Don't forget to floss

Dad and I go to the same dentist.  The dentist’s daughter was in the newspaper this week because she received an award for athletic and academic excellence.  Dad pointed it out to me, “Next time you go to the dentist, you might want to mention it and congratulate him.”  “You could mention it next time you go to the dentist,” I pointed out.  “But where I take 5 words to say something, you take 15,” he replied.  I’m not sure what point Dad was trying to make, but in my opinion he just reinforced my argument that he needs to make more of an effort to talk to people!

We had lunch on Memorial Day with Cindy and Eddie.  The food was excellent and we enjoyed the company.  I brought up the dentist story, which then prompted Dad to tell a new story from his childhood.  When Dad was a little boy, his father had a dental appointment and Dad went along.  He was in the exam room watching as the dentist literally straddled his father, who was sitting in the exam chair, and went to work pulling for all he was worth to extract a tooth.  They didn’t use anesthesia back then.  Dad said he decided right then that he was going to take very good care of his teeth.  No wonder he’s such a faithful flosser.

Shopping with Dad isn't for the faint of heart

I generally do not take Dad shopping with me.  Shopping is my time.  I don’t like having to coordinate schedules and specify a day in advance when I’ll be leaving and returning.  It turns what should be fun into an ordeal.

Saturday I had to go to Streets of Southpoint in Durham to pick up a special order at Nordstrom.  Last time I went to that mall, about a month ago after a doctor’s visit, Dad asked if the bookstore was still there.  Obviously, he wanted to go too.  That day I didn’t invite him because it was just going to be a quick trip and he doesn’t like waiting in doctor’s offices.

I wasn’t planning to invite him this time either.  In fact, I wasn’t even planning on telling him where I was going.  I was just going to tell him I was going shopping and let him assume I’d be in Rocky Mount.  But the more I thought about it, the guiltier I felt.  So Saturday morning, I announced that I was leaving for Streets of Southpoint at 8 a.m. and he was welcome to come if he wanted.  He did. 

“Where are you planning to eat?” he asked.  “Probably at Chick-Fil-A.  Why?”  “It doesn’t matter.  I was just curious.”  If it didn’t matter, why did he ask in the first place?  “Do you care if I wear this shirt?”  He was wearing a long-sleeved striped shirt.  It wasn’t my favorite, but it wasn’t really objectionable.  “I don’t care what you wear.  I don’t plan to be with you very much,” I informed him.  He decided to change anyway.

Last time I took him to Streets of Southpoint, he didn’t turn up at the food court at the appointed time.  I got really worried, afraid that something had happened to him.  This time, I made him take his cell phone.  I wrote my cell number down on a card and gave it to him. 

 “You’re going to take your cell phone.  You’re going to leave it turned on.  If it rings, you’re going to answer it.  I don’t plan to have to worry about what happened to you if you aren’t where you’re supposed to be at the appointed time.”  He grimaced, but followed orders. 

We agreed to meet in the food court at 11 a.m. in the tables against the wall.  That’s where we always meet so it shouldn’t have been complicated.  Until you figure Dad into the equation.  When I arrived, promptly at 11 a.m., there was only 1 man sitting in the tables against the wall and it was not my father.  

I started looking around wondering what had happened this time.  In scanning the area, I finally saw Dad seated at a table that was definitely not against the wall in the assigned area.  “I thought if I sat here, I could see you when you got here,” he informed me.  Yeah, but I didn’t see him until I was almost in panic mode.  I don’t know why he can’t just stick with the plan.

I wasn’t crazy about the thought of him at a major mall on a Saturday.  Too many people, many of them teenagers.  Turns out, I wasn’t the only one concerned about him.  “The Security Guards here are very nice,” he informed me at lunch.  “They try to be helpful.”  Okay.  I’d noticed several walking around and two stationed at the bottom of the escalators.  I figured maybe Dad had asked for directions.

When we met again to head home, the crowd had really picked up.  “One of the Security Guards kept eying me when I walked by,” Dad informed me.  “I think he was afraid I was going to collapse at his feet,” he laughed.  Dad does appear frail, which was one of the reasons I didn’t want him in the middle of a mall full of people.  “If you collapsed, it would make more paperwork for him,” I said, relieved that our adventure was safely over.

Dillon had been home alone all day.  We don’t generally leave him by himself for extended periods of time.  He gets a little anxious.  When we got home, he was thrilled to see us, but in thunderstorm mode.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but he was anxious.  I finally figured out it wasn’t an approaching thunderstorm, but the lingering effects of separation anxiety.  

Next time I’m leaving Dad and Dillon at home.  I see no reason for Dillon and me to suffer anxiety attacks just because Dad wants to tag along on my shopping trip.  Luckily, he wasn’t impressed with the bookstore anyway.  He likes the one in Rocky Mount better. 

Best Wedding Ever

I’m not a big fan of large get-togethers.  As someone who’s a pretty confirmed introvert, I find the effort of trying to come up with interesting conversation and meeting and mingling challenging.  I enjoy seeing family and friends and catching up on their lives, sharing old stories, and making new memories, but I still find myself dreading the actual event, convinced I’ll say the wrong thing or earn the reputation of most boring guest ever.

