Latkes

"Hey Linsey," my friend asked at a recent Christmas party, "are you going to celebrate Chanukkah this year? If so, can I come?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. I don't know who would celebrate with me."

Suddenly a whole chorus of voices joined in, "Are you going to celebrate Chanukkah? Can I come?"

"Why not? Sure, we'll celebrate Chanukkah, and everyone is invited!"

"Great! What does that mean?" they all asked.

"You'll find out...they'll be dreidels and potato pancakes, the whole shebang."

Once I knew someone else was interested, asking for it even, celebrating Channukkah seemed only natural. "You've all made my December," I declared.

And then I stared planning. "Invite whoever you want," I said to my co-host, "with the holidays, who knows who will show up. The weather, the other parties, it won't be a problem."

Of course, the truth is, I live in a small condo, so I wasn't actually planning on having 22 people say "Of course I'll come celebrate Channukah. I've never done that before." The next question was usually, "And what do I wear?" I live in Utah, where as far as I can tell, there really is no dress code, no matter where you are, so I was stunned to find that yes, there is a dress code, and people are paying attention.
Whatever you want," I responded, "but nothing flammable. There'll be candles."

When the number of positive RSVP's blossomed to 22, I began to worry. How many latkes would a Hanukkah beginner eat? I mean, someone experienced in this holiday knows to come hungry, and to be prepared to eat greasy, oily, salty food, but a novice? And a novice won't feel compelled to eat junk food for the sake of the holiday. I mean, to them, a donut will be just a donut, and not a mitzvah. I looked on line the night before the party and found one article that recommended preparing 6-8 latkes (potato pancakes) a person. I did the math and nearly fell over. "Oh no," I gasped, "this will never work. Maybe Chanukkah beginners won't eat as much." Then I read another article that recommended making the latkes days in advance, so the house didn't reek of burning oil. "Oh no!" I thought. "How can I do this now?"

I woke up at the crack of dawn, prepared to make latkes until my arms fell off. My food processor jammed before I grated the first potato, so I grated 10 pounds of potatoes and 5 pounds of onion by hand. I pretended I worked in a kibbutz. I figured this is what making latkes for the masses must feel like. I ended up with 80 large latkes, and no, we didn't eat them all. But people offered to take home the leftovers for breakfast in the morning.

We played the dreidel, which I never actually did in Israel. My friends, most of them serious poker players, couldn't take the slowness of the game and so in no time started "upping the ante". "On the next round, everyone has to put two pieces of candy into the pot." "The 'shin' letter means, you gotta put four pieces into the pot." "Whaddya mean, 'the shin'? You mean the trident?" And the gimmel, quickly became "the boot". As in, "No way! You got the boot again?? Jackpot!"

We lit the candles. We ate the donuts and the potato pancakes. The applesauce was the most popular topping. Since we couldn't sing the songs that I was used to in Israel, I played Adam Sandler's Hannukah song. "See, you all know at least one Hannukah song," I said.

One of our Chinese friends, seeing what a hit the cultural exchange was declared, "I am having a Mah Jong party!" And I could see my shock reflected in his face when 22 people shouted,"I'm there! What do we have to do? What's Mah Jong." With a nervous look he said, "It's really, really hard." Good luck scaring this crowd I thought. They are up for anything. And I looked with pride around at the faces of my friends, and knew once again, this is what it means to be blessed.

After 5 hours of Hannukah, they began to shuffle out in the snow, with wishes for Happy Hannukah and Merry Christmas. When I went outside to shake out the table cloth, and stare at my neighbors Christmas lights, I found that someone had written "Happy Chanukah!" in the snow. My version of Christmas lights.

My Uncle Marc called today to invite me to a movie with a Jewish theme. "It's a real gut-wrencher. It'll pretty much throw you on the floor and stomp on you," he said.

"I think I'll pass on it this time," I said.

"Alright, but I just want you to know that I am looking out for the Jewish side of you," he said.

"I appreciate that. I'm glad there is someone in this valley doing that for me."

He laughed. "Tell me about it; I have to remind myself I am gay every once in a while."

I laughed too and suddenly realized how lonely that must feel- to move from a society where every part of you is fully accepted, to one where people may not hate you for part of yourself, but they probably at the least, really, really don't want to hear about it.

And then it dawned on me. I'd forgotten to pass along some big news to my uncle. "Hey, speaking of that, Abbie and I both had our names officially removed from the church register, in protest against the LDS church's involvement in Proposition 8."

"WHAT? Really?" He was clearly stunned. I don't know how I managed to not realize this would be his reaction.

"Yup. We both wrote letters that said that we were leaving for this reason and that history would prove them wrong in this, just as it has on several points in the past, like the ERA."

"Seriously? You and Abbie both, huh?" He was still stunned, but bordering on elated.

"Yeah, there was a website that gave directions on how to do it. It was sort of a mini movement."

"Wow, well there you have it. I guess they'll leave you alone now."

"Really? I thought this was when they send out the troops."

We said good bye and it sounded like he was going to go ponder this. And I left, vowing to do as good a job paying respect to the gay part of him as he pays to the Jewish part of me.

Removing my name from the rolls of the church was anti-climatic, given that I emotionally removed myself from the church when I was 20. I created my own ceremony then, and I told close friends and family that I no longer believed and was leaving. For a while, I intended to remove my name, but I couldn't stand to bring myself to the attention of the missionary program. I had made my peace with it and I didn't really care what anyone else thought.

Fast forward 9 years. I haven't thought about my name being on the rolls for a while now. It seems we are all on the rolls here. Abbie is and she probably hasn't been inside a church since she was 8 and baptized by non-believing parents to please the grandparents. My "non-Mormon" colleagues, it's the same thing. They were baptized at some point to please someone or other and they stay on the records for the same reason. Abbie nearly didn't remove her name because she was worried about what her grandmother would think. "Is removing my name going to make me happier than it will make her miserable? Is she going to lie on her deathbed worrying about me? Because this doesn't mean THAT much to me, but isn't this the way it is with statements?" she asked me. To which I shrugged, profoundly. I was just amazed she was moving ahead with it. I was worried still about all my aunts and my grandma doing genealogy work and seeing me off the records. We tried to determine whether they would find this out, but gave up after researching for a few minutes. It turns out neither of us know anything about the mystical term "genealogy work".

