Ride Share

"I don't think I've ever had a pick-up as my Uber before," I noted as I settled myself in the back of the king cab on my way to the airport this morning.

"Yah, I get that a lot," William, my driver, told me adjusting the volume on the sound system.

I fiddled with my phone as soothing meditation music flowing from the speakers elevated the familiar landmarks we rolled past. High rises gleamed, gulls swooped, and golden rapids riffled the wide urban stream outside my window as the music swelled in the Ford F-150. Even the water treatment plant and metro bus lot were transformed by the light and music as we glided past. I set my phone aside and took a deep breath.

Arriving at the curbside check-in 10 minutes later, I felt refreshed and renewed, which was really not what I had expected at all. "Thank you for the ride, William," I said, climbing out of the truck.

He nodded, and I stepped forward into my day.

Consensus

It was an early release with a winter concert assembly today which left limited time for a few other items like locker clean outs and the "Know Your Rights" presentation that all secondary school students are required to see. Even so, my homeroom was quick enough to have time for a movie after lunch.

Students suggested a few films some reasonable (Home Alone), some not (It), and they were debating when an idea occurred to me. "Hey you guys!" I said. "What about Toy Story 4?"

There was mild enthusiasm, but it wasn't a clear winner by any stretch. "It's just that I haven't had a chance to see it, yet," I explained, more to myself than to them as they returned to their discussion.

One student heard me, though. "You haven't?" she asked.

I shook my head a little ruefully, for I haven't seen very many movies at all this year.

"I vote for Toy Story 4!" she said. "Ms. S. wants to see it!"

"I do, too," said another student, and one by one they stepped to the white board and erased their tally marks under the movie they had voted for to place them under mine.

"Aw... thanks you guys!" I told them. "I'll make some popcorn!"

Karma Thrash

I was in a snit when I scooped up the lollipop stick from the table in my room and marched out the door after the girl who had left it. The hallway was packed with a throng of students changing classes, but I spotted her right away one door down. "Hold out your hand!" I demanded and when she did I dropped her rubbish into her palm and spun on my heel. I didn't get far however, because as I turned toward my room, 120 pounds of sixth grade boy hit me and body slammed me into the wall behind me. My head whiplashed back and hit the window of the classroom as he bounced off me and back into the mosh pit of the class change. Seeing both stars and red, I staggered forward and glared at him in disbelief.

"I didn't do it! I was pushed!" he explained desperately and pointed to a culprit clad in red and orange sweat pants snaking his way down the hall and toward the stairs. His mistake was in looking over his shoulder, for it was then that I locked eyes with him and waved him back.

I was cross; he was defiant; it was an unbridgeable gap.  Fortunately I spotted the assistant principal down the hall and handed off the situation to him. 

Rule of Five

Here in the dark and the wet and the cold and the sheer busy-ness of early December we find ourselves resisting exercise and activity, despite the routines and regimens we have worked so hard to cultivate.

That's where the rule of five comes in-- we must do five minutes of something and after that? We can quit. But as Heidi pointed out with a scoff and a growl when I first proposed this guideline, No one will stop at five minutes once they start!

Indeed!

So far.

Nothing But

Right before the turn for the highway up to the Twin Cities, there is a modest strip mall in Rochester, MN. We stopped there a few times over the months that I traveled there occasionally with my mom for her treatments at the Mayo Clinic: once for gas, once for lunch at a Mediterranean place,  and once for my mom to get her nail fixed after a run-in with her ice maker. It was on the last stop that we noticed the marquee on one of the store fronts tucked into the shopping center. Nothing Bundt Cake, it proclaimed.

My mom had a sweet tooth and more than anything, we were trying to boost her calories, plus? My birthday was in a couple days.

An old-fashioned bell jangled over the door when we pushed it open, and the smell of fresh baked cake washed over us. A friendly young woman welcomed us warmly and gestured to the samples on a small round table to our left. Everything was delicious-- but the lemon raspberry special, the chocolate chocolate chip, and the red velvet were our favorites, and so my mom bought a few mini cakes to celebrate. It was a pleasure seeing how much she enjoyed them.

Later in the summer, Heidi, my mom, and I moved to Rochester for a month, and the same formerly forgettable little strip mall became one of our main shopping destinations with a great grocery, pet supply, and liquor store conveniently located there. Those little bundt cakes were a treat my mom always enjoyed, no matter how tepid her appetite otherwise. So much so, that when she died, we looked for a NBC franchise near enough to her home to buy desserts for her funeral lunch, but without success.

The other night I hosted my writing group. It was the first time we had met since before school ended last year, and it was time. I love those gals, but to be honest, I don't really feel like seeing many people yet. The four of us always split the meal-- hosting means providing dinner, and the other three bring apps, wine, and dessert. This time, Ellen brought delicious chutney and cheddar and crackers, Mary brought some wonderful Spanish red wine, and Leah arrived with treats from a brand new place that none of us even knew had opened.

"Nothing Bundt Cake," she announced as she deposited the bakery box on the sideboard. "Have you heard of it?"

Original Recipe

My mother and I shared the same taste in Christmas cookies, and every year it has been a pleasant chore for me to spend a Saturday or Sunday in December baking our favorites, Russian Tea Cakes, Rugelach, and Mandelbrot to share.

Last year, as I plucked one of the almond-flavored, biscotti-like Mandelbrot studded with walnuts and glace cherries from the tin, I asked her if she liked them, for we had lost our traditional recipe and I had been trying to recreate it ever since. "No!" she told me without hesitation, "they are too dense and too floury."

"Noted!" I laughed. "I'll try to do better next year!"

The morning after my mom died, I restlessly roamed her condo as I waited for the coffee to brew. Opening a cupboard below the TV, I found a white, 2-inch binder and flipped it open. It was filled with recipes in page protectors, mostly photocopied or typed and printed both for convenience and to compensate the palsy that made handwriting laborious and barely legible the last several years of her life.

But the recipe I turned to first was near the middle of the binder and written on a sheet from a notepad in my mother's own hand. Mandelbrot, it read.

This year, my holiday baking is going to be a little less than in the past, because I'll be away from home next weekend to help organize my mom's estate, and then we'll be off to Buffalo the weekend after that. Even so, there are three varieties of cookies I will definitely bake, and I started this morning.

With the Mandelbrot, of course, which turned out to be crispy and light, just as my mother would have liked.

Re Re Re Re Reading

For the last four or five years we have used the same short story as a common text to teach our students about analyzing a literary character and crafting a claim to argue in an essay. I confess that the first year, I was not that impressed with "Raymond's Run" by Toni Cade Bambara; we used it because the Teachers College materials for writing workshop provided mini-lesson and materials to go along with it. 

BUT, after reading it, listening to it, re-reading it, and discussing it 5 times a day for a week, not to mention dissecting the character of Squeaky and guiding hundreds of students through writing a thesis statement to argue about her, I have changed my mind. Hazel Elizabeth Deborah Parker is a positive pistol of a person, and Bambara? Is a damn good writer.