A distant, but favorite, cousin got married yesterday.  It was a fancy pig pickin’ with a wedding thrown in as a bonus.  The setting was her family’s farm.  The hosts were her brothers and sisters, their spouses, and her folks.  They could be professional event planners.  Southern Living and Martha Stewart should have been on hand to document the celebration.  No detail was overlooked, right down to fresh wildflowers in the porta-potty and a full-length mirror at the hand washing station.

The dress code was anything goes.  The bride insisted people should wear what they felt comfortable in, from sequins to blue jeans.  I wore a pair of turquoise skinny jeans, which by happy coincidence tuned out to be the bride’s color.  Dad dressed up in a pair of khakis instead of his usual dungarees.  He even wore matching beige socks and a pair of decent brown shoes and claimed he should earn major brownie points for coordination.

I told him I wasn’t sure about the brownie points, but he hadn’t embarrassed me.  He really laughed when I told him the bride had called me when she was working on the seating chart to ask if it was safe to put the two of us at the same table.  I assured her we could behave in public.

Upon arrival, guests received nametags and were instructed to select a descriptive word or phrase, from a very imaginative collection, to attach to their nametag.  I picked Dull…and okay with that.  Dad chose Contagious.  Obviously, anti-social tendencies run in the family.  Then we donned hats and posed inside a huge picture frame for a commemorative photo. 

As soon as the picture taking was complete, cups of lemon parfait were proffered.  Unless you were more in the mood for popcorn, freshly popped in the machine at the popcorn tent.  Lemonade was available at the beverage table in the shade by the swing.  Plates of fancy hors-d’oeuvres circulated.  I hardly had room for the BBQ, Brunswick Stew, corn bread and slaw.  But my grandmother taught me long ago that there’s always room for cake.  I managed two slices of homemade caramel cake.  Boy did that bring back memories.

Antique lace tablecloths graced the tables set up on the front lawn under a canopy of huge hardwood trees.  Quilts on the clothesline waved in the breeze. Wildflowers were everywhere in jars of all sizes and descriptions.  There were lawn games for children of all ages.  A special faux village of fairytale colored cardboard buildings was erected for the younger children and generated many happy shrieks from those lucky enough to be admitted inside the split rail fence used to corral the tykes. 

The wedding ceremony was on the front porch of the family home of the bride’s grandmother.  The wedding party was simple.  The bride was radiant in turquoise, barefoot but fancy sandals in hand.  The groom handsome in black.  Little girls in the three and under age group wore turquoise tulle fairy wings and head-wreaths of glittery tinsel and darted about throughout the ceremony, beaming when the guests applauded the happy couple.  It was perfectly magical and perfectly right for the couple and the occasion.   

Dad and I had a wonderful time.  The love of family and friends was displayed in every carefully planned detail.  It was the best wedding ever.  

Love you, Mom

I always adored my mother, but I never realized how hard she worked until I inherited my father.  I don't know how she found the time and energy to do everything she did for all of us.  Now I understand why she was in bed by 7:30 every night.

 I wish she'd lived long enough so that I could have done more for her.  She'd never believe I'm cooking 6 meals a week.  Wish she was here to share them.

Dad does get brownie points for getting me a From the Dog Mother's Day card.  Mom would have doted on Dillon and he'd have adored her.

Precious Memories

Dad came home with another container of strawberries from the Farmer’s Market on Saturday.  He was going to run out of cake before he used up all those berries, so I baked him two more yellow cake layers.  One is in the freezer.  I put the pan with the other underneath the pan holding the last of the cake he’s been eating all week so he'd be sure to see it.

He’s been making himself a strawberry shortcake every day.  “It’s too bad you don’t like strawberry shortcake,” he said tonight.  “I like strawberry shortcake.  I just don’t like it enough to make one.  I like desserts you fix once and then eat for the next week or so.  I have too much to do already to want to fix dessert every night,”  I told him.

“When we were little, a man would come by in the spring with strawberries he’d grown.  Mama would trade him eggs for the strawberries and we’d have strawberry shortcake.  That was a big treat,” Dad said wistfully.  “People today wouldn’t know what to think of bartering like that, but that was the only way we could get them because times were hard.” 

You never know how special something seemingly ordinary may be to someone or why.  I’m still not making strawberry shortcake every night, but I’m glad I baked him the cake layers.

That's where they're going to end up anyway

Wednesday is laundry day at our house.  Last Wednesday, I left Dad with instructions to take the sheets out of the dryer when it cut off.  As you may recall, I wasn’t pleased to come home at lunch and find them balled up and thrown on his bed.   If I’d wanted them wrinkled, he could have left them in the dryer. 

I didn’t say anything to him then, but I made up my mind I wasn’t going to have a repeat performance this week.  For the next 3 Wednesdays, I have special bell practices.  That means my time is even more tight than usual.  I did the towels last night.  Instead of waiting for Dad’s sheets this morning, I went ahead and started mine as soon as I got up.

