Things fall apart and suddenly you don’t know how you got there.

I mean, there have been signs.

Signs that you ignored or failed to register or perhaps were too arrogant and secure to recognize.

But then there it is. The reality of it.

Look it in the eye, baby.

Frankly, I haven’t had the courage to write. I’ve tried. I open the page and then get this whoosh of panic and dread, which is stupid because I created this space to have a safe zone. A place to land. A thing that belongs to me.

But what if you lose yourself?

Do people ever talk about that?

I think they don’t, because Holy Shit that’s a scary thing. You lose yourself, you forget why you’re here, you almost lose your marriage (which you thought was bulletproof, you arrogant tool). Your children don’t need you the way they used to. Your parents get old and scare you with their vulnerability. Or they die.

Man, what the hell?

But maybe, if you aren’t wallowing in the trash that seems like your life, you can find a sliver of grace. I’m counting on it.

You get up in the morning.

You try harder–

No, you really do. Because it’s so easy to be lazy, to fall into patterns that feel safe and you don’t even realize that you’re doing it.

You begin again.

I just realized that I haven’t let myself eat in 40 years.

The real kind of eat, where you actually sit at a table and are hungry, and you think of the very thing you want.

I am fucking Caesar salad bitch.

I am that girl, with the Coach handbag, who claims that she isn’t that hungry anyways.

I hate that girl, but she’s fundamental. She is the thing I know.

I was better when I was pregnant. Let me tell you, I was aces about the eating and holy crap, my girls were still so small. I couldn’t even do that right.

So I sit. And am adamant that I haven’t fucked up my most precious things about food.

And I don’t even know what to say to you.

But maybe, there’s a little part of you that gets it. That makes you gasp for air because yes.

Rachel is having a party. I hear about it first in a school hallway, by the hanging hooks of coats and mittens. Rachel is blonde and athletic and popular, if being popular in the fifth grade is a THING, which it is. I hear them whispering, the girls with the painted nails and Kissing Potion lip gloss in three flavors. I check the mail, hoping. A week later, I’m still checking.

I get my delayed invitation on notebook paper. The front of it has a tracing of an exploding balloon on the front, emblazoned with “It’s Gonna Be a Blowout!”

I am wildly exited. I, relative unpopular person, have been invited to Rachel’s party. Kevin Gasvoda, the boy I have an endless crush on, will be there. He’s got spooky green eyes and vampire incisors and is often sarcastic, which I sort of think translates to mean because he makes girls cry with his words, including me. But he’s beautiful, that boy, with his flashing teeth and wavy hair.

There are about a million ways this party could go bad and a million ways I could blow it with Kevin Gasvoda, but I am up for the challenge.

I march up the stairs and wave my invitation. My mother is plucking her eyebrows with deadly verve, but she knows I’m in the doorway.

“What?” she says.

“I,” I say with enthusiasm and gravitas, “Have been invited. To Rachel’s party.”

“Isn’t that lovely,” my mother says. “Let me see the invitation.”

I hand it to her.

PleasemomcanIgodearGodpleasemomletmegothisisabigdealRachelinvitedmeMama.

She hands it back to me, flick of the wrist. “You aren’t going.”

I swear I feel my heart hit the floor and go all the way down, down to the creepy basement.

“No! Mom! You can’t say I can’t go. You just can’t, you seriously can’t. Everything–seriously!–depends on this party.”

“You’re not going,” she says, and then turns to look me in the eye. “Period.”

My mother is the biggest, meanest bitch on the planet, I swear. I am livid.

“Why?” I holler. “Why can’t I go?

She looks at me. Dead shark eyes. Waves the paper invitation in front of my face.

“This,” she says, “Is no excuse for an invitation.”

“What do you mean?” I huff. “Everyone got that same invitation!”

“No, they didn’t,” she says, still calmly plucking her eyebrows. “I saw the real invitation on Renate’s (neighbor) refrigerator door, for Karen. It’s a real card invitation, and she got it a week ago, and you only just got yours, now. People must have cancelled, so you got this.”

“God, so what?” I cannot believe that she won’t let me go for the dumbest reason on the planet and Kevin Gasvoda is going to flirt with a girl and it won’t be me and I’m going to miss it and dammit.

She turns and gives me her full attention. She rips the invitation to Rachel’s party right in front of my face and lets the pieces fall to the ground.

“I will tell you what’s what.” Her eyes are blueblue.

