by mayberry on July 22, 2010
A few months ago Jeff suggested that we start having a regular family game night. Usually on Thursdays, we’d have pizza for dinner and then play a game. Board game, outdoor game, Wii game–all’s fair and we take turns choosing, even the grown-ups.
Frankly I thought it was a little dopey. We are fairly good at eating dinner together most nights, and after dinner we often spend more time together, just doing whatever (pause to say that even during the school year, there’s very little homework to deal with. Montessori FTW!). So, like, what would be the point of formalizing Family Game Night?
Well. The kids loooove it. They know that it happens on Thursday. They remind us that it’s coming. They remind us that it’s TONIGHT!!! Whoooo! Family Game Night!! They discuss whose turn it is to pick the next game (they keep track when I cannot). They sometimes even play the game without being sore losers.
So, ritual. Ritual and routine. Perhaps you’ve heard that children like them, even crave them? Family Game Night says yep, they do. You can bet on it.
Games we love:
Jo wants to play Scrabble tonight. Attagirl!
by mayberry on April 21, 2010
My mother made me the yellow dress for my aunt and uncle’s wedding. 1976.
by mayberry on March 22, 2010
I came back from visiting my sister with a new pair of jeans. And she also picked herself up a wedding dress. That right there is some successful shopping, wouldn’t you agree? If only one of us had bought a bathing suit: trifecta!
I spent the whole day on Saturday with my sister, my mom, and my sister’s future mother- and sister-in-law, looking for my sister’s wedding gown. My sister surprised us all by rejecting many dresses for insufficient bling. This is a woman who wears steel-toed boots to work every day and who, even when she’s not working, is extremely practical and down-to-earth (ha! because she’s a gardener! I kill me). She is most certainly not without style, but she’s never been one for frippery and bows. Plus, she’s getting married outdoors, on the side of a mountain, in August. That didn’t scream “20-foot train” or “lace, crystals, and lacy crystals” to me.
So she kept trying on ruffly, lacy, bedazzled dresses. They were all beautiful and she looked beautiful in them. But she didn’t start crying until she put on a simple dress that made up for its lack of sparkle with its understated elegance and delicate details. The. One!
Given the nature of our errand, we five spent the whole day talking about weddings. My mom recalled the time she had to wear a super-fitted silk sheath for a bridesmaid’s dress … days after getting a thigh-high cast off her leg. I remembered having a velvet bridesmaid’s dress that I couldn’t sit down in all day before the ceremony, because otherwise I’d get a crushed velvet butt-print on my back side. My sister’s future sister-in-law and her then-fiance reworked her grandmother’s wedding dress together, including hand-sewing beads and lace on the hem. How cute is that?
What’s the story you end up telling and retelling about your wedding, or one you attended? (The other one I trot out often is The Time the Caterer Ran Out of Food–and then accused the guests, of which I was one hungry one, of eating too much.)
(You can read about me geeking out over my smartphone during the trip over here, if you like.)
Edited to add: Magpie Musing and Painted Maypole played along at their blogs … don’t miss their tales of Weddings Gone Wrong.
by mayberry on September 27, 2009
We had tacos for dinner the other night and I flashed back to the many (many, many) times I ate them as a kid. Tacos, made with the Ortega mix, were one of those family meals I could prepare myself. My husband, by the way, was astonished to learn that I used to cook dinner for my entire family. I did, but the only dishes I can recall making are the ones that involve hamburger. Aside from the tacos, there were two specialties from the Minute Rice Cookbook which, even back in the day, seemed totally outdated and, well, gross. We still ate them all the time. (Also, I should note here that my mother is actually a really good cook.)
Number one: porcupine balls. I’m serious. These were not, you know, actual testicles. They were large meatballs studded (ha!) with grains of Minute Rice.
Number two: Cherokee casserole. Again, no actual Native Americans among the ingredients. Just hamburger, rice, and some kind of spices/flavorings, chief (HA!) among which was the whole bay leaf. It was, of course, a special treat to be the one who found the bay leaf in your portion. Here’s a recipe which reminds me that oh, god, I forgot about the cream of mushroom soup. Also that particular recipe has black olives, which: No.
by mayberry on August 30, 2009
We are back at Grandma’s deeeluxe spread for a quick visit before school starts. My recently engaged sister is here too, so we’re having fun paging through bridal magazines (thanks, Kara!), making fun of the ugly dresses and admiring the pretty ones. It’s way too cold for the pool but we’re swimming anyway. My brother and sister-in-law are also here (hence the title. This is the way he talks to me). They just trounced me at Scrabble.
My sister-in-law illustrated two books for Scholastic. If you’ll be potty-training in January 2010, you won’t find any cuter books than these (I have seen the insides and they are just as adorable).
by mayberry on June 16, 2009
I.
