My sons

I have spent various snatches of this morning attempting to organize my and Jack's desks. We traded because I needed a desk with drawers and he wanted a white desk to better go with the new vision he has for his room. A win-win, but it prompted the removal and unpacking of half a room (because we also switched the location of his desk and dresser); I am flabbergasted by all that child has managed to sock away in there since we moved in in February. And I thought Oliver was the hoarder.

Anyway, I got out my label maker, turned it on, and was greeted by the last phrase printed: USS Anus.

People, I am still laughing. I have no idea which child wrote that or for which ship it was destined. #boys

I would also like to share with you the latest persuasive writing exercise by which I was tested: a 4-part manifesto on all the reasons Jack needs yet another Fitbit.

Let me first say that unless your child needs to track his or her steps for health purposes, a 4th grader does not need a Fitbit. As such, T and I insisted that Jack purchase his own Fitbit, and so he searched and found a "bargain" one. It arrived, and we returned it one week later. You really can't cheap out on some things.

The second was a branded FitBit from the very low end of their price spectrum. It's the one you clip to your pocket rather than wear on your wrist. Jack swore this was the best choice because "then I can still wear the watch I bought at Cinecittà. I don't want to wear two things on one wrist or one thing on each wrist." Fair enough.

For who knows what reason, my dear son has recently gotten a burr in his butt about needing a new Fitbit. "I'll pay for it, Mom," he wept recently. "No, son, this is where I save you and your hard-earned money from yourself. The answer is no."

Which resulted in this:

He's good, isn't he? Even though my answer remains a resolute "No!" I admit to being momentarily swayed by all the sweetness and light. 

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!