The next day after this discussion, Abbie forwarded the letter I had helped her write. I sent it on to Leonard. His response was, "What? You mean you are still Mormon? I thought you had yourself removed a long time ago."

And suddenly I felt ashamed, like I was living a lie. And I realized I couldn't really stand to be considered Mormon anymore. Particularly not when I was horrified at what their involvement in California had just caused.

I printed off the letter and ran to mail it before I chickened out. And somehow, in this 24 hour period of contemplating and then carrying out this act, I never realized that I had one family member who would be as touched by this act as another would be hurt.

Driving home today, I remembered the moment I gave up worrying about having my name be removed from the list of members. I was speaking to my Jewish-Israeli Hebrew professor who was married to a Mormon. "I just wish I could get over being Mormon," I said to her. She laughed, "Linsey, you will never "get over being Mormon" any more than you could "get over" being American. This is something that will be a part of you forever."

What's funny is that thinking about this makes me teary, not because I am finally no longer a Mormon- even technically, and I have come to terms that parts of me will always be influenced by how I was raised. And not because since November's election I am a proud American for the first time in a long time, and I finally stopped wanting to "get over" being American. But because I wonder, does the same thing apply to the Jewish side of me?

Boundaries

"You really need to set boundaries."

I don't think I can count how many times people have told me this in reference to my social life, my work life, my family life. Learning to say "no" was one of those big life lessons that I somehow managed to skip for a long time.

I saw my first episode of Arrested Development tonight. I know a lot of people who love this show. I saw one episode a few years ago, didn't understand it at all and gave up. I watched four consecutive shows while working out today and I called a friend after, who also has trouble setting boundaries. "Oh, that's a great show," he said when I reported my evening's activities.

"Yeah, it is. And I want to point out that the hero of this show, the only sane person in the family, is the one that sets boundaries. He is the only one who says 'no' and that is the only reason the family is even together. See, setting boundaries makes you a hero."

I met Abbie for tea yesterday in the "Zen room" of a local tea house. We sat cross legged on meditation pillows at low tables as I told her about some boundaries I had set recently in my life and about how ironic it is that me, the person who never learned to say no, is actually teaching other people to set boundaries. She looked at me and then bowed her head and said, "The student has become the master." We were lucky no one else was in the Zen room to be disturbed by our laughter, or they might have had their own boundaries to set with us.

Alla

When I worked in Israel, there was a cleaning lady who would come in at about 4:00 every afternoon. She was responsible for our floor of offices. She was incredibly friendly and would speak to me in Russian-accented Hebrew, to which I responded in English-accented Hebrew. Sometime our vocabularies were too inept for proper communication and we would resort to hand signals. When my hand gestures failed, we would go off to find a colleague with a bigger vocabulary who could explain something to one or the other of us. It wasn't just workday vocabulary that stumped us. My office mate at the time was dying from a brain tumor and Alla would come in and look at my colleague's empty trash day after day and ask, "She didn't come again today, eh?" and I would shake my head and she would shake hers, neither of us knew what to say, even if we had known the words in Hebrew.

Alla was homesick, like me. She would talk about how she wasn't sure if she and her husband had made the right decision to move to Israel, after all they were already in their 50s when they moved. Maybe it was too late in life to try to relocate. One time she was so homesick we looked up pictures of Tashkent online, she took me on a virtual tour of the city. I'd help her look up other sites on line. She had a hard time with the internet and with reading in Hebrew. We'd stumble together over how to access bank information over the internet. For her, I was willing to try harder than usual to navigate the frustrating foreign websites. In exchange, she would bring me deep fried dumplings, cabbage salad, apple cakes. I'd save her birthday cake whenever someone had a birthday in the office.

One time she offered me salad of potatoes and beets. "This stuff my father won't eat," she said. "He lived off of nothing else for so many years with the war and then after the war. He swore to himself he'd never eat another beet again and he hasn't."

One time I came in to the kitchen and watched her dig a little yellow piece of lemon out of a jar. "This is what we used to do," she said, holding the jar up for me to see. "A lemon was such a rare thing where I come from that we would take one, chop it into tiny pieces and mix it with sugar to make it keep longer. And we would use the pieces one at a time for our tea. We were so careful with each piece. Now there are lemons all around me, and I still, for some reason like it best like this."

One afternoon I noticed several women clustered around the secretary. I went to investigate. They were fluttering and jabbering and clearly upset. One of them explained that the management of the building wanted to fire Alla. The women hypothesized that since Alla was getting older, they didn't want to pay her a pension. I was irate. "What do we do about it?" I asked.

"We are all writing letters," they said.

"I want to write a letter too, but I won't know the words. No one will understand what I mean."

"Write it in English," someone said. "English is even better. It's intimidating." So, in English I wrote my letter of recommendation for Alla. I told the management that no one worked as hard as Alla. I promised that they would never find another employee that could replace her.

Alla kept her job. I don't know if our letters helped, especially the one in a language that the management may not have read. When I told Alla I was moving back to the US, part of me felt guilty. My homesick friend was staying and I was leaving back to my soft life in the US, while she was staying to work and wonder if she had made the right decision to come to Israel. I still miss her and think of her at odd times, and hope that she was able to keep her job, that she was able to find some peace of mind about her decision to immigrate, and that she knows that thanks to her, I will never take a lemon for granted.

Cookies

My aunt brought cookies to a family dinner this summer. They were cute little sandal shaped sugar cookies. I usually don't bother with desserts that don't contain chocolate, but this was so adorable, I took a bite. And it was DELICIOUS. It was the best cookie I had ever had in my life- cookie perfection. I looked down at the little cookie sandal and thought, I know, logically, that this simply CANNOT be the best cookie in the world. It didn't make sense. There was no chocolate involved, the frosting was one solid sheet made of god-knows-what, and it didn't crumble the way the perfect cookie should. "Did you make these?" I asked, marveling at the rows and rows of perfect little sandals.

"No," my aunt replied, "I got them from Granite bakery."

