committed this wrong against one of mine better look out.  When I decide to say my piece, it won’t be very nice.  And while I don’t usually wish harm to others, right now I’m wishing it on you, you arrogant coward.

To use the words of the Jaron and the Long Road To Love song, I’ll pray for you, sir.

I pray your brakes go out running down a hill.
I pray a flowerpot falls from a window sill and knocks you in the head like I’d like to.
I pray your birthday comes and nobody calls.
I pray you’re flying high when your engine stalls.
I pray all your dreams never come true.
Just know wherever you are honey, I pray for you.