Portobello Dessert Surprise

Through the holiday season, Faven has had a homework assignment to complete for her Foods class.  It has been difficult to figure out exactly what the assignment is.  Faven did not bring home any printed details for the assignment (to complement her vague memory). What we have gathered from her is, that she is supposed to plan, prepare, serve and clean up a full meal.  This seems grandiose, for two reasons.  First of all, this is her first Foods class EVER, and so far they have managed to make Whipped Cream, Biscuits, Cookies, and Pudding – all with supervision and support!  And secondly, when we ask her to clear the table, or load the dishwasher, she behaves as if we just asked her to disassemble a tile floor with her bare hands!

We have done our best to support her efforts thus far; it has not been easy.  She is adamant that she cannot have any help from us! Her project began weeks ago, with online research, whereby she was going to look up recipes and create a meal plan.  She printed off several pages of really tiny pictures and then showed them to me.

“Here it is,” she said proudly.

“What is this?” I asked.

“This is what I am making,” she assuredly answered. 

I stared at the pictures, I looked at her, I stared at the pictures again, I looked at her and I opened my mouth and then I just froze - stumped.

“What?” she asked, with an exasperated tone.

I asked her where her recipes were, and she stared at me as if I had gone momentarily mad, she threw her hands in the air and stated, “We have to do everything ‘from scratch’”.

I looked at the pictures again… Chocolate dessert with whipped cream? Is she going to milk the cow herself? WHAT IS SHE TALKING ABOUT???

Allow me to pause for a moment and bring you into our world momentarily.  Faven has remarkable spoken language, given that three years ago when she joined our family through adoption, she was ten years old and spoke no English.  However, her capacity to understand all the complexities and nuances of the English language is still a ‘work in progress’.  Moreover, if you complicate things by bringing in the language of cooking and layering it with the language of math, Faven can appear almost illiterate.  As with most subjects, cooking comes with it’s own completely distinct vocabulary, rife with abbreviations and colloquialisms.  Imagine for a moment, that English is not your first language AND you haven’t learned fractions yet – then try and figure out what to do with these recipe directions.  Read every line.

1 pork butt

Grey salt

Freshly ground black pepper

½ cup olive oil

1 carrot, grated on the large holes of a box grater

1 stalk celery chopped

1 onion, chopped

1 Tbsp minced fresh rosemary leaves

4 cloves garlic, minced

1 ½  glasses Chianti

1 small can tomato paste

4 (28-ounce) cans chopped tomatoes

In a large bowl, mix together the meat, egg, cheese, parsley, oregano, basil, onion, breadcrumbs, and garlic, and season with salt and pepper. Add 1 cup of the water. Knead the water into the meat mixture with your hands. Knead and roll meat into about 1 ½ -inch balls. Place them in shallow saucepan on stove, add another ½ cup of water over them, and cover. Turn heat to medium, and steam for 35 minutes.

Drain the juice out of the bottom of the pan. Cover with Red Sauce, and toss with a pasta of your choice before serving, or serve as is.

_____________

There are so many problems with this recipe I don’t know where to begin.  However, it is unlikely that Faven would get past the first ingredient because . . .  well . . . it has the word ‘butt’ in it – and Faven would have broken out into incredulous laughter, and that would have been the end of it.  But there is also no chance that she could comprehend: chopped, minced, or grated, let alone knead with your hands or toss with pasta (we would have had pasta and meatballs across the whole kitchen).  I suppose then that is what the 1 ½  glasses of Chianti were for - the parent supervisor.

When you have not yet conquered basic sentence structure, how can you be expected to decipher a recipe, which breaks every rule of proper English anyway?

After painstaking hours of planning, we have arrived at the big day.  Today, Faven is making supper for our family.  I, for one, had to leave the house.  Don’t worry; I left my capable (and equally strong willed) mother in charge!  As I was getting set to leave, the tension was rising like rapid yeast pizza dough.  Faven wanted to make the garlic bread first (at noon), and my mom was telling her that it is better to have the garlic bread fresh out of the oven.  My mom may as well have spoken in Pig Latin, because ‘fresh out of the oven’ only has meaning to someone who has made garlic bread (or any bread, for that matter) before.  Faven stood eye to eye with my mom and said, “Can you just let me do it my way!?” 

Sandwiched in the middle between these two generations, I attempted to coach Faven – as I had coached my mom yesterday.  In the end, I think I made the better choice to leave.  But as I was leaving, Faven produced a picture of the dessert that she was hoping to make.  Again, this was a very confusing journey to figure out what exactly she wanted to make.  First she called it fudge, but when I showed her a picture of fudge, she said no.  Then she described more of a sauce (with butter, marshmallows and chocolate), so I showed her a picture of ice cream with chocolate fudge on it.  Her eyes lit up, and I was convinced that this was what she was hoping for, so I dug up a recipe for her and my mom.  Seemingly out of the blue then, she produced a picture of a chocolate dessert in a parfait dessert bowl, with a sprig of (?) mint perched on top.  So, my mom looked at the picture, and lo-and-behold there was a recipe directly underneath the picture!

My mom began to read it:

1 cup butter

4 Portobello Mushrooms

3 Shallots

1 tsp sage

"Uhhhh......" she paused, with the picture in her hand, and looked at Faven.

"What's wrong Grama?" Faven innocently asked.

Clearly this was not the recipe that went with the picture.  I grabbed my purse, wished them luck and slunk out the back door.

Highlights

I was recently exercising at a gym, where they have TV’s.  I had brought my own music, so didn’t plug into the TV.  Nonetheless a sports channel replayed all of the highlights from the NFL. It was interesting to note that they only showed the successful plays, the (at times) elusive touchdowns, the quarterback sacks, and the perfect execution of the throw-catch sequence. No fumbles, no blatant errors and no disputes.

A few days later, on a particularly discouraging day, I thought that maybe I should simply run through the highlights of my day, and lose the ‘footage’ for the other stuff. 

With that in mind, let me share with you some of the highlights of our living.

•  The other day I managed to do one loving act for every member of the family.  I took out the garbage.
• Recently, I showcased my pitching finesse when I threw mashed potatoes and ham across the kitchen (in frustration with my helpless 10-year-old daughter), and some of them actually landed on her plate!
• Today, I got the kitty litter scooped out before the dog stuck her snout in there and plucked out all the savory bits! 
• There hasn’t been any crying, moaning, screaming or wailing today, as long as you don’t count the high-pitched screech of the guinea pig, who everybody forgets to feed.
• There is an expression – God gave you one mouth and two ears for a reason – to listen twice as much as you talk. But, my 9-year-old son told me that my mouth is bigger than both of my ears combined. Halleluiah! 
• I picked the kids up from school the other day.  As I approached, I watched as two boys waddled like penguins, then fell to the ground in fits of exuberant laughter, and then did it all again.  As I got closer, I realized one of the boys was my son.  He was having the time of his life.  When he saw me, he proudly shuffled over.  “Your laces are tied together,” I said, bemused.  “YES” he noted, “And it was my idea!”
• I managed to provide empathy, as my 13-year-old daughter complained, yet again, about her horrible life.
• At the end of the day, when I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything, I remind myself that I have ruined my daughter’s life.  (That ain’t easy).
• Doing morning yoga is really paying off – less chance of pulling a muscle while I am dodging injurious insults.
•  I managed to find momentary joy, amidst a day filled with challenge: debris, clutter, chaos, illness, wretched sobbing, and generally unsatisfied customers.  It came in the fuzzy form of our foster feline, Charlie.
• My loving, logical, and practical husband held my hand while I irrationally sobbed. 
•  In one day, I managed to lose 3 pounds!  It was in snot and tears.
• Finally - I made a meal that my whole family would eat.  It was chocolate chip cookies!

Empty

There is a gun holster, lying in our ‘quiet room’.

On the table directly above the wayward holster, is a picturesque wooden statue of Buddha.  Buddha is sitting quietly (of course he is, IT IS a quiet room), with hands folded and eyes closed. But if his eyes were open, oddly enough, he would be staring right at the smoky-orange, plastic gun holster.  However, now that I take a second look, the holster is perching quietly on the edge of one of our meditation chairs.  So, I am left wondering, is the holster making a life-changing statement?  For it has presumably had some sort of falling out with its crooked counterpart – the gun, who is nowhere to be found - it appears to be choosing a more peaceful existence.

But now, my thoughts move to the gun.  This is a battle free home.  (Well, that is not exactly true – we seem to engage in battle almost daily – but for that we simply shoot sharp syllables, with surprising and superfluous punctuation, scattering sounds across the scene, like one flings feed for our feathered friends at a pond.)  I digress.  Ah yes, the gun and holster.  How did the holster come to rest on the aforementioned cream-colored cushion? Halloween. It was the belly-dancing princess warrior that required a gun.  (Well actually she wanted a sword, but we keep those locked up!)

In the end, I will simply dust around the holster.  I cannot blame it for it’s lot in life – and it seems to really want to change (it hasn’t moved a fibre in all this time – unbelievable commitment to meditation – don’t you think?)  One of the greatest lessons I have learned in this life is, don’t be judgmental of that which you do not fully understand.  

A Good Lap

Her legs looked endlessly long, her lean body relaxed and poised.  She appeared to move without effort; each graceful stride followed by another of equal value. It was like she was part of the path; she was in harmony with it. She pitched forward, stretching limb and body, and then was simultaneously caught and then propelled forward.  Her cadence was swift and rhythmic, as inevitable as the tide and as steady as a heartbeat.  She was ‘all-in’ – free - like a horse in canter.  

 I followed (as I was able) feeling awkward and uncoordinated. My ordinarily agile legs, felt fleetingly stiff and sluggish.  I was unable to feign rhythmicity, like that which I observed in her.  The glass from the window reflected back an image of a hunched and ungainly woman, shuffling through space with tension and awkwardness.  And though I have both grace and speed for someone my age, being cast into her elusive shadow – created a momentary disharmony.

She, who ran with such mellifluous elegance, is my ten-year-old daughter, Laurèn. I felt simultaneously joyous and disheartened.  I could not figure out how she came to be able to run with the grace of a gazelle and the stamina of a thoroughbred.  In fact, I felt as though I had, only a moment ago, let go of her hand and watched as she took her first steps without me.  I could not comprehend how we had arrived here.  And moreover, I wanted to stop the incessant running around and around the track, with only glimpses of her black and pink runners, and take her back to the time when we jumped into the pile of leaves in our front yard, or the time when she hung onto my neck in the pool as I dove deep, like a dolphin, giving her a momentary thrill. 

As she increased the distance between her and I on the track, I became vaguely aware that she is beginning to move at her own speed, and though I desperately want to be beside her every step of the way, I cannot.  This is the happy/sad place that other parents have alluded to.  It is a delight to see her stretch and even fly on her own, however, there is also the pain of losing that place where she fit so nicely onto my lap. 

As we continuously redefine ourselves within these immensely important relationships with our children, it is so important to celebrate that which they accomplish alongside of us, and also their independent successes.  But we would be remiss if we did not also honor the very real feelings of loss, as they let go of our hands to take steps and strides on their own, leading them beyond our reach.  So, for now my child has catapulted out of my lap, but I will endeavor to keep it accessible, for I know that she will need a warm and comfy place to land, should she stumble and fall.

It wasn't me!

I picked the kids up at school, and here is the conversation I had with Yohannes:
Yohannes: Mom, today at school, someone peed on the toilet paper roll in the boys bathroom.

Me: That's not very good.

Yohannes: And that is not all.  Someone peed in the garbage can AND someone put toilet paper into the sinks.

Me: That is terrible, that creates alot of work for the custodian.

Yohannes: But that is not all.  Someone plugged one of the toilets, and the principal made an announcement that said, that as soon as they find out who that is, their family is going to have to pay two hundred dollars to get it fixed.

Me: That is alot of money.  I guess the principal was not very happy.

Yohannes: No, she wasn't.
. . . . . . . . .

Yohannes: You know what mom, I know it wasn't me, and I know why....

Mom starts laughing.

Yohannes: Mom, why are you laughing?

Mom:  Well, usually if you know it was not you, you don't need a reason. (ie. you don't need an alibi)

Yohannes: Hmmmm....... Well, I know it was not me because - I don't even go to the bathroom when I am at school.

Mom: (still laughing) Okey dokey then.

We Day Alberta - Be the change

I spent my childhood exploring our developing neighbourhood with my siblings and friends. We built tree 'forts' in the forest, we played hide and seek at night, we played street hockey through the long winter, we met at the playground day in and day out, we rode our bikes over home-made jumps, and we counted on our parents for everything.  And for the most part, they came through for us.  We were not aware that a world existed outside of our neighbourhood, outside of our school, beyond the edges of our extended family. We were free to be - children. 

Yesterday, my kids and I spent the day at We Day, Alberta. We Day is an "educational event - a movement of young people leading local and global change.  It's a worldwide movement that proves anyone can change the world - and revolutionizes how we make that change." (we day.com)  It was started five years ago, by "Free the Children" founders, Craig and Mark Kielburger.  

It is difficult to find the right words to convey how it felt to BE there.  The Saddledome was filled with 15,000 children, youth and their supporters (parents, teachers).  The enthusiasm could quite literally be felt rumbling through the floor.  Moreover, the stories that were openly shared on the stage and through video were simultaneously unbelievable and palpably real; they left me feeling openly vulnerable.

You can't buy a ticket to We Day (I know, I tried!) - you have to earn it.  I felt blessed to be there; and at some level I knew that I belonged.  I was humbled and amazed. My kids, who have already seen and experienced the inequity and hardship that exists in the world, have strong desires to do good things for the world. Consequently they felt 'at home' amidst so many philanthropic minds, passionate beginners and gifted artists.  They are not (like) the children who I grew up with; they are free to be children (now), but they are immeasurably more aware of what exists beyond their reach than I was, at their age.

I have my friend, Carolyn to thank for the privilege of being at We Day.  Thank you.  
Carolyn is the Executive Director of The Keg Spirit Foundation. The Foundation, which has only been in existence since 2001 and concentrates on supporting the development of children and youth, has already raised more than $5.5 million for over 300 charities across North America.  The Keg is a friend and supporter of "Free the Children" and a sponsor of We Day, and so Carolyn was able to invite a few special guests.

We Day was filled with passion, energy, emotion and "shameless idealism" (to borrow the words of Craig Kielburger).  To be in the presence of Craig and Mark, two compassionate, inspiring and knowledgeable men, left me awestruck.  Their verve spread through the crowd like a viral contagion, infecting all whose resistance was low.  And indeed, many were infected through the course of the day. But the treatment, it turns out, is to believe in ourselves and commit ourselves to giving and to doing. At the end of the day, despite feeling overwhelmed, I was left with a sense of possibility.  I will ponder what small act I can commit myself (and my family) to; for I can no longer "doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has" (Margaret Mead).  

There were many poignant stories shared yesterday and though I know that I cannot convey the same message and engage with you in the way that these speakers did with me (and thousands of others), I can tell you that they have overcome the kinds of odds that most of us cannot fathom.  It is astonishing. When you have time, check out the stories of Liz Murray, author of Breaking Night: My Journey from Homeless to Harvard and Spencer West, who shared the struggles he overcame after losing his legs at the age of five.  (He recently summited Mt. Kilamanjaro).

Let me leave you with this wonderful quote and straightforward challenge by Mahatma Gandhi:

Be the change that you wish to see in the world.

The three P's

One day this summer, as our daughter was changing out of her beach gear, and into her summer clothes, she poked her head out of the door, and rather franticly waved at me to come in.  Then she closed the door.  I finished what I was doing, and silently slipped through the door.  She was huddled in a corner of her bed, looking down, and clearly distressed.

I gently touched her shoulder.  “What’s going on?” I casually asked, although my heart was racing, and my brain was pondering: What now?

“We-ellllllll,” she slowly stammered. . . . “I might be pregnant,” she fearfully squeaked, and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh??” I queried, with a bemused smile. “Really,” I mockingly asked, “how do you think this happened?”

“Well, in grade six, my teacher said that if you missed your period …. maybe one or two times – well - you could be pregnant,” she sputtered.

Now I had to hold back the laughter that was forming, as my naive daughter was clearly distressed.  “Oh, I see,” I said in a matter of fact tone, “do you remember anything else that your teacher might have said?”

“NOOOO!” she wailed, falling backwards onto the bed, clutching her knees to her chest.

“Well, there is one more detail that the teacher would have taught you.” I paused, she glanced up at me, “When did you last have sex?” I asked her.

She sat bolt upright and implored, “MOM!!  SEX!! I didn’t do the sex!”

“Oh, honey, I know that,” I sat on the bed beside her. “You see, the thing is – you can’t get pregnant if you didn’t do the sex” I calmed her.

“Really?” she asked. “Well what about my period?”

“Remember when you are still young, and puberty is just starting in your body, your period doesn’t always happen in a regular pattern?” I explained.

“Oh,….. so I ‘m not pregnant?” she wondered.

“No, you are not pregnant.” I assured her.

“Okay.  Thanks Mom,” She calmly said - and sauntered out of the room.