Ah-ha! I thought. That explains it. Granite bakery is a tiny little bakery that was located south of the home where I grew up, but north of my grandparents' house. When my grandfather would come to pick us up without my grandmother, he would take us to Granite bakery and let us pick out a treat. Whenever he took us, I would choose these sugar cookies or a maple bar. We were raised in a house where honey nut cheerios were considered too sweet to eat and had to be mixed with regular cheerios and that was supposed to be a treat. My grandpa lived with my grandma who considered non-fat vegetable soup to be a treat, apparently because it contained slightly more calories than water. So for all of us, these clandestine runs to the bakery were deliciously secretive. We would get our cookies or maple bars tucked safely into their white bag, and Grandpa would tell us, "Now don't tell Grandma".

We'd bounce out of the store, bounce into the backseat and drive to the park closest to my grandparents. We'd eat our treats and then run around like lunatics until the sugar rush had passed. Grandpa would help us wash the remaining sugar and the sand off our hands and faces and tuck us back into the car, just in time to make it to a dinner of vegetable soup.

And suddenly, 20 years later here I was, tasting not just a sugar cookie, but the warmth of a loving grandpa, the sun shining down on us, the smell of fresh grass, the companionship of my sisters, and the deliciousness of a harmless secret. Now that is one perfect cookie.

After dinner, my sister walked back to her home from my grandmother's house. She lives just around the corner and is the neighbor of our paternal grandmother, our aunt and her family, and our maternal grandparents. I waved as I passed her and drove the less than 10 miles to my own house. Sometimes I am still shocked that I ended up here in Salt Lake again. It was somewhere I never wanted to return, somewhere I never had felt at home, and yet with the summer sun setting late in the evening and the taste of the past still in my mouth, I realized I had never felt so rooted or so at peace.

Cucurbitacean

Cucurbitacean - a person who regards pumpkins or squash with deep, often rapturous love.

I can't deny it, I am a Cucurbitacean. I didn't know there was a word for this, until approximately 2 minutes ago, and the fact it exists seemed to call for a blog entry. I know it sounds extreme to state that I am enraptured with pumpkin, but the truth is, I can tell you the exact moment I first had a pumpkin latter- the SLC airport 3 years ago. I was hooked. I had found the new love of my life...Our affair lasted until I learned how many calories are in a pumpkin spice latte. I would bring cans of pumpkin with me from the US to Israel, so I could get my fix of pumpkin cookies. I have perfected my pumpkin cookie to the point where it is so healthy that I can justify eating them instead of meals, and yet still, they are delicious. At least I think so, sometimes I wonder if maybe I am tasting the memory of a pumpkin cookie when I eat them and I have just masked the actual flavor with the chocolate chips and spices.

Since moving back to the US, I have made the most of my constant access to pumpkin and pumpkin lattes- only now that I know better, I go with the small size, non-fat, half the syrup, and no whipped cream. And it's still fantastic. Try one. If you are one of my SLC pals, I'll direct you to the best one in your neighborhood, because yes, I have tried them at every chain and every coffee store near you.

It's not just the lattes I love, and let's be honest, of course I realize there is no actual pumpkin involved in the latte. Unless I happen to pass a pumpkin patch while drinking the latte and driving. Speaking of pumpkin patches, they are everywhere now. I can't wait to get to carving. The truth is, I love picking out the pumpkin and then I pretty much hate every step in between until the point where I get to light the candle and smell the pumpkin flesh roasting on the inside and watch the candle flicker peacefully. I am the reason the steps in the middle are so terrible. I'm the one who aims for spotless pumpkin innards, who annually washes off and bakes the seeds in the oven because it is Tradition- my father did it and I must too. Regardless of the fact the pumpkin seed is the only part of the pumpkin I don't like and regardless of the fact that I burn them about 50% of the time. The other 50% I rescue them in time from the oven, offer them to people as uninterested in them as I am and then eventually, throw them all away. Gees, no wonder I hate the carving part.

It isn't just pumpkins I adore, my love extends to all squash. This month, my food co-op went nuts with squash. I love my food co-op. Once a month, I get to go pick up a surprise order containing 4 varieties of fruit, 4 varieties of vegetables, fresh made bread and any other local product they are offering that month- fresh made local jam, locally roasted varieties of nuts, handmade tamales from a town in Utah so small I suspect it is home to one Mexican-American family with powerful tamale skills, handmade sausages, you get the idea. I never know exactly what I am going to get when it comes to the fruit and vegetables, and since I order the extras three weeks in advance, I always forget what I ordered, which makes a delightful surprise, "Handmade blackberry jam, who knew? How thoughtful of me!"

This week, the surprise was squash. One of the squashes is blue. Actually blue. I am officially on the hunt for blue squash recipes, which is where I came across the word that is the title of this blog entry. There are other squash that I think are acorn, but tiny, and three spaghetti squash. Which brings me to the downside of the co-op. Living alone and trying to consume three spaghetti squash, 4 acorn squash, a blue squash, and the 2 pounds of carrots I came home with today, is an incredible challenge. You can guess what I'll be having for dinner every night this month. Good thing I am a cucurbitacean.

Breaking the Silence

Well, it's been a hell of a summer and I finally have a minute to write. I've been caught up with work and spending so much time writing that there weren't any words left for this blog. In addition, I've been working on creating my ideal little home, which takes a lot more time and effort than I ever imagined. I have seen the inside of almost every furniture store in this city. At first I wandered through them completely baffled. I have never bought any house items from any where besides IKEA and garage sales. That means that usually there is only one or two items that I like and really the decision making process isn't too hard: Do I want this in white or black or crazy blue polka dots? Furniture sales people would come up to me and ask if I needed help finding what I was looking for. "I actually don't know what I am looking for," I'd confess. "I don't really know what I like, so I'm just going to wander around and try to learn what I like."

They'd back away slowly thinking, "Too much info. No thanks probably would have cut it, lady." But as far as I was concerned, it was better to be up front about it than to have them wonder what I was doing spending hours wandering from show room to show room and back again. Every once in a while I'd whip out my paint chips and compare them to the walls in the designed rooms and shake my head at how badly I could misjudge the color of paint on a wall. "Hmmm," I'd mutter to myself as the blue paint chip I held up to the wall suddenly forced me to realize that the wall was in fact green, and a green four shades off from the blue color I was holding in my hand.

I made a little book of pictures of rooms, furniture, art, and lighting ideas that I liked. I'd pull this out occasionally too as I wandered through stores. It saved me from buying the Mexican hand painted trunk and red, mirrored Indian pillows. I pulled out my book and saw that neither of them related in any way to my vision. The old me would have been at home with both, wondering why the finished product didn't look like anything I had in mind when I first started.