By the time I got out of the shower, my sheets were ready for the dryer.  Dad was also up.  “Sorry I overslept.  Next time wake me up,” he instructed.  “No problem, I just wanted to go ahead and get my sheets started so I could get them out of the dryer before I leave for work.” 

“I did that last week,” he reminded me.  “Yes, and I didn’t like the way you just threw them in a ball onto the bed,” I replied.  “What’s wrong with that?  That’s where they’re going to end up,” he complained.  “Yes, but I prefer that mine not be wrinkled,” I said, laughing but exasperated.

“Hmph!” was his reply, but he laughed.  “I thought I was being very tactful.  I didn’t say ‘My God, is that the best you can do?’  I just made sure I did my own sheets this week.  You can do whatever you want with yours when you take them out of the dryer.”  We both laughed.

Egg-and-Tomato Breakfast Sandwich To Go

Although Dad now makes his own sandwiches Monday thru Friday, he still thinks it’s my job on the weekends.  I swear to God, I don’t know how the man would have survived if he’d had a son instead of a daughter.  We didn’t have any interesting sandwich fixings in the house, so last night for supper, I decided to make an egg sandwich.  I’d seen an interesting sounding recipe in a recent Martha Stewart magazine, Egg-And-Tomato Breakfast Sandwich To Go. 

I toasted some loaf bread with pre-sliced American cheese on top (not Martha approved, but good enough for me) and fried a couple of eggs.  Then I sliced a Roma tomato and assembled two sandwiches.  Dad likes fried egg sandwiches, but regarded this version with a dubious look.  I took a bite and pronounced it very good.  Dad took a bite and looked as though swallowing was a chore.

“What’s in this again?” he asked.  I told him it was a fried egg, cheese, and tomato.  “Something doesn’t seem to go right together,” he said.  “I like it,” I said with enthusiasm.  “Well, since you went to all the trouble to cook it, I’m glad,” he answered.  “Maybe it’s the tomato that doesn’t go with the egg,” he pondered.  “Tomato and egg are good together,” I informed him. 

“Maybe it’s the cheese,” he continued.  “Everyone knows cheese and eggs go together.  People make cheese omelets all the time.  I have scrambled eggs with cheese at Oscar’s every Sunday,” I reminded him.  He remained unconvinced. 

“Maybe it’s the basil that’s throwing you off,” I said helpfully.  “It has that in there too?” he grimaced.  “Yes, it gives it an interesting kick,” I laughed.  I had already finished my sandwich.  He was less than halfway through his and looked as if finishing it was going to take all the willpower he possessed. 

“Dillon likes cheese and egg and tomato,” I told him.  “He’ll be happy to finish your sandwich for you.”  “He’s a chowhound.  He’ll eat anything,” Dad wasn’t impressed with Dillon’s culinary acuity.  He managed to finish his sandwich, although the last bite he left for Dillon was extra big.

“I like that recipe.  It was a Martha Stewart recipe.  I’ll be making it again,” I said brightly.  “You don’t have to go to all that trouble on my account,” he assured me.

He ordered an egg sandwich at Oscar’s this morning.  I guess he wanted to remind himself of what an egg sandwich was supposed to taste like.  I didn’t ask for a comparison.  I just pointed out that I bet they didn’t put basil on their version.  He looked relieved.

Happy Birthday, Linda

Heaven

by Patrick Phillips

It will be the past
and we'll live there together.

Not as it was to live
but as it is remembered.

It will be the past.
We'll all go back together.

Everyone we ever loved,
and lost, and must remember.

It will be the past.
And it will last forever. 

Baby steps

Since I've gone full time at work, I'm finding I can be more organized than I ever believed. I'm actually picking out my outfits the night before. Shades of elementary school!

Today was laundry day. I put the sheets in the washer as soon as Dad got up. They weren't finished drying before I had to leave for work. I asked him to get them out of the dryer when they were done. I didn't expect him to do a stellar folding job, but I did expect him to do more than grab the bundle of sheets out of the dryer and dump them on his bed without any folding at all. Dianna, at work, keeps reminding me, baby steps. I'm not sure he's even mastered crawling yet.

I cooked Mustard-Glazed Pork Chops for supper tonight. Dad even admitted they were good. They were also very quick and easy. Start to finish, they were ready in 25 minutes.

Mustard-Glazed Pork Chops

4 1/2-inch-thick bone-in pork chops
2 tsp. olive oil
1 large onion, cut in thin wedges
1/2 cup apricot preserves
1 Tbsp. Dijon-style or spicy mustard
1 tsp. paprika
1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg
Fresh sage leaves (optional) * I skipped the sage.

 Season pork chops with salt and pepper. In a 12-inch skillet, heat olive oil over medium-high heat. Add pork and onion to skillet. Cook 3 minutes; turn pork and onions. Cook 3 minutes more.

Meanwhile, in small microwave-safe bowl combine preserves, mustard, 1/4 cup water, paprika, and nutmeg. Heat in microwave for 1 to 2 minutes or until melted. Pour over pork in skillet. Reduce heat to medium. Cook, covered, 10 minutes or until pork is cooked through (slightly pink in center).

Divide pork and onion mixture among serving plates; top with sage. Makes 4 servings.