“You. YOU. Are not a last-ditch invitation. If you are not first choice, you are no choice at all. You will NOT! By God. Let someone treat you like secondhand goods. And you will not be attending that party.”

And that was the end of it.

I did not go to Rachel’s party.

I did not get to see Kevin Gasvoda kiss a girl named Sherry, which apparently happened.

And for years, I thought my mother was a bitch. A stick-in-the mud, outdated, rule-following, Southern, high-maintenance bitch.

But of course now I know better.

Thank you, Mama, for giving me a lesson that I will never forget.

A lesson about my own worth.

I didn’t think I needed it but damn.

I need it still.

Happy Mother’s Day week.

Yeah, so I know I haven’t bothered posting recipes in a while. When the whole pandemic started, cooking felt so cozy. I spent March and April making afternoon popcorn on the stove with plenty of butter; stirred chocolate chunks into brownies, had chicken noodle soup bubbling at the ready.

And then. You know what happened. It happened to you, too. Cooking ennui and downright burnout happened. I could blame myself but I don’t. Both girls were home and had completely different schedules, as did my husband, who has been going through the work equivalent of Chinese water torture. This resulted in a lot of extra meals made at weird times for different people. It still isn’t over.

People at my house are also depressed and despondent on different schedules, so at any point one or more members of the family lose their appetites altogether. The only living thing in my house who still appreciates food is the dog.

These are dark days for a cook, I tell you.

But one of the good things that came out of the pandemic are recipes like the one I share here. It’s easy. It’s versatile–I mean, this shit is good on anything. It’s especially magic on any kind of vegetable or rice bowl or protein. You can quadruple the recipe and just keep it in your refrigerator for whenever. It’s not too spicy or assertive for most kids. Add it to stir fry and viola! Your job is done.

So here’s my latest Mommy’s Little Helper (it’s legal, so yay).

Miso Ginger Sauce for Broccoli, Snap Peas or other Damn Stuff

serves 4

Mix together:

2 tablespoons white miso

1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger

1 tablespoon honey or pure maple syrup

1 teaspoon sesame oil

1/2 teaspoon soy sauce

1/2 teaspoon rice vinegar

2 tablespoons sliced scallion (optional)

dash of chile flakes, if desired

Set aside (or you can double/triple this and keep in your refrigerator).

Heat 2 tablespoons neutral oil (canola, peanut etc.) in a skillet and add 8 cups broccoli florets (or a mixture of any veg–mushrooms are brilliant, as are Brussels sprouts, snow peas, zucchini, sliced onion, blahblahblah). Cook 2-3 minutes until starting to char. Add about 3 tablespoons water and cover/steam 2-3 minutes. Add miso mixture and toss to coat. Top with sesame seeds and scallions, if desired. Hoover down. Try to relax and really taste it. Do not ponder the futility of it all.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table snapping green beans while Mama works on the dreaded meatloaf for dinner. My sister, unsurprisingly, is nowhere to be found. That girl. Whenever there’s any kind of work to be done around the house, she Shazams! herself right outta town. Normally I would resent this, but I like to keep a sharp eye on Mama when she’s making meatloaf. Meatloaf is the devil’s instrument; you can hide ANYthing in there. I need to keep an eye on things, just for safety reasons.

Daddy’s at his desk, going through the mail.

“Hmmmm,” he says, studying the piece of paper in front of him.

Mama doesn’t bite. She’s got dinner to fix.

“HMMmmm,” he repeats, scooting back in his chair.

She continues to ignore him.

He clears his throat.

Nothing. Nada. Snap, snap, snap of the beans.

Daddy sighs a little and then hoists himself off the chair and wanders into the kitchen, paper in hand.

“Mary,” he says, “I have something interesting here.”

“Mmmm?” She is kneading carrots into the dreaded meatloaf. I can see it from my seat at the table. Gross.

“Yes,” he says, jovially. “Mary, we’re winners!”

“Is that so,” she says.

“Yes! Lookee here!” He waves the paper for emphasis. “It says right here! We. Are. Winners!”

She finally looks up at him and stops manhandling the meatloaf. “Okay, Ronald, if you say so. What, praytell, did we win?”

“Well, that’s the kicker,” he says. “We won’t know until we come to collect it, but it says we won one of three things.”

She grabs a paper towel to dry her hands and walks over, peering at the paper. “A diamond ring OR a new car OR a boat with motor,” she reads.

“Right?” Daddy-o chortles. “Those are some amazing prizes, that’s for sure.”