My booklet reminded me of the booklet my friend Larkin made when she went to meet with an interior designer. She cut out everything she liked from magazines and found she liked a lot of texture and richness. She told the designer, "Here is what I want my house to look like," she said flipping through the booklet. "And here is what I am worried it will look like," she said, flipping to the last page of a house completely overstuffed and overdone with colors, patterns, and just STUFF. "I'm going to end up living in Larkin's nightmare," I'd tell myself in order to convince myself to put down the gold tapestry and back away.

"If you buy what you love, then it will all fit together somehow," Abbie would tell me. "I think you have no idea the range of things I love," I'd tell her. "Believe me. The Japanese wood cutting, the Mexican trunk, the Indian pillows, and a gold tapestry, do not, under any circumstance, go together." But slowly, using my new found compass of my "vision", I am pulling together something I like. I am falling in love with my house. And just in time for autumn, when the shorter days and cooler nights are pushing me back indoors.

Bluebeard

In the house where I grew up my siblings and I, and occasionally our father, used to perch on the white, ceramic tiles of the counter, our friends rocking back on stools or balancing on the the counters beside us, backs resting against the light pine cabinets. One evening I walked into the kitchen and found my sister and her best friend there. I had realized recently that one of the benefits of growing older was that if I were quiet and unobtrusive I could hang out with my older sister and not be chased out of the room as the annoying little sister.

I sat there quietly perched on the counter and listened as the friend told the story of Bluebeard. I was amazed to hear a fairytale that I had never heard before. Especially one that was so scary my skin started crawling, even under the bright kitchen lights. It seemed such an odd story, whose moral puzzled me. Would the bride have been better off not being curious? What would have happened if she'd never opened the door? Would she lived out her life in peace, never knowing her husband's true nature? What would she have done if they key hadn't bled? As I got older the story no longer seemed strange. It seems now as though it was destined to be written because the human experience is so full of Bluebeard and his wife.

One of the guys I dated had a door that he never opened. I thought it was a hall closet and one day, looking for a broom, I opened it. "Wow!" I shouted and jumped back. The door only opened into a bathroom, but it was easily the scariest room I hope to ever see. While the rest of this man's house was perfectly organized and passably clean, this room had clearly never been cleaned. It wasn't simply dirty, it was covered in tons of little black hairs. Probably all the hair ever shaved during this man's residence in his house. They had covered the counter, the sink, and then tumbled onto the floor. I was aghast, and knew he would be horrified if he knew I knew about his Bluebeard room. There was no key to bleed (or grow hair) and give me away, what there was instead was my laugh. After the shock melted away, I couldn't stop laughing.

"I have to tell you something," I confessed, still laughing, when he returned to the kitchen.
"What?"
"I opened that door," I said, pointing.
"Oh no," he slapped his hand to his forehead. "I swear I was going to clean it."
"Whatever," I answered. "You've probably never cleaned it in your life. It's crazy. I've never seen anything like it!"
"You hate me now, don't you? I can't believe you saw it."
"I don't hate you, although, wow. Wow. Really, I'm at a loss for words."
"Listen, I lived with this girl for a long time and she used to go nuts at every little hair that would fall off my razor when I shaved and its HARD when you are as hairy as I am, not to have at least one or two little hairs now and then. And so when I became single again, I just went for it. I created a room just for shaving, where I never have to worry about any of the hair. And, um, I guess it's a bit out of control."
"A bit, you think? You've created Bluebeard's bathroom," I said. "That's pretty incredible."

Although this is the only physical representation of a Bluebeard Chamber that I've come across so far, we all have our Bluebeard chambers. Hiding them, choosing if and when to reveal them, deciding if you can live with your partners', and finding out if your partner can live with yours is all part of dating. It's challenging, but sometimes so rewarding, those moments of revelation that arise as we get to know each other better.

Bunnies

My mom emailed from Sweden that she needs a bunny. This clearly doesn't mean anything to you, but it is code in my family for being homesick. It all started when I spent the summer I was 17 living in Tokyo. I desperately missed my friends and was homesick for my family. I made an unfortunate choice of literature to take with me: On the Road and Walden. Two books that made America appear to be the promised land and I was still uncynical enough to believe it was just that. On the Road made me feel cramped on a tiny island where I couldn't drive, and Walden emphasized the enormity of the city that spread out around me, bigger than anything I have ever imagined.

Of course, it isn't as though I was miserable the whole time; I loved learning to ride the subway by matching Japanese characters on maps and those on the subway lines. I loved crossing the Shibuya intersection and imagining someone looking down from above and seeing my blond head in a sea of black. I loved the new flavors, customs, smells, sights, language. The culture shock was intense- it had all the force of a physical electric shock and would hit me continually throughout the day and night. I longed for that level of shock when I was in Israel and in Europe, but nothing compared. I don't know if anything ever will compare to that first time abroad without my family in one of the world's biggest cities.

Most of the time, I was fine, but whenever I would talk to my mom, I would sob into the phone line, "I am having a really great time. I love it here...". I'd hang up the phone and be ok again, until the next call. The day after one of these calls, I received an airmail package. I couldn't imagine what was important enough to rate the most expensive express mail price. I opened the box and in it was my mom's stuffed bunny. There was a note that said, "I wish I could be there to hug you in person, but since I can't be, I am sending Bradley instead. Love, Mom. PS. This is only a loan." Bradley helped immensely. He was a tie between my home and Tokyo and during those lonely mornings when I would awaken to the sound of crows at 4 am, he was my best and only companion.

The next summer, I backpacked in Europe by myself. For part of the time, I met my friend, Laurel, her family, and lovely friends of the family who lived in Orleans. I started learning French, we ate incredible food including a home cooked meal for July 4th that they tried to make as American as possible; complete with what was supposed to be egg salad (quail eggs on a stick) and pasta salad that was drowning in so much white wine I felt guilty giving it a polite taste. We went to a nearby farm and picked fresh berries, and explained to an uncomprehending farmer why I couldn't drink his homemade currant wine. Fortunately, the postman pedaled down the dirt road in time to drink my share.

