The Ride and The Laughter (Mother, May !?)

I grew up in southwest Louisiana, in a flat, mid-sized town one parish north of the Gulf and about thirty miles from the Texas border. Lake Charles was the town in which my mother had been raised, and although she hadn’t planned to return, she and Dad did just that when I was five and my sister was 2. The allure of in-town grandparents and a full medical practice after so many years of med school, residency and skimping by was too great to pass up.

745 miles away, east-northeast, is a tiny, hilly town in north Georgia. Toccoa is tucked in a corner of the state just about thirty miles from the South Carolina border. It’s where my father grew up. Like my mother, Dad never planned to return to his hometown. Unlike her, he didn’t. But his parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew remained in Toccoa, and so we visited regularly, most often for Christmas.

To get there, we drove; Mom, Dad, my sister, Elia, and I packed in whatever land-yacht Mom had at the time. She went through several Oldsmobile Cutlass sedans before moving on to a string of three identical Lincoln Town Cars. 

In any case, the drive from Lake Charles to Toccoa was long: 10 hours if you hauled ass and didn’t stop, but who doesn’t need to pee, eat or stretch legs in desperation? And so it usually took longer. Mom always said she’d help drive, but as soon as she took the wheel, she’d start nodding off from boredom. Dad would then again become captain of our ship.

Driving east through south Louisiana is one of my favorite things to do: the Atchafalaya freeway and swamp basin is one of the most magical places on earth. I feel deeply rooted, calm and right when I’m driving over that long expanse. I’d go back and forth all day if I could, imagining the gators in the murky depths, looking for regal egrets and herons, watching fisherman cast from their pirogues and flat-bottomed boats.

Once you leave Louisiana and enter Mississippi though, nelly is it boring. Just dull as all get out. And then you have Alabama which is not much better although Mobile is pretty. And then Georgia where at least the land gets hilly and at least you're finally in the state of your destination.

There was little to amuse us during those rides beyond good music and fun stories. We’d stop for snacks and gas, run around a bit, get back in. Invariably during these long drives, many farts were passed. We labeled them: Dutch Oven; Silent But Deadly; Wet; etc. It sounds revolting, but we thought we were hilarious. “The family that plays together, stays together” we’d laugh, tears streaming down our faces. The worst stinkers resulted in what we termed Blow Outs. 

Blow Outs involved rolling down all the car windows simultaneously and screaming BLOW OUT at the tops of our lungs! When you’re driving 65 miles an hour, Blow Out is an effective way of airing out your car and releasing any frustration you might have about still being stuck inside a sedan full of flatulence on the flattest, most boring roads in the world. (Well, I hadn’t yet driven through Ohio and Indiana, but you get my drift). 

We dreaded those long drives to and from tiny Toccoa, but if you ask anyone in my family now, I bet we’d all agree they were special times in their own ways. No technology then, no screens. We really spent time together, talking, laughing, playing license plate bingo, and, yes, farting. BLOW OUT! 

12 years

It continues to rain and sog here in our neck of the woods. My rosemary has rotted and the grass and hostas look like some sort of mixed-up fairly tale creation. They are HUGE. Last week was very tough and had this weekend not been a special one, I dare say I would stayed in bed obsessively playing Bejeweled.

However, my dear T and I celebrated our 12th anniversary instead. We felt so youthful and free that even our crazy-ass Uber driver last night (he demanded I get him a cupcake from Baked & Wired too; I don't think he was joking; I didn't take a chance; don't even ask me how many children by different mothers this man has) said, "Boy, y'all still have some fun."

By and large, that is really true. We do have fun together, always have. We've worked through some tough patches, hung by our tired toes, but overall, we are a great team and are deeply wild about each other, and that counts for a whole lot.

Ol has been asked to sleep over at a friend's and when that darling boy's mom found out it was our anniversary, she asked Jack to come along too. Friends, this was an epically generous, amazing gift that parents don't often get. H picked both J and O up at 2:30 yesterday afternoon!

T and I hardly knew what to do with ourselves. At 3, just because we could, we popped open a bottle of Prosecco and drank it while lazing in bed. Then, inspired by the realization that we were on no clock and really hadn't eaten much, we decided to get dressed (just LOOK at my shoes!) and head down to Little Serow, a very highly regarded, 28-seat, first-come, first-served northern Thai restaurant on 17th St NW. When you're paying $20/hour for a babysitter, standing in line for one doesn't seem as compelling. 

But when you're not? We had a ball, even in the spitty rain and on wet steps in front of a restaurant with no sign and a fairly uninspired entrance. I like joints like this.

Little Serow is owned by Johnny Monis, first of Komi fame. We ate at Komi, a much pricier, modern Greek establishment, several years ago, also for our anniversary. It's a lovely, quietly elegant spot, and while most people are beside themselves about it, we didn't find our meal terribly memorable. Truly, I can hardly recall an ounce of the evening. 

Like Komi, Little Serow offers only a set meal- no substitutions, nothing a la carte. You need to be somewhat adventurous but the lack of choice is actually pretty liberating if you know what you're getting into beforehand.