Mama raises an eyebrow. “A motorboat. Ronald. You can’t swim.”

“That’s not the point! We won’t win the motorboat, Mary. And if we do, I can sell the thing and make a profit. I’m betting we won the diamond.”

“I imagine there’s a catch here.”

“Not really!” he protests. “We just show up with this paper on Saturday, give them the number in the left corner and walk away with our prize! It’s simple!”

Mama looks over at me. “This sounds like one of his schemes, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “Crazy schemes,” I say. “He’s sort of known for them.”

Over dinner (my sister has magically appeared and is scarfing down meatloaf, that weirdo), my father works on Mama.

“I mean, really,” he says. “What’s the harm in just going to check it out? It won’t take long and those are three great things we could win. I mean, any one of those and we’d walk away happy.”

“I think this smells, Ronald,” she says.

“Awww, Hell. You’re just a pessimist,” Daddy says. “I never win anything. And this will be fun.”

Mama sighs and rubs her forehead.

“Mary. Trust me on this one. We can’t lose!”

Saturday morning, while my sister and I are watching cartoons, I hear Mama fussing at my father.

“Why can’t you just go pick it up?” she asks. “Can’t you just do that? Go pick up your fabulous gift and leave me out of this whole affair? I have about a million things to do.”

“Nope, sorry, it says we both have to be there. And you aren’t that busy. Too busy for a diamond ring? C’mon,Mary. It’ll be an adventure. It’ll be great.”

She mutters something akin to the Lord’s name in vain, puts on her coat and goes to find her shoes.

Daddy is gleeful. “Girls, we’ll see you in a bit,” he promises. “Won’t it be exciting to find out what we won?” He opens the front door. As they leave, I can hear him say, “I’m serious, Mary. We can’t lose!”

*four hours later*

“What’s taking them so long?” my sister asks. We have consumed nearly an entire box of Sugar Corn Pops.

“I dunno,” I say. “Dad said they just had to collect the prize and skedaddle outta there. Maybe they went to Shop-n-Bag for groceries or something.”

My sister snorts. “Without us? The ones who have to bag all of the groceries and haul them in? I doubt it.”

Finally, we hear the sound of the garage door opening. Then we hear a heavy slam of a car door and my mother’s brisk footsteps. She barrels into the house, throws her coat over the banister and stalks to the kitchen.

You can feel the steam coming off her, she’s so mad. She opens a cupboard, slams it shut. Opens another, slams it. Clanks loudly through the silverware drawer, slams that, too.

My sister and I exchange a look.

She’s muttering in there, still slamming away, and decides to hack a head of lettuce to bits. “Mumblemumblemumble…half the damn day…mumblemumble.” The hard whack of a knife.

My sister and I head out to the garage to see what Daddy’s up to. He’s got the trunk of the Travelall open and he’s sitting in the back of it, looking hangdog and sheepish.

“Dad! What did you get?” my sister says.

“Mom’s acting weird,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it took a little longer than we thought,” he sighs. “Before we could collect our prize, we had to listen to a huge presentation about Florida time-shares. I didn’t know about that little detail.”

“Who cares?” my sister says. “What did you win? Is it the diamond ring?”

Daddy shakes his head and gestures to a box behind him. We crawl inside the back of the TravelAll to take a look.

Behold.

We are awestruck.

We spy a yellow, flimsy looking blow-up raft with something teeny-tiny on the back of it.

“What the heck is that?” my sister says.

“What’s on the back of it?” I say. “An egg beater?”

“Oh my God,” my sister says. “It does look like a friggin’ egg beater.”

My sister and I look over at Daddy. He is trying to remain solemn but his shoulders are starting to shake and his mouth can’t hide his grin.

“Holy cow, no wonder she’s so steamed,” I say and my sister and I begin to cackle, and then Daddy loses it altogether and we sit in the garage, laughing so hard that tears run down our faces.

“Your mother…” Daddy gasps…”Is not…amused.”

“No, Dad,” I say. “She’s madder than Hell.”

“I know,” he says and then we just start laughing harder.

We sit outside for a while, marveling at his bad fortune.

Daddy gets out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. “Girls,” he says. “Go in and get your mother. Tell her I’m taking you all to lunch. But do NOT laugh while you’re in there, okay? Sober up.” And then he loses it again. “Damn.”

“Okay.”

My sister and I head towards the house, but Cindy can’t help herself. “Hey Dad!” she snickers over her shoulder. “I’m really glad we couldn’t lose, eh?”

