Tag Archives: family

A Friend of Frankensteins

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Oh, yes! You know that any eatery that can boast this espresso maker jumps to the top of my list — and Aretha Frankensteins in Chattanooga, Tennessee, is now one of my new favorite spots. Younger Daughter, who lives and works in Chattanooga now, kept promising that I would love this restaurant and she was so right. This funky spot is in the city’s cool NorthShore area, which is full of the hip and the hungry. Well, not hungry after they’ve been to Aretha Frankensteins, home of the biggest, most filling and most declious pancakes ever. EVER. Even Rachael Ray says so. So there. And there’s all sorts of other yummy things for all-day eating, from breakfast to late-night noshing. You have to be patient, though, YD warned, as we walked up the winding stairs. And she was right again. Because you see the shot above, on the right? You see the bar and a couple of tables in the shot on the right? Add in about maybe three or four more tables, constant coffee takeout traffic, a usual line out the door and one server — and you’ve got Aretha Frankensteins. In good weather folks can eat outside and enjoy the NorthShore neighborhood vibe. You’ve got to go. Just don’t be in a hurry. And, really, isn’t that a good thing?

Thanksgiving Dinner — or Why I’m Glad We’re Honorary Behels

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I’m not going to embarrass myself by telling you how many of these desserts I sampled at Thanksgiving dinner, but let’s just say I can tell you without a doubt that every one of these yummy pies and cakes and cookies and trifles was absolutely delicious. My daughter’s in-laws always have a big Behel-family feast — and luckily they consider my husband and me as family. My daughter’s mother-in-law made the chess and pumpkin pies from her grandmother’s recipes and her brother-in-law’s wife made the dark chocolate and buttercream cupcakes. As you can imagine, my husband and I started out sharing a plate of dessert goodies but quickly realized that we each needed our own. And there was my husband’s favorite: Green bean casserole. And my daughter’s famous corn casserole. And Paula Deen’s broccoli casserole. And light and soft homemade rolls. And now I’m making myself hungry all over again.

We’re still unpacking and settling in to our new house. And that’s good, because I’ve wrung two newspaper columns out of the experience and I’ve got a couple more percolating. When that last box is empty, I’m not sure what I’m going to write about. Maybe that’s why I keep putting off tackling all those boxes in the garage.

Helping Hands … and Rudolph Ears

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"Sure, Mommmy, I'll rake some leaves for you ..."

 

"... but, first, let me take off my lucky Rudolph ears ..."

 

" ... and jump in this big pile of leaves you just raked up!"

Why I’m A Proud Mom

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Y’all have got to read my younger daughter’s newspaper column that was in the TimesDaily, Florence, Ala., this past Friday. She wrote about moving from our house of the past 15 years, and how the house had taught her to embrace a spirit of adventure. She is awesome like that. My older daughter is awesome like that, too. How did I get so lucky? Still not lucky enough to have the Interwebs at our new house, but lucky enough to have awesome children. And we did get TV yesterday, so things are looking up.

Random Mutterings of a Cluttered Mind

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I don’t mind not having TV at our new house yet. I don’t mind not knowing where my good boots are, or my blue leather purse or black leggings I just bought. I don’t mind that I still have to wind my way along a path between boxes or that we still have bath towels covering up a couple of windows. These are all temporary glitches along the Road to Completely Unpacking and Feeling At Home, and I embrace every challenge. (Also: I’ve been reading Anne Lamott.) But I really really really don’t like not having Internet yet. I’ve hit every WiFi spot and skulked around street corners and parking lots in my new town until the convenience of actually sitting in my own living room on my own couch with my own coffee cup and my own Internet kicks in — hopefully, my husband says, this weekend. We’ll see. In the meantime, here are some of the things that have been going on: 1) My 12-year-old nephew in Chattanooga had some dastardly kind of resistant staph infection in his elbow and was in Thompson Children’s Hospital all this past weekend. He was brave and put up with all sorts of IVs and needles and other unpleasant things and was worried mainly about missing school work — which is all his mom because his dad (my brother) would have considered a week off from school a major and unexpected gift. 2) While I was in Chattanooga hanging out with the family, I also got to visit with Younger Daughter, who recently moved there to work and go to school and live in my brother’s basement, which is a much cooler place than it sounds.  I went to the grocery story where she works and met all her super-sweet co-workers and admired her handiwork in building her first display of chocolate and cheese — two of our most favorite foods. I’ve taught her well. 3) But in more family medical news, a couple of days later, Older Daughter went in for some allergy tests to try to find out why she’s constantly congested and she found out she’s allergic to — you’ll never believe it – glycerin. Glycerin! Who knew this was something to be allergic to? Of course she couldn’t be allergic to something simple like dog hair — which she actually was hoping for as an excuse to pass their annoyingly yappy dog on to another family. But, no. It’s glycerin. Glycerin!!! I don’t even know what glycerin really is. But whatever it is, it’s in EVERYTHING. Go to your bathroom right now and check all your makeup and lotions and creams and toothpastes. It’s there.  It and its evil siblings — glycerol and glycol and other gly-names — are in foods and fabrics, too. apparently glycerin is poised to take over the world. Who knew??? Older Daughter is in for a huge overhauling detox. Or she may just shrug and say, “Oh, well.” She hasn’t decided yet.

How To Move, or Has Anybody Seen My Mixer?