When I was getting ready to leave this near paradise, Laurel's mom told me she had something for me. She returned from her room with a stuffed bunny half the size of Bradley and about the size of my forearm. "Your mom asked me to give you this," she said. "She wanted something small enough to fit in your backpack. I felt silly, since 18 seemed too old for stuffed animals. I worried someone would see it at one of the hostels and realize that I was what I feared: a little girl in disguise. At the same time, there were plenty of nights when I smuggled the bunny into my sheets with me and held him close.

The next year, I went to Sweden and right before I left, my mom and step-dad presented me with yet another bunny. This one fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. "The bunnies get smaller every time, because you are becoming more and more independent, but we still didn't want you to get lonely," said my step-dad. "Your step-dad picked it out himself," my mom said.

When my friends were homesick in Sweden, I'd loan them the bunny. We all knew it was silly, and yet, somehow it worked. One day, my friend was extra sad, so I handed her my bunny, her bunny, and a stuffed moose someone had given my while living in Sweden. After that, we'd rate a hard day by how many bunnies it took to make us feel better. "It's been a two bunny day," I'd report to her after the end of a challenging day. When she left Sweden, she made me a book called "Chicken Soup for the Soul in Sweden: For those two-bunny-and-a-moose days".

It's been 10 years. I've lived in multiple cities and countries since then and that bunny has been to every one with me. He keeps watch over my bedroom these days. If my mom had an address, I'd send him to her and share the comfort. I just don't think that a package labeled:

Mom
A ship
Somewhere in the Baltic
Close to Sweden

is going to make it there.

Clothing Swap

"Who the hell does that?" my friend's husband asked his friend. "These crazy girls."

What was he so upset about? Our friendly clothing swap. Apparently this is an unknown concept here in SLC, but I participated in a few while I was in Boston. They are an ingenious way proving the old adage about one woman's trash being another woman's treasure. I think most women at one time or another, have gone to a store, either alone or with a friend and found something that was just such a good deal that we HAD to have it, or a friend told us we looked AMAZING in a shirt and even though it was fluorescent green with a hot pink leopard print, we felt we simply HAD to own it. Or, for whatever reason, a piece of clothing became no longer desirable; it shrunk in the wash, you lost or gained a few pounds, the length went out of style. And suddenly you find that in spite of the fact there is no room in your closet, you look in it everyday and find that there is NOTHING to wear. So, when this happens, it's time to pile up all the old clothes on the bed (in my case, it was an entire break-up wardrobe of size 0 and 2 that I had originally inherited from multiple friends).

My sister and I invited our girlfriends, each with their own huge garbage bags of clothes, baked some fresh blueberry muffins, cut up some cantaloupe, brewed some ice tea, and opened up shop for a Saturday afternoon. Some of the people who originally gave me the skinny clothes, took them back, happy to have another go around with them. The two poor graduate students ended up with several new outfits each, I ended up with two funky pieces I never would have bought for myself (one with the tags still on) and one tank top that was so expensive, I never did learn how much it cost. Shoes that no one wanted were donated to Africa; the clothes that no one wanted were donated to the Deseret Industries (think Mormon Salvation Army store). And in short, everyone ended up happy and satisfied. Except my friend's husband, who thought the whole thing sounded ridiculous.

"Whatever," I responded. "You would have loved it. Seven sexy women came over to my house, dumped an enormous pile of clothes in the center of my living room, closed the curtains, stripped down to our skivvies, and started throwing clothes at each other to try on. You're just mad you weren't there."

"You did not do that," he said in his most skeptical, as-if voice.

"Actually, we did," said his wife.

"Really? Wow. Hmm." He looked stunned.

After that, not another word was spoken against the clothing swap.

Okie's blog...

This is last week's post from my step-sister's blog:

I served an LDS mission between 2005-2007. Although I served within the bounds of the US of A it felt more like a foreign mission. I spent the majority of my time working and living with people of Latin decent; mostly Mexican. In my short 18 months I made lifelong friends, second families, and connections that I will forever be grateful for and proud to have. Truth be told, my heart bleeds Latin now, and hopefully always will.

For this reason I have returned to my mission stomping grounds on several occasions. It's a chance to reconnect with people I love, and who in turn love me. The most recent visit was this past May when I returned with two of my companions (read: very dear friends Shay and Moffy) to the land that gives me my screen name. We had an amazing time. We were treated to wonderful food, great music, and a lot of dancing lessons! It was 4 days that passed altogether too quickly, but it was time very well spent. Two weeks following our visit I received this call from Shay:

"Kath?" She was calling me in the middle of the day; usually we chat via Internet since we work for the same company.

"Yeah, what's up? What's wrong?'

"Did you hear from Evelyn yet?" It's always like Shay to need to know the background first.

"No, what's going on?" Evelyn is a dear friend in OKC who keeps us posted on all of the happenings.

"Liliana and her mom were pulled over yesterday while driving in the city. They are being detained over night in a jail and are being deported first thing in the morning."

What shocked me most about this sentence was the mere fact that I had seen Liliana and her sweet mom, Hermana Lopez, only two weeks previous during our visit. Liliana caught me up on how things were going at the University of Oklahoma. She was accepted there on full scholarship; a natural occurrence for the valedictorian of her high school. She had brought her friends to the church party and I laughed as I watched them all participate in the dance contests. I had some long talks with Liliana that evening about what her plans were for the future and what she was enjoying and/or struggling with in the present. With Shay's call none of this mattered any more.

"What can we do? How much will it cost for bail? Can we bail them out? Who do we need to talk to? Tell me what to do?!!!!" I shot questions at Shay as if she would know the answers, but neither of us did. I felt as if I had been kicked hard in the stomach: my air was gone, I was dizzy. I pulled over while driving; I was overcome with anger and panic. This couldn't be happening.

Later that afternoon I called OU: couldn't someone override this decision? Liliana doesn't even speak with an accent, she's lived here almost her whole life! How could this be happening? Nothing. Liliana and Hermana Lopez were put on a bus the next morning and driven across the border. They were dropped off in Ciudad Juarez which is thousands of miles from their place of origin in Mexico. They were given chance to collect things from their home of several years, nor visit their loved ones. Dropped off with the clothes on their backs. No money, American or Mexican. No food. No address book to telephone once in Mexico. Just kicked out. Hermano Lopez and Juan (son) were left behind in OKC with no way to contact their family. Split apart and separated like criminals. What was their crime?

Driving while Hispanic.

Love/hate

I love Law and Order. Yes, you read right. I watch it at the gym and it motivates me to get off my butt and go right after work, when it is on for two straight hours. There is one elliptical immediately in front of the TV with the Law and Order channel on it. I work out there and read the subtitles, to spare my ears the earphones. About a month ago, they removed the subtitles off that television. Not all the televisions, just MY television. So, I complained. I was told someone would "put in a request". Nothing happened. I complained again the next week and nothing happened. I complained again and the girl behind the counter told me I would need to call the corporate office to request that. "Ah, yah, no. I think YOU should call the corporate office and find a way to fix this," I said. She looked over at the manager in desperation. He walked over, I explained that I needed my subtitles in order to watch Law and Order. He opened a drawer, pulled out a remote to go take care of it. I walked off to another part of the gym (it was a Saturday so there was no L and O).

Come Monday, no subtitles. So, this time I sent Lesha to complain. I wanted them to know there was an army of people dying to watch L and O with subtitles. She came back a few minutes later and said, "They won't turn them on, because some people don't like them and complain."

So I did what was suggested, I contacted the corporate office with a rather nasty complaint letter about both the lack of subtitles for the hearing impaired (or those of us who don't want to become hearing impaired by using earphones) and about the need for some customer service retraining at their gym. The next day I received an email, there would be subtitles on all the televisions (even though I gave rather specific directions: television #9 on row #2. Hey- I don't want to force my subtitles on other people's TVs.)

Today, I walked in and it was like the promised land. Subtitles on every TV and not only that- an extra hour of Law and Order. I couldn't believe my luck. Or lack of it. There are two catches to my love affair. One- I can't stop working out while it is on. Which is great- that's why I started watching it in the first place. It means an hour workout flies by. But it also means that I worked out for two straight hours today- unable to stop because I don't have a TV at home and I had to see the end! Every time the show started to get a little boring, some new twist would be thrown into the plot followed by- bam- 10 minutes of commercials. The agony!

The other other catch is: I can't stand the show half the time. Sometimes I love it for it's public health messages, like the one today about how important insurance is and how hard it is for the working poor to get. And not only the importance of physical health insurance, but mental health insurance. The plot followed someone who ends up in jail for a crime that might not have been committed if he had received the help he needed. The attorney for the defense agrees that the defendant should go to jail, but hypothesizes that perhaps if more money were spent on mental health care and quality drug treatment, we wouldn't need to spend so much on jails. And I always feel like a pro when they refer to legal cases or concepts that I covered in my health law classes. I get so excited, I sometimes slip on the elliptical.

So, why can't I stand the show half the time? I HATE their racial stereotypes. I know they try to break some stereotypes. There are good and bad black and white men and women in a variety of roles, but everyone else: forget about it. This really hit home when the detectives haul up a kid in the Bronx: Hector Ramirez.

"Hey Hec, Guess what?" I asked my friend. "I was watching Law and Order yesterday, and the kid had your two names- he was just missing the last one."

"Let me guess: he was the criminal."

"Um, yeah."

"Surprise! Where are the decent Latin male role models?" he siged.

I've been looking for two months now and I still haven't seen one. And so far, every episode I have seen with Muslims and Arabs leaves me foaming at the mouth over their portrayal. I worry about the messages the show sends when the Patriot Act is used to get a warrant on less evidence than would otherwise be required. Do viewers see this as a problem, that their rights to privacy and security are hurt by their own government, or, is it just a convenient way for the infallible court system to bring justice to the right people?

Maybe a better question for me to ponder is, why can't I just watch a television show without wondering about its impact on society?

The Drowsy Chaperone

"Are you ready to see the next big thing to come to Utah? There is a traveling Tony-award-winning Broadway production of The Drowsy Chaperone. There is sure to be singing, dancing, comedy, and acting far above the quality you are used to getting on these local stages. And as if that weren't enough, I'll even buy your ticket for you."

"Don't be crazy, Uncle Marc. You don't have to buy my ticket for me, but I would love to go."

"Alright. Well, I am taking Grandpa out to see the Saturday matinee this week, and we would love to have you join us."

Since I couldn't imagine spending the money required to get tickets near my grandfather and uncle, I ended up in the nose bleed seats, somewhere far, far above them. Knowing that I wouldn't see them at all during the show, I called Uncle Marc in advance and asked, "I'd like to at least see you both. What do Mormons do that is the equivalent of getting coffee or a drink after a show? I think it's getting dessert, right? Maybe we could meet somewhere afterwards to get dessert."

We settled on Lamb's Cafe. It's an old cafe downtown, leftover from the days when even greasy spoons had dark wood, mirrors, and tablecloths. It's been around since 1919 and my grandparents used to go on dates there when they were young.



I sat through the show with the facial expression that I wear for theatrical performances: wide eyed with a slack-mouth grin. I have to admit, the show was silly, but one thing I loved: the narrator, Man in Chair. Man in Chair has no other name. He appears to live a lonely life, cut off from the world in his shabby old apartment in what appears to be New York in the present. The one thing that brings him joy is listening to old Broadway musicals. And as he puts on a record of the musical from the 1920's (i.e. the Drowsy Chaperone), the musical seems to actually take place in his apartment. The musical is filled with all sorts of stock characters, racial stereotypes, and bizarre lyrics, which Man in Chair points out to the audience, but then pleads with us to look past that to the thrill of the show itself, to the ability that it has to take us away from the present, to a world filled with song and drama.

At one point he accidentally puts on the wrong record, and a spoof on The King and I comes on. The scenery, the costumes, everything switches from Prohibition Era America to Victorian Era China, with a white woman in a white Victorian dress and white actors dressed as Chinese people, with terrible accents. The lyrics go something like this:

VICTORIAN LADY
What is it about the Asians
That fascinates Caucasians
What is it about the Asians
That's so nice
Is it the won tons? The egg rolls? The rice?
Perhaps it's Buddha or Confucius and their excellent advice

THE EMPEROR
What is it about Caucasians
That mystifies we Asians?

And so forth, but I'll spare you. I leaned over to Vince and whispered, "Well, I guess we found our song." It made me think about all the jokes over the years that I had made about shiksa-appeal.

I loved the conceit of Man in Chair. I loved the way the set of this fabulous, over-the-top musical was a cramped New York apartment with a fold-out bed. Elements of the apartment would change, creating the different scenes, but you never forgot where you were. The play constantly reminded you of what it is that theater does, create an illusion, one that may seem very real for a moment, until the person next to you coughs, or your leg falls asleep, or the curtain falls, and you find yourself abruptly back in your own reality.

Later at Lamb's, over chocolate cake and raspberries, I asked Uncle Marc how he found out about this show; I'd never even heard of it.

"Well, it was one of about 260 musicals that I made illegal copies of from the library," he responded. "They are part of what brought me back from the edge. When I was first starting to recover and was not really able to think clearly yet, or was too depressed to get out of bed, I'd put on a musical. Nothing gets the blood pumping in the morning like a Broadway show! I'd read along with the lyrics, get to know the characters, learn the song. I found dozens of forgotten musicals that I had never heard of before. But this was one of my favorites and I kept coming back to it because I was Man in Chair. I was all alone in my apartment, clinging to musicals to get me through the day."

And with that, what was already a lovely, rare afternoon with three gentlemen, became much more. It was my uncle's way of sharing with people he loved just a little of what he had been through. I was honored to be there to share it.

Serendipity

One of the times Y. and I were living in Utah, he put up signs around the city advertising himself as a Hebrew tutor. The first call he got in response was from an Israeli who didn't need a tutor in Hebrew, but wanted to know who this other Israeli was and what in the world they were doing in Salt Lake. Her name was Yaella and she invited us to Shabbat dinner with her three children. She was a single mother who was finishing up her doctorate while raising three children in a foreign country. I was amazed by her. Since I have been back, I have been meaning to look her up. It's been about 8 years since I last saw her and we lost touch that long ago, so I wasn't sure how to track her down. I couldn't even remember her last name.

I went to the arts festival this weekend in downtown Salt Lake. I saw as artist with an Israeli name, and hung around his shop deciding whether I should try my Hebrew on him. I heard another woman behind me say to him, "Are you Israeli?"

He nodded.

"Naim mayod," she said. (Nice to meet you.)

Oh great, I thought. Everyone wants to do what I am doing.

So, I turned to go, rather than bug the guy. When I turned around I saw that the woman was Israeli too. Not only was she Israeli, she was Yaella.

"Wow," I said. "I've been meaning to look you up. I'm Linsey. I used to be with Yuval years ago. He played at your son's bar mitzvah".

The confused look on her face slowly cleared. "Oh, yes!"

"I've been meaning to look you up; I guess this means you are still in Utah."

"No, actually we live in Israel now. I am just here visiting for the summer."

"Wow. That makes it even weirded."

The Israeli artist, it turns out, was thrilled to practice his Hebrew. He started playing the connect-the-dots game that rarely fails to disappoint Israelis. Sometimes it seems like the whole country must be connected. It turned out that he lived in the same kibbutz as Yaella's parents. Not only that, he lived at the kibbutz when Yaella was born. Not only that, he actually remembers her being born since she was one of the first children born in that community.

We chatted a little more; she gave me some numbers of other friends we had had around the same time. She offered to have the friends she was with adopt me if I needed a set of parents in Utah. I explained that I did have parents here and that it was the reason I had come back to Utah. "Oh, alright then," she said. But maybe I should have taken her up on the offer. I am on the look out for a Jewish family that would like to include me for the holidays.

Highlight

The best part of today took place at the grocery store. I went to pick up eggs to make blueberry muffins out of my monster container of blueberries. Thank god for Costco. In the dairy aisle, a young woman was pushing a shopping cart full of two kids and a car seat with a screaming, wailing baby. She was calmly picking up gallons of milk and the baby just kept wailing. Two aisles over, I could still hear it and it was driving me crazy. Crazy enough that I walked up to her and said,

"You clearly have your hands full. Would you like me to hold your baby?" And here's the really crazy part, I actually said, "I could give you my wallet or something so you know I won't run off with her."

The mom shrugged, I put my purse in her cart and she deposited the wailing newborn in my arms. "How old is she?" I asked.

"Seven weeks."

"She's gorgeous."

"I know."

"I can just follow you around," I said. "I'm not in a rush."

The baby stopped screaming as I kept rocking my hips from side to side.

"She hates going out," her mom said.

The little baby stared calmly up at the lights on the ceiling and grabbed a hold of the neckline of my t-shirt.

I followed her mother down the next aisle and held her while they checked out. She was asleep, her tiny hands clasped together in front, by the time the groceries were bagged and I placed her back in her car seat.

"Hopefully she'll sleep all the way home," I smiled at her mother. "Thanks for making my day." I turned around and headed back to the dairy aisle.

Story Corps on NPR

I love Story Corps on NPR. I usually end up crying in the car on the way to work on Friday morning. This is the first one that made me laugh instead of cry. Listen to it; don't read it or you miss the effect. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=91943477

Passage to Zarahemla

When I wrote the original Mormon movie post, I wrote it because I had seen a different billboard than the one I ended up writing about, but I got so into the topic that there didn't seem much more room for it in that post. The billboards are still around though, so this morning, I looked for the official movie website for "Passage to Zarahemla". You can check it out too; be sure to watch the trailer.

I have been intrigued by this movie billboard which shows a white girl in the foreground and the silhouette of a Native American in the background. The subject of race is a contentious one in the church, and not just because black people were not allowed to hold the priesthood until the 1970s.

The Book of Mormon tells the story of a family that escaped from Jerusalem in about 600 BC, before the city fell to the Babylonians. The family travels in the desert and then by sea to the New World. Yuval read the Book of Mormon when he first met me. He wanted to understand a little better where I came from. He loves geography and maps and draws countries from memory to entertain himself on long rides. Which led him to immediately ask me, "How exactly did they do this, this little family that lived in a city all their lives?"

"I don't know. I guess they sailed in the Mediterranean and then across the Atlantic or walked across North Africa and then sailed from there." I had never really thought about it before.

"Do you have any idea how big North Africa is and what it would mean to walk across the Sahara and then sail a boat? Or sail across the Mediterranean, out the Strait of Gibraltar and then across the Atlantic?"

"Not really," I shrugged, embarrassed. I later took some time to examine the distance that I had never noticed before. This came to my advantage when my friends told me that they were planning to visit Morocco on their trip to Egypt. They felt they might as well do it when "they were in the area". I told them it wasn't exactly in the area and it was a bit like planning a trip to Seattle when "in the area of New York". They didn't believe me, we bet, we found a map, I won.

Anyway, this small family of Jerusalemites sailed to somewhere in the Americas, and as I was taught, they became the ancestors of the Native Americans. A small storm of controversy was stirred up this fall when the introduction to the Book of Mormon was changed by one word. "Past editions of that page say all of the people chronicled in the book 'were destroyed, except the Lamanites, and they are the principal ancestors of the American Indians.' The new introduction reads much the same, but says the Lamanites 'are among the ancestors of the American Indians.'" (See the Deseret News article on this story here.)

This caused quite a bit of debate around here. People asked how come they were editing the word of God. Others answered that it wasn't the word of God; it was the prologue that was added by some guy in the 1980's. Still, it was a change from what I was taught as a kid, which was that the Native Americans were purely descendants of the little family from Jerusalem.

Another thing that I was taught as a kid (incredibly) is that in spite of coming from the same family line, one side of the family became darker in skin color (Lamanites) and the other lighter (Nephites). The fights that result from this belief rage along both sides of the Mormon-Gentile divide. Some Mormons take this at face value and believe that even today people of color who are righteous could (or their children could) become whiter. Other Mormons wish that the Mormons who believe this are mad, racist, and a humiliation and wish that the people who believe this (and people like me who talk about it) would go crawl off into a dark hole and take their opinions with them. These Mormons believe that it is a misunderstanding and that the word "white" was used as a substitute for "pure" or "fair", but "fair" as in lovely, and not as in light. I used to be in the latter category. But that became harder and harder to believe. Here is a link to a copy of the Book of Mormon from 1830. It describes Zarahemla at the time period when the movie takes place and says very clearly, just as it still does: "And it came to pass that those Lamanites who had united with the Nephites were numbered among the Nephites; And their curse was taken from them, and their skin became white like unto the Nephites; And their young men and their daughters became exceedingly fair, and they were numbered among the Nephites, and were called Nephites." Ouch.

So, when I saw a white girl with a Native American in the background, I had to look up the movie. Were all the Natives played by white people, and if so, was this because they were righteous Nephites, or just because there aren't enough Native American actors in the acting pool in Utah? If you watch the trailer, it appears that their solution to the problems presented by both the contentious point of race in the Book of Mormon and the lack of Native American cast members was to pour paint on all the actors. I think it is supposed to look like war paint and I think that it is the same kind of paint for both sides of the racial line. The white girl it turns out is neither a Nephite or a Lamanite, but a modern white girl who finds a doorway to the past (a sort of Book of Mormon version of the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe). The leading man and love interest appears from both his first name (Moroni) and his last name, to be a Mormon Pacific Islander, who they decided not to cover with paint. While I can't help but be relieved that at least they chose not to have a light side and dark side fighting it out, I do feel uncomfortable about the fact that a movie could be made these days with actors in blackface and as far as I know, I'm the only one bugged about it.

To know you're alive

I called Larkin the day after my car accident. She didn't answer, so I left a message.

"Hi, Tea. I am just calling to tell you that I am so glad you are alive. I was in a car accident yesterday. And I am fine, but it made me think about how glad I am that I am alive and how glad I am that you are alive. I love you. Let's talk soon."

She called back and left message, "Hi, Tea. It's Larkin calling. I am sorry I missed your call. I am also sorry to hear that you were in a car accident- how very scary. I loved your message calling to tell me that you are happy I am alive and you're alive and that's a good thing. Charlie, Danny, and I got what I initially thought was food poisoning, but turns out to be a horrible virus and it took me down for days and then Danny got it and then Charlie got it. It was absolutely horrifying; our house has been like a war zone. It's funny what you said in your message, because Danny and I have been singing Mr. Rogers "It's such a good feeling to know you're alive" because there were a few days when I thought I wasn't going to make it. So, I am also glad I am alive and glad that you are alive. Now I am out running errands. Call me when you get this."

When I called her, I found out there was another reason that she was feeling lucky to be alive. Her 30-year-old childhood friend, Liz, from elementary school in Minnesota had given birth to a baby girl at the end of March. It was eight months after Larkin's own harrowing delivery to her first child at the same age. Liz's baby was rushed to the NICU (although she is now healthy and well). Liz was fine after the birth, until the next morning when she stood up to go see her baby and died almost immediately from a blood clot.

I checked Larkin's blog today and found that Liz's husband started a blog. He started it to keep in touch with friends and family while waiting for the birth of their first child. A lot of new parents start blogs to post baby pictures and keep in touch with friends and family scattered around the country. This blog was started for that reason as well, but has ended up being a chronicle of what it is to be a widowed, 30-year-old father with a newborn living in LA. I clicked on the link and spent the last hour crying while reading. http://www.mattlogelin.com/ I'm not the only one affected by the blog. Matt takes pictures of the gifts he receives from people who have "met" him over the blog. The outpouring from strangers is incredible, but even more so is the rawness and openness of the grief and the expression of love for his wife and for his new baby. I'm so exhausted after reading it, I think I need a nap. I don't know how he is making it from day to day or from night feeding to night feeding. Matt's blog received so many hits, he had to get his own server. I highly recommend it.

Grape Juice and Challah

I moved to Boston the week of 9/11. Since two of the planes that crashed into the World Trade Center took off from Boston, not only the city, but its economy, were in shock. My dreams of quickly and easily finding work unfulfilled, I turned to doing what was available. I became a substitute teacher at a Jewish day care.

Unbeknownst me, I had picked up an accent in Israel by trying to speak English in a way that made it easier for Israelis to understand. People at the daycare kept asking me where I was from and looking at me with skeptical faces when I said, "Utah". "But where are you really from?" They'd ask again.

One would have thought that my blond hair and blue eyes were a dead give away that I was really from Utah. But then, this was a daycare where the African-American son of a woman rabbi was named after one of the Jewish months of the year. And a Muslim Indonesian woman in a headscarf felt that her daughter would be better treated and supplied with food that was halal (in accordance with Muslin dietary laws