“I promise, eh?” I add.

“You girls are terrible,” he says, hoisting the raft and egg beater out of the car. “I’m just gonna hide this away for a while,” he winks.

“Go get your mother. And don’t you DARE laugh.”

(for you, Michele Parsons)

She lurches down the stairs with only one sock on. She has a thick, fluffy blanket wrapped around her, cloak-like, a trademark of a girl who is always cold. And other things.

“Hey, Bunnybunny,” I say.

This actually means something in weirdo parental language. My antennae is up.

She withers me with her eyes and bangs herself into a chair.

She is fifteen.

When all else eludes you as a parent, try carbs.

Wordlessly, I pop an English muffin into the toaster and spread it with a generosity of butter. I slide it her way.

She doesn’t smile.

Okay.

“How did you sleep?”

Shrug.

I let that sit there a while, listening to her crackle into her breakfast.

“Hey,” I finally say. “You okay?”

Hard shake of the head to the side.

“You wanna talk about it?”

DEFCON glare– “no.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes well up and that makes her even more pissed.

“So I’ll be gentle with you today, okay?” *pause* “I promise.”

She nods and goes back up the stairs, blanket tight around her shoulders.

Frankly, I don’t know if this does any good, but never, not ever, as a teenager was I allowed to signal that I was having a bad day and be treated with understanding.

“Jesus. Get your head on straight.”

“You’re too young to be tired.”

“Put some lipstick on the pig.”

“Get over yourself.”

I am probably the least competent parent ever, but I can do this. I can be gentle for a day. I can say that I will tread softly. There be wounds here.

It is not every day, thank goodness.

But today, we need a kinder touch.

Every single member of my household screamed and kicked and sulked this weekend.

I might have gone first.

Maybe.

I don’t know.

But I do know that basically everyone had the same complaint: Nobody understands me and they never do and they never will and it sucks.

It sounds ridiculous and overdramatic when you actually say it, but let’s take a little dive off of the capable pedestal for a second, mmkay?

Of course you feel that way.

The dog, who was the only member of the household not in deep existential pain, ate an entire bag of peppermint truffles that my husband had in his work bag. 700 bucks later, we are intact, but I sort of admired the little fella because I think what we all wanted to do was throw up and shit bullets everywhere but we are too cowardly to be that honest.

I am trying to connect with my teenage daughter. The younger one. 15. Do you remember being 15? I really don’t–I mean, not the details of it. But I remember the feeling of it, and it wasn’t good.

So we watch Umbrella Academy together.

That show is crackerjack brilliant.

My favorite character, by FAR, is Klaus. He’s this dude who has no idea what he’s doing with his life, so…just for fun…he decides to form a cult where people respect him and love him because he claims that he knows what to do.

And lo and behold, it works.

Because that’s the thing that everyone is hungry for.

Right?

But then he realizes that it’s smoke and mirrors and pretending like that feels really bad inside. So he tries to tell them, the followers, but they won’t listen because it’s really comforting having someone who tells you what to do.

“I’m a fraud,” he hollers. Standing almost naked in this weirdo adult diaper thingy but hey. So then he thinks it’s over, that that’s the end of it, but he ends up being doubly fucked, because everyone hollers back, “Me too!”

I guess I am trying to say that if you don’t know, it’s okay. And I just might love you anyway.

“The thing is, I thought I was marrying this shiny, beautiful, perfect thing.”

And?

And.

“So you are saying that you feel cheated?”

“Actually, yeah. Sometimes.”

Game over,

Fade to black.

“Hey, honey, do you have a minute?” I peek my head into the office/study.

“Sure,” he says. “Lemme finish this scan first. It’s pretty crazy.”

I am smart enough to let him be when he calls a scan “crazy,” because usually someone has something incredibly weird and terrible or else they’ve shoved something completely random into their bum. Life of a radiologist. Medical training doesn’t exactly focus on random things shoved up the arse, but my husband is a pro. Happens more than you’d think. People are such mysteries.

“Okay, I’m done.” he says. “What’s up?”

“So hey,” I say. “Is it okay if we have a weekend guest soon?”

He raises an eyebrow. Then he looks at my face and sees that I’m serious.

“Jesus. Okay. Who we got now? How many kids?”

Luckily, no kids this time as Annie is a heck of a lot younger than me. It is a little odd, if you think about it, to invite people you’ve met only virtually into your own home when you are “meeting” them for the first time. But my husband is now used to it.