I chose the drinks pairing which included fortified, regular and sparkling wines, cider and beer. Each and every glass was a delightful, helpful accompaniment to the degree of spice and breadth of flavor in each dish, some of which fully cleared our sinuses. I love spice but I hate when all I taste is heat. Not so last night; everything was beautifully balanced. And let's give it up for crisp, watery cucumbers. 

My four favorite of the seven dishes were the: 
-khanom jin sao nahm, or dried shrimp / pineapple / fresh noodles
-yam makeua yao, or eggplant / cured egg / cilantro
-tow hu thouk, or tofu / ginger / peanut
and the
-si krong muu, or pork ribs / mekhong whiskey / dill

Afterwards to Baked & Wired and then home. At that point, feeling fat and happy, we watched All The Way, the new HBO movie about LBJ. It was quite enjoyable and well done, but I simply must say that I cannot for the life of my find any positive feelings for Melissa Leo. 

After enjoying anniversary coffee and a Nutmeg snuggle, waving lovingly to T as he left to pick up the kids and take them to swimming lessons, I decided that as it was still raining and still chilly, tonight would be a great one for family gumbo dinner.

Gumbo is a foolproof kids meal in this house, and it never fails to make me happy and sated in a very deep way. I also made my rhubarb-cherry-hibiscus crumble (rhubarb and Bing cherries don't overlap in season for long, y'all; go get some and make this!) and some almond whipped cream to go alongside, and we opened more champagne, just for fun because today is our actual anniversary. Cheers!

The Music (Mother, May I? class, day 4)

When my younger sister, Elia, was four, she met Emily Hill, also four, whose parents taught art at the university in my hometown. The Hill family soon moved, but not until after all of us became best friends with all of them. None of us ever again lived in the same town, but our bonds have only strengthened, and, more than 30 years in, we still spend holidays, weddings, hard times and happy ones together.

My Dad and Jim (the Hill patriarch) go camping each year, have a “tickle for Dickel” when they get together, and the eight of us once made and ate nine pies over the course of one Thanksgiving.

My parents listened to the the Oldies, 60s and 70s tunes they grew up loving and, even though the 80s and 90s were “my” and my sister’s music, we always knew that our parents’ soundtracks were infinitely better. I still have Sam Cooke, Aretha, Mary Wells, Judy Collins, the Supremes, Stones and so forth on my main playlist.

We used to have epic dance parties, without the Hills and with them. Sugar, Sugar, and Windy never failed to get us grooving, and just when we thought our pounding hearts would expire from the intense cardio, Smokey Robinson would start crooning The Tracks of My Tears, our pace would slow and we could catch our breaths.

My mom and Elia loved Sonny & Cher’s I Got You Babe and, after a concerted, joint effort at deception, convinced Emily Hill that Mom was the oboist who'd played the critically important oboe background - the pitched 'punh-punh'- throughout the song. Mom had been in the recording studio with Sonny & Cher! With an oboe! An instrument she had never and has never held in her life!

Emily believed them for years, and I doubt that when in the same house, when I Got You Babe played, Mom ever failed to pop up “punh-punh’ing” oboistically.

In 2010, Emily Hill got married, and Mom and Elia planned to perform I Got You Babe during the reception. I was given the job of sitting offstage but in clear sight to manage the flashcards, should nerves shoot blanks into their memories.

By the time we were up, I’d had plenty of champagne and was feeling festive as all get out. I sat down with the giant posterboards of carefully printed lyrics and felt in control and collected as the opening beats strummed.

They say we’re young and we don’t know
We won’t find out untiiiiiil we grow
Well I don’t know if all that’s true
‘Cause you got me, and baby I got you

I don't remember which was Sonny and which was Cher

Babe
<Oboe punh-punh>
I got you babe
<Oboe punh-punh>

Mom’s popping up and down with her vocal oboe beats, and Elia is laughing but trying to stay on point, and I just couldn’t remember if I was supposed to put the completed cards at the end of the stack, or was there a discard pile somewhere? I couldn’t let go of any card for too long because the large stack was awkward and weighty and what if the cards fell? And while I thought Mom and El knew the words, we were all tipsy and celebratory and at a wedding in a dark reception room with approximately 8 zillion eyes upon us expecting something, and who knows what that could do to memory.

Not everyone knew the back story, and part of me wondered what they thought of these Louisiana women, two singing and one sitting as gracefully as she could in her silk shantung strapless dress in a chair with giant cards unsure what to do with the spent ones.

They say our love won’t pay the rent
Before it’s earned, our money’s all been spent.
I guess that’s so, we don’t have a plot
But at least I’m sure of all the things we got…

Mom and the oboe bit…

So I just started dropping the cards alongside my chair, and each catches a bit of air, you know? And they’re slip-sliding all about, Mom’s oboeing up and down, Elia is a professional actress so she’s trying to keep everything together but is laughing too, the insiders are cracking up, the ones not in the know have rather blank but sweetly bemused stares (most of them), and I just could not keep up with the cards.

“Why are there so few words on each damn card?” I think, nearly doubled over in hysterics about both the pressure I felt under and also how hilarious this all was.

Meanwhile, Sonny and Cher got flowers in the spring, he got her to wear his ring, she says his hair is NOT too long, and they, hand in hand, know they can scale any peak.

Oboes, cards, punh-punh, thirty years. It was great. And to this day, every time that song plays anywhere, I can't stop myself from air-playing that background beat.