Pork and Potatoes

I love to celebrate. It doesn't even matter what the occasion is...Thanksgiving, 4th of July, my son's birthday, Friday afternoon, lunch hour - well, you get the idea.

Father's Day is no exception. My son is 7 and experiencing a golden age for embracing manners and a deep concern for others. I wanted him to own today in a new way and take charge of honoring his father. Sure, I had to offer a few suggestions, like "Why don't you make a card for Daddy? Here's a piece of paper. Would you like to fold it long-ways or short-ways?"

After that, he was happily working on an Angry Birds Space themed Happy Father's Day card.

We also worked together to bake his father's favorite cake: yellow box cake with chocolate frosting from a tub. Really, we're both getting off easy with this one. But a man can't be blamed for what he decides is his favorite cake.

I also wanted to cook something special. I didn't want to spend the whole day slaving in the kitchen - I had much better things to do, like lounging on the couch with my kiddo - but I did want to express my appreciation to the guy by making a tasty home cooked meal.

So, pork and potatoes it was. Items that practically cook themselves.

SHREDDED PORK ROAST
This morning, I unwrapped the pork roast and cut off a little of the excessive fat. I sprinkled it with one of my all-time favorite all purpose spices (in this case, Adobo) and chucked the whole thing in a crock pot set on low. I may have turned it over once...about 4 hours into the cooking session. As soon as the roast flakes with the light pressure of a fork - that's when it's done. I turned off the heat and raked a fork across the entire roast while it was still in the crock pot (and yes, still in the juices). Then I got a BBQ like sauce and poured some in - just enough to make it wet and sticky...like great shredded pork should be! And then I let it sit and rest.

Tip: Keeping it in the crock pot helps it to stay warm for the upcoming meal.

CILANTRO ROASTED POTATOES
I grabbed a handful of potatoes out of the pantry. I washed them, chopped them into cubes and dumped them into a casserole dish. I poured in a bit of olive oil; sprinkled in a heap of dried Cilantro, some coarse salt and fresh-ground pepper; and then gave it all a thorough toss with a spatula. I covered the dish and placed it into a 400 degree oven for about an hour.

These potatoes are great hot from the oven, but they're also great when cooled.

That's how we ate them today. Cooled just a little along with pulled pork made into sandwiches on hoagie buns. It was delicious...and EASY...and homemade. He was appreciative. So much so, that we had to wait a little bit of time before there was room for box-cake.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY
I hope you're eating good.

Freshness at the Market

While visiting my dad in New Jersey last weekend, we drove through Manhattan to run an errand. His wife wanted to drop in at her favorite salon to see if they had time to squeeze her in. He double parked and she ran out to make her inquiry.

(Well, "run" may not be the best verb choice. She's 20 weeks pregnant, carrying my half-brother. It might have been more of a waddle, since her belly is already round and prominently jutting out from the rest of her body.)

I looked around. New York is full of art. Everywhere you look, there are colors and shades and pictures  - more than my eyes can hold at once. And always changing, so I don't dare look away for fear of missing something spectacular.

And I saw something.
There was a market with flowers.
There are always markets with flowers.

But there was a color that caught my eye and dug roots in my imagination.

"Oh, wow," I involuntarily gasped.

"What is it," my father asked.

"Look at those flowers. Aren't they beautiful," I was only slightly aware how dazzled my voice sounded. I was still caught in a real life daydream where colors dance and build happy lives.

"Go get some," my father's resolute command snapped me out of the indulgent romanticism of the moment and forced me into pragmatic mode. I didn't want to buy them; I didn't want to be responsible for them. I just wanted to admire them, to love them from afar - to daydream after them.

"Uh, no. I don't think that's a good idea," I answered him. "We're going to be in the car for the rest of the day. And then I have to drive back home tonight. They won't survive all that chaos. Better to leave them where they are."

"It's worth you having them only for a moment, if they make you so happy."

He called out to the guys sitting in front of the shop, "Hey, who owns the shop? We want some flowers!" Then to me, "Go out there and pick the ones you want."

I walked up to the market, a little giddy and feeling like a princess. Oh my god, I thought. They are even more beautiful up close. I didn't even bother to look at any of the other options available. I pointed to the bouquet that housed the colors, the shades that sent me spiraling out of reality.

The men completed the transaction.
The flowers were carefully wrapped and handed to me.

I went back into the car and zenned-out in a moment of nuzzling up close to these brilliant, just absolutely beautiful blooms. They smelled amazing. Each one offering its freshness to the witness available: before to the exhaust-filled city streets and now, to me.

My dad was right. They were worth having, even only for a moment. But I would have them for many moments. And even though they were in for a hard 24hours of traveling, I would take as much care of them as possible so they could last as long as possible.

For such beauty, the burden of responsibility was lighter than I had originally given it credit for - and it made me wonder: how many times do we deny and reject beautiful things for our lives, because we're worried about the responsibility or how we many have to adjust, or possibly change for them?

Thank goodness the beauty exists - calling us, tempting us to step forward, to reach higher to improve our lives. Thank goodness its there, making heavy things lighter; providing smiles to counterbalance the tears; overwhelming us with love to overpower the hate.

date on the milk carton

"Mom, I want Cheerios and chocolate milk," he gave me a light shove as he substituted a 'Good Morning' salutation with his breakfast order.

"Ok, babe. Give me just a minute," I whispered.

He settled back into the blankets. One good thing about having a kid that's a gamer, if he's got an iPod Touch, he's golden. And it makes those early mornings on Saturdays and Sundays - heck, any day that we don't have to get up early for school - bearable. He sleeps later than typical kids, but not late enough to suit me. He's a Night Owl, though; like me. So, there's hope for even later mornings as he gets older. 

I didn't want to break the early morning stillness. It had been another late night, in a series of late nights as far back as I can remember. My body ached with many pains: some instigated by my own aggression during yesterday's yard sale, I forgot the fact that I'm not in my 20's anymore; some a part of the ebb and flow of the periodic reminder that I'm a women; some because of the drastic change in weather, the surprising drop in temperature - reminders of my rheumatic heritage.

He generously gave me another 5 minutes to ponder these thoughts and just barely drift off again towards numbness, when...

"I'm going downstairs. I'm hungry. I want Cheerios and chocolate milk."

He started to throw off the covers and I woke up - for real this time.

(There's nothing like the threat of spilled milk - all over the kitchen floor - to wake a mother. And it's not that I'd be crying over it. It's just the fact that I would have to clean it. Not really up for all that effort today.)

I plodded downstairs after him - slowly, painfully.

He happily made his way to the table, as I made my way to the counter and sink to survey the mess left the night before and start preparations for a cereal breakfast.

I was in auto-mode. Most definitely not thinking about much more than getting a fresh pot of coffee on the brew.

Put away the dishes.
Grab a clean bowl. 
I need coffee...

Return the silverware to the drawer.
Walk to the pantry to get the cereal.
I need strong coffee...
 
Clean off the counter.
Add dirty dishes to the sink.
I think I'll add an extra spoon of sugar to my coffee...

Pour cereal into the bowl.
Grab a clean cup.
I should definitely use the dark roast...


Go to the fridge...grab the chocolate syrup.
Grab the milk.
Look at the date.

Stop dead in my tracks.

Because the date on the milk jug is our anniversary.
The date I have treasured each year since I was with you.
The date I always count down to...

But not this year.
This year, I am more alive than ever.
This year: your memory has never been fainter.

I'm going to be honest. I completely forgot about it, about you.
It only took how many years to truly forget, and not just pretend to forget?

I am back at the counter absolutely stunned.
I mix milk with chocolate syrup and pour the result into a bowl filled with Cheerios.

"Babe, I've got your breakfast ready," I say and place the bowl on the table. Then I'm back at the counter: thinking, but not thinking; feeling, but not feeling.

It's too damn early for this shit, I think.
I pour yesterday's coffee into a mug and stomp to the microwave.
It'll have to do. 

stuffed with kisses

We were indulging in a little before-sleepy-time-snuggle, me and the kid. Hunkered under the quilt and listing to the high powered fan cut through the quiet night.

I kissed the tip of my finger and dramatically space-shipped it up-and-over to his face. I made sure that it landed on the tip of his nose.

He giggled.

"Aw, man. I'm stuffed," he expressed delightedly.

"Wait. What?" I answered. "You're stuffed with kisses?"

"Yep," his answer was thick with amusement. "I'm not hungry anymore, because I'm stuffed!" He said it dramatically, with lots of emphasis on the word "stuffed."

"So, no more kisses?" I was checking. This momma wants to get in all the kisses I can, while I still can.

"No. I'm stuffed."

He used it perfectly - just as any of us would have after Thanksgiving dinner. And two thoughts immediately hit me...

One

I am so proud of how he's developed and progressed this past year in his ability to express himself. The kid has HFA (High Functioning Autism) and has experienced delays in many areas of development - speech being one of the major ones. We've worked hard, first with different Early Intervention Strategies and then with consistent Speech Therapy, in both a school and clinical setting.

The fact that he's internalized this idiom and is able to express it, thrills my heart. Sure, the usage is a little nontraditional but if you were a part of our family, you'd know that we feast regularly on a diet of big, fat, juicy kisses.

Two

I am so proud to have established a home environment where my kid can say - delightedly - that he's stuffed with kisses. It's been a goal to make sure that love is expressed in our household. It doesn't meant that we're happy-go-lucky all the time; but it does mean that we take every single opportunity to express affection and sincere love.

It'll change soon. Before I know it, kisses will go out of vogue. I'll have to transition to something a little more manly, like fist bumps. But, it'll be a love-expression all the same!

a frog story

It's a small story. One that I won't take too long to tell.

(Oh, my. I heard that sigh of relief. Am I really that long winded?)

I pulled up into the driveway this evening, mind filled with tasks to get ready for the yard sale I have scheduled way too early in the morning. And as I pulled up, I noticed a blot on my white garage door. At first I thought it was a leaf - we did have some righteous storms this afternoon and evening.

But the closer I got to the garage, the more I noticed its shape. A frog.
A sign of good luck - as far as I'm concerned. Of vitality...of peace...

Of course, this could be because of Peace Frogs.
I also had a frog volleyball tee in high school when I was playing on the varsity team.

Whatever the reason, frogs give me a good feeling.
Hope mixed with determination and a bit of the organic spice that flavors life.

(You can call me weirdo - that's okay. I get it a lot.)

I kept the lights on and got out of my car to take a closer look - and to snap a pic. He had his head angled just so, as if he were posing for the shot.

"Hey, buddy. That was a good shot. But I am going to come closer for another one. Stay put. I'd rather you not jump off while I am trying to get closer."

He didn't move. And I got a great shot.

"Thanks, man. That one was even better."

Then I realized we had a problem.

"Hey, man. I'm gonna need you to move. I've got to get in and start getting the signs ready for tomorrow's sale. I'd rather not have to lift the door with you still attached. Um, I'm pretty sure that you don't want me to either. So, if you could go ahead and make plans to be somewhere else, I'd appreciate that."

He lifted his head and turned it just a bit.

I'm not sure if it was an action of rebellion: "Who are you to tell me what to do, woman?!"

It might have been an action of acquiescence: "Of course. I understand and will act while you're away."

Either way, I didn't push the issue.
I left him to deal with things inside the house. I'll be back out soon enough and will deal with the situation then.

I really hope he hops away.