I mean, how else am I supposed to meet someone who lives states away?

You meet a potential friend in the neighborhood and you can just spend a half hour at a coffeeshop before you declare that you have a lot of (invented) errands to run and hope that they don’t think you are too much…something…for them. It’s mildly nerve-wracking but easy.

This? Not easy. But I am game because it’s Annie and we are attending a photography workshop all weekend. Annie promises me that I’m going to learn “a bunch of good stuff” and we both know my photos are garbage and the best thing that can happen to me is learning good stuff.

I arrive at the airport but it’s confusing because I don’t know what she looks like, really. Her avatar (hey, I learned what it is!) shows her only in side-view. So I am really familiar with her windfall of hair and the line of her jaw and that’s about it. She knows what I look like because I have no sense of mystery and I’ve told her to look for the gangly one in the Blondie t-shirt.

But when I see her, I just know it’s Annie. No question about it. One look and we make a beeline for each other. I make a hell of a lotta noise. We laugh and we hug and both of us start talking immediately because we’re flustered but in the best kind of way.

Driving out, we laugh at the strange design of our airport, which I think was meant to look like mountaintops but in reality, it looks like titties made out of meringue.

“Just you wait,” I say. “The Death Horse is coming.” She gives me the eyeball but she smiles, can’t help it.

If you’ve never been to Denver International Airport there is a humongous statue of a blue stallion with Hades lights for eyes waiting a mile or so from the terminal. It is rather horrifying, especially at night. It is especially horrifying because said humongous demon stallion FELL on the artist as he was putting the finishing touches on it. Smashing him flat. Toten. Bye Bye. Art kills the artist. Literally.

“Why am I not surprised that you have a death horse and you know all the gory details,” Annie says.

“Hey, I didn’t kill the dude, not my fault,” I laugh. “But yes, it is a wonderment.”

“How are the girls?” she asks. “Tell me about them.”

Do I dare tell her? Maybe I’mma let that one sit. She will know soon enough.

So, I guess it’s time I told you about Annie.

I’ve tried to write about her, and us, many times but I always delete it. It’s sort of like she’s a secret that I feel the need to stow away in my pocket. Mine.

When I first started blogging, I knew absolutely zero and it felt like this huge thing that I had to research and study and it stuck in my gut and my throat like a juggernaut. My friend Cynthia encouraged me to just DO IT, even though I was hugely ignorant and scared out of my skin. “It’s kind of like having a kid,” she said. “If you wait until you’re ready, you’ll never do it.” So I did.

And I sucked.

I was so damn dumb that I had to ask what an Avatar was. I was lucky enough to have Greg from high school who could help me navigate how to even set the dang thing up. My photos were horrendous (okay, they are still not good but those first ones–Jesus). My writing was conversational but hesitant; I was afraid to really write the way I felt/talked/am because Dear God, I might offend someone. *

I spent hours and hours reading cooking blogs on the Internet, studying Blogrolls of the ones I liked. I took notes, hoping to find inspiration and a whisper of a clue. In that process, I stumbled across Annie’s. The photographs were gorgeous. Just, whoa. But it was her voice that really resonated. She knew her shit but she didn’t whack you over the head with it. She seemed real. She had a life and a partner and an adorable dog. She seemed approachable…maybe.

So I did what normal people do. I wrote her this huge neurotic barf-o-rama of an email, asking a bazillion questions and oozing insecurity. I should have deleted it, and I thought about it. But I was three glasses of wine down and fuckit, y’all and I hit send.

She wrote back. She was kind.

And so it began, the tendrils of a friendship.

We are complete opposites–she is measured and logical and studious and confident. And I’m…yeah. And then she mentioned that she was from South Dakota and this North Dakota girl called her a “Southie.” Cause hey, in Dakota speak, she is. You Jersey folks don’t own the term, ya know? Annie’s Southside. Yeah. And we laughed and laughed.

Then she sent me a parcel of hog fat from a local farm because I’d told her I was terrified of making pie crust.

Gauntlet. Annie throws it.

The girls (then so little!) marched around the kitchen chanting “Hog fat, hog fat, hog fat Whooo!” So we made pie. And it was good. Peach. And no, I still don’t make my own pie crust because I suck at baking, but Mama helped me with those pies and we had such a good time.

The weirdest of beginnings, and such a lifeline. We so don’t belong together. But we do.

Annie–here’s your introduction. The stories are coming. You ready?

*guess I kind of got over the tentative voice thing?