Today I made a dessert that my grandmother used to make for me all the time. I would beg her for it and she would act like it was the such a big deal and a special treat. In fact, it’s like that commercial where the mom fakes slaving over a hot stove for hours to make Rice Krispie treats. Except even easier. Here are the instructions: 1. Open container of Cool Whip. 2. Open two containers of fruit-flavored yogurt. 3. Mix together. 4. Dump into graham cracker crust (pre-fab, of course). 5. Freeze.
My grandma was the best. Besides handing down that recipe to the next generation, she taught me how to play at least four different kinds of solitaire.
II.
Remember when I wrote about my dad going to a pre-funeral for his friend? An awake wake? Turns out the guy does not have a terminal disease after all. Misdiagnosis! He still had the party, and he played a trombone trio (an original piece composed for the event) with his son and granddaughter.
III.
Sale on Wooster St. Meat t-shirts! I got Jeff the prosciutto one for Christmas, because instead of a recipe for pie made out of non-food items, his ancestors actually taught him how to cure meat. His great-uncle was a butcher, and he always had meat, in various stages of curedness, hanging from nails in his basement. He explained the whole process to Jeff (surprise: there is a lot of salt involved). In New Jersey, we lived in a small condo building with a garage on the ground floor; each unit had a small storage room adjacent to its parking space. It was windowless and fairly cool so Jeff tried to make some prosciutto (the family actually called it lonza) in there.
That didn’t work out so well. It was a sad day when, a few months after Uncle Gene’s death, the last of the homemade meats ran out. Gene is pictured above with a baby Jo. Can you tell how immense his hands were? Long after he retired (he and his wife owned a small butcher shop/grocery), he still butchered deer for hunters and made his own sausage in his fully equipped basement kitchen, featuring the largest, thickest, heaviest-looking butcher’s block I have ever seen.
by mayberry on May 27, 2009
In 1967 my dad helped found a Dixieland jazz band, with which he performed for over 20 years until he moved out of the area. The band played at my wedding, is still together and still includes some of the original members, including the trombone player who was one of the co-founders (and also one of my music teachers in middle school).
A couple of months ago my dad received an email from this trombone player. It was a save-the-date message—for his upcoming wake.
It turns out that he has a terminal illness and he’s decided that you know what? He’d like to attend his own funeral, seeing as how he is the guest of honor. He says he knows that his wife won’t throw him a traditional jazz funeral, so he’s throwing it for himself before he goes. He’s since sent out formal, printed invitations to 100 people and booked a hall.
More power to him, I say. My dad will be there, and he’ll bring his banjo.
by mayberry on April 29, 2009
Suebob asked the other day whether we “bathe in past glory, or nakedly march into the future.”
I responded that most of the time, I am too busy with the present to spend much time on either the past or the future. I realized that as a parent, I have become both more and less nostalgic than I once was. If I grew too attached to all the kid stuff in my life, I would DIE in an avalanche of clutter. So I purge, often. But there’s really no way I can bring myself to throw away an old envelope on which Opie wrote (really wrote!) “JO JO.”
Thank goodness for my blog and my mother. The latter has organized, edited, and printed all of my digital photos from the past 7 years and put them in albums for me. And the former helps me remember that time we went to the “requarium” at SeaWorld and saw the Shampoo show.
by mayberry on April 22, 2009
When I went on a trip to Urbana illanou. My uncal said my hol famliy cood see a huge mashing called Shop Bot work.
In orter to make it work my ant Amy, hoo is an artist, and I had to cerate a dasine. We drew a bunny for a dasine on her conprter. My ant Amy sent the dasine on her conprter to my uncal. My uncal uploaded the bunny dasine into the Shop Bot. The Shop Bot cut the bunny shap out of a picee of wood.
Then we took it back to my ant and uncal’s house. To pant it with my ant. We panted it wite and this weekend we will pant it with pingk spots.
I named it Stefeany.
The end.
By Jo and My Dad
(Editor’s note: Opie got a plane, natch.)
by mayberry on April 12, 2009
If you’re looking for charming Easter pictures of my shiny-haired children (and why would you be unless you are my mother), move along. They both had the rattiest, sticky-uppiest, messiest cases of bedhead this morning. Jo’s was reasonably decent by the time we went to church, but Opie’s … forget it.
It actually reminded me of the day of my grandmother’s funeral. My brother was in the middle of one of his months-long bike trips and for whatever reason had decided not to cut his hair or shave his beard until he completed the trip. Just try to picture the result of the combination of bike helmet, sweat, and longer and longer hair, day in and day out. Trying to whip him into shape for the funeral, my sister and I each took a huge handful of hair gel and attacked the wiry mop on top of his head. It worked about as well as my attempt to flatten Opie’s locks this morning.
And it’s still cold here. Which inspired a haiku.
Breath visible on
sunny Easter morn — want a
nice cool Eggsicle?
“Spring” break ahoy this week (finally). In a few days we’re off to visit my brother, who these days has hair so short that hair product is entirely unnecessary.
