Vintage

The other day I was cooking with Heidi's mom, Louise, in her kitchen, and I asked her if she had any Italian seasoning. She proudly pulled out her built-in spice rack. "They are alphabetized," she told me, and in no time handed me a jar of McCormick's.

Let me say first, that I do not have Italian seasoning in my own spice cupboard, but I often buy it on vacation for cooking in rental houses, because it nicely takes the place of several herbs in many dishes. It is an excellent all-round go-to herb mix, which is why I requested it in an unfamiliar kitchen.

When Louise handed me the bottle, my eyes widened. The label design transported me back at least 30 years, and when I flipped it over the price stamped on the bottom was 33¢. I held it silently in my hand for a few moments. "How long have you had this?" I asked her.

She could not say, and seeing as there was less than a pinch left in the bottom, I suggested an alternative, but I made a request. "Can I have this container?" and when she looked at me funny, I blurted, "It's vintage!"

We laughed, but the truth is, I know how that happens. They have lived in that house for almost 35 years, and the longer you live, the older your stuff gets.

To be honest? I like my old things a lot. Why just this evening, when we finally made it home after nine days away, 2 eight hour drives, and 2 seven-hundred mile flights, after lugging in all our stuff, I opened a bottle of wine with my favorite cork screw.

That efficient little gadget has been with me since the restaurant I waited tables for when I was in college forced me to buy it. The beach-front seafood establishment docked my first paycheck $2.50 so that I would always be properly equipped in the event that any customer might order some wine.

I can't say that I used it much that summer, but it sure has come in handy over the last thirty years.

Our Best with Thee Do Go

Sad news today when we heard that Heidi's aunt died this morning. She was 78 and in hospice, so it was not unexpected, but it is a loss to the family, Heidi's dad especially. This evening as we sat around their kitchen table in Buffalo, I looked up her memorial notice on the funeral home website. It was nice enough, but as one who hardly knew her, I was struck that there was no mention of the life she led other than listing those she left behind.

"Tell me about Marilyn," I said. "What was the best thing about her?"

"She loved to laugh," Heidi started, and they spent the next little while recalling her quirks and foibles as well as her merits. As I said, I didn't know her, but it seemed like a good way to be remembered.

Grammar Saves Lives

A few days ago, my brother, Bill, googled us all. One of my hits is always the Rate Your Teachers website. "I'm a little disturbed your class isn't considered harder," Bill joked, "especially considering my sons both took it." We also laughed at the grammar and spelling mistakes of those students who praised me as an excellent teacher.

It's true that grammar for grammar's sake is not my focus, but I do love those cases where conventions make a big difference, and they are the texts I use as my lessons. Fortunately, I had an example at hand.

Consider the difference between the following sentences:

Let's eat Grandma.

Let's eat, Grandma.

Since Grandma was sitting right there, we got a good laugh out of that one. Today, Annabelle and Richard supplied a good exercise in pronoun reference. They were playing with their kitten when Annabelle raised her voice to complain. "Mom! Richard stuck his butt in my face!"

We were shocked. It seemed very out of character. How did he do that? we asked.

"Not Richard's butt," Annabelle told us, "the kitten's, and it was really stinky!"

Lesson learned.

Chef Cuckoo

One of my stocking stuffers this year was a simple little game in a small tin can. Consisting of 12 challenge cards and 48 ingredient cards the object is to choose three of the six ingredients in your hand to create a dish that fits the challenge. One player is the judge and evaluates each offering without knowing which player's it is.

With challenges such as best and worst pizza, sandwich, pasta, salad, soup, and omelet, all of us, including my five year old niece and seven year old nephew were able to play the game. The trick is knowing not only your ingredients, but also the judge' s tastes. It's also tough sometimes to maintain anonymity-- it's really tempting to explain how you might prepare a peanut butter, onion, and avocado sandwich so it's not quite as gross as it sounds.

By last night, my brother had played enough and with such success that in addition to the title of Iron Chef Cuckoo, he declared himself permanent judge and did away with the standard task cards. Instead we concocted the perfect amuse bouche, martini, and cookie.

The ridiculous combinations were hilarious and we all laughed a lot, but the sting of losing was still a little hard to shake sometimes. "I can't believe Annabelle didn't pick my pasta yesterday," Richard said this morning. "I put all her favorite things in it!"

Body Art

I don't know what it is about me, but I kind of abhor a tattoo. Maybe it's because when I was a child, tattoos were mostly faded blue hearts and anchors on the sagging biceps of men in graying t-shirts sucking on unfiltered cigarettes at the church carnival.

Over the years of course, tats have become quite main stream, and yet, I remain a little repulsed. To be honest, though, I was never a kid who liked to write on myself, not even to remember or to be zapped, and so the thought of a permanent mark on my skin is out of the question.

Imagine my surprise then, when my mother produced a package of glitter tattoos for the family at Christmas. Oh, the peer pressure was intense, and Treat proved to be a gifted artist in that particular medium, but even the sparkle of peace signs, dragon flies, suns and stars adorning the limbs of those I love could not convince me to be so marked.

God Bless Us, Every One

Traveling on Christmas Day is always an interesting experience. Many people are wearing new clothes with fresh creases straight from the gift box, like the gent in the orange jeans or the kid in the spotless Air Jordans. Some are dressed especially for this day with holiday sweaters and antlers and Santa caps and even one guy in red and green footie pajamas. "Do you think he had shoes to wear outside?" I asked Heidi. "It is raining."

Most travelers seem happy--perhaps  looking forward to reunions with family or vacations in the islands or on the slopes-- and so do most of the folks working, hopefully for holiday pay. Sometimes it seems odd to spend Christmas, a day usually so focused on family, with strangers, but other times it seems like that might be just the point.

Twelve Drummers Drumming

The other day in the car we heard someone reading O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi on the radio. Even though the prose is very purple and the outcome well-known, I listened with a sort of morbid fascination all the way up to the part where Jim leans back on the couch, puts his hands behind his head, and says, "Dell, let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs."

In our family, we have our own Christmas legend with an ironic twist. It involves my grandfather, a shotgun, and a tuxedo. One year the only gift my grandfather wanted was a shotgun. His older brother, Herb, wanted a tuxedo to wear to the cotillion he was attending with his girl, Elsie.

Both boys got their wishes, and Herb hung his tux on the door to keep it wrinkle free until the party. My great-grandfather sat down with his younger son and told him that the shotgun was not toy. It was never to be loaded or aimed in the house, and if that rule should ever be broken, my grandfather would lose it forever.

What boy could resist lifting such a weapon to his shoulder and squinting down the barrel in firing position? Not my grandfather. When his father was out of the room, he did just that, and unaware that it was loaded, he was stunned when he pulled the trigger and unloaded two shells of shot right into Herb's tuxedo, cutting the pants off at the knees.

Yet another foolish child who most unwisely sacrificed the greatest treasures of the house.