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What I’ve learned about moving:

1) You must have friends who will help you. You cannot do this by yourself. And I’m not talking about the help you needed when you moved in your 20s and you rounded up your brother and his friends and other random males and fed them beer and pizza to move your couch. We’re way beyond that at this point. Because even though my husband and I are now mature grownups who can pay the professionals (who are still 20-something-year-old males, by the way) to do the heavy lifting, you still need friends. Friends to tell you to ditch the box of cross-stitch patterns you’ve carted around for years because you WILL do them someday. Friends to make you face up to the fact that you have eight wooden toast tongs, three cheese graters and a whole drawer full of kitchen gadgets you cannot identify. Friends who make you question if you’ll ever really wear that silver lame dress. If you don’t have friends like that, get some before you move. You’re welcome.

2) You must have a husband who is kind and patient and understanding, even when the contents of the storage pod everybody forgot about are unloaded in your new garage and you’re left with 25 — count ’em, 25 — plastic boxes of undetermined origin. You need a husband who simply sighs and smiles and clears out some more space. If you don’t ‘have a husband like that, get one before you move. You’re doubly welcome.

3) And, finally, you must have a sense of humor, a tendency toward flexibility and an unflappable sense of balance that is not thrown off when you can’t find your earrings, your hair dryer, any matching pair of shoes or your big Kitchen Aid stand mixer. I can understand how the earrings and hair dryer and shoes might be lurking in boxes somewhere, but I’m really baffled by the disappearance of the mixer. Stay tuned …

How To (Not) Write A Blog Post

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Let’s just say, for instance, that you’re in the midst of decluttering and packing up your house of 15 years to move to a new house about half the size. And let’s just say, for instance, that you’re also trying to get your normal jobs done and sneakily trick impress the people who sign your paychecks by making them think you’re organized and responsible and can handle moving and writing a food story about pumpkins-as-ingredients  and your weekly newspaper column at the same time. And let’s just say that you’re also trying to do your normal life things and keep up with friends and family and the cat-feeding schedule while you’re rationing boxes and figuring out if you need packing tape or sealing tape. But, despite all that, you still want to write a thoughtful blog post. What do you do? Recycle! Point your readers to other things you recently have written but they may not have seen. They won’t notice it’s second-hand material and they’ll be awed by your juggling skills and entertained by your mindless babbling well-reasoned insights. Not that I would ever do anything like that. I’m just saying.

It’s A Conductor. No, Really, It Is.

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There’s a super-long fence bordering the backyard of Older Daughter’s house, so of course you know we can’t leave a blank space empty for very long. Even in a non-creative person like me, the urge to Do Art cannot be ignored. (Although maybe in my case it should be.) And I know it’s not a competition or anything, but once again my son-in-law, the artist and art teacher, whipped out a chalk masterpiece with very little effort. “Look, Kacky,” 2 1/2-year-old grandson Capt. Adorable said, laughing. “Daddy’s triceratops is eating conductor!” Three guesses as to who drew the conductor.

Timeout for Sisters

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These are my children — my two daughters. They are beautiful young women, inside and out. How I came to be so lucky as to be their mom, I have no idea. But I’m glad it turned out that way. Younger Daughter, on the left, recently celebrated her 24th birthday by getting a new job and heading out of town to follow her dream of becoming a sign-language interpreter. She’s moved to Chattanooga, Tennessee, to live with my brother & his family while she looks for an apartment, wows ’em at her new job and figures the school thing out. I’m in awe of her adventurous spirit and boundless enthusiasm. I’m also in awe of Older Daughter, on the right. This week she’s fighting a nasty sinus infection, teaching her dance classes and keeping up — as always — with our grandson, 2 1/2-year-old Capt. Adorable, and still had time to teach me the secrets of hula-hooping (shift your weight side-to-side and keep your upper body stable). This photo is so them, too. When they were little, I used timeout to get their attention, but it was a different timeout for each of them. I sent one daughter to her room with her door closed because, as a definite people person, she considered being deprived of other people to be a dire and serious punishment. I insisted the other daughter serve her timeout right beside me at all times because she’d be perfectly happy all by herself in her room and so being forced to be with people was a major infringement. I think this photo shows exactly which daughter is which!

A Blue-Ribbon Effort, or Why Was Your 1994 Soccer Team Named ‘The SandSharks’?

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Thank you all for wondering where I’ve been the past few days. I think this photo says it all, and here are some clues: I’ve been collecting boxes and saving newspapers from the recycling bin. I’ve been comparing prices on new refrigerators. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s really up in the attic and is it worth bringing down. And I’ve been wandering through more than two decades of family memories. Yup, you guessed it. My husband and I are packing up and moving out. After having our house on the market for one year — that’s ONE FREAKIN’ WHOLE YEAR, people! — our always patient and optimistic Realtor has found the perfect family for it, and we’re outta here.  But as I keep telling folks, we’re not really moving away. We’re just sort of transferring our stuff a little bit down the road. We’re downsizing to a cute new house that’s an easy commute for both my husband and I — we don’t even have to get new library cards, so that’s a good thing. But we do have to go through all the Very Important Things we’ve accumulated through the years. And we’ve accumulated a lot. I mean, I’ve been decluttering and throwing away and simplifying for months now, and we’re still uncovering hidden treasures. Such as my two now-20-something-year-old daughters’ sports ribbons and trophies. I can’t throw them away. You can’t recycle trophies (I’ve tried). My daughters don’t really have space for them but don’t want to get rid of them. So they chose a few memorable ones (you know — pardon me while I brag here — record-breakers, high-point winners, first places) and we boxed up the rest and designated them as “Keepers.” So let this serve as a cautionary tale for all you young parents out there who are so proud of the trophies and plaques and ribbons and medals your children are starting to bring home. Warning, warning! You’re going to have to deal with them all someday. Don’t think you can just put them under the bed and be done with them. Oh, no! In fact, I think they multiply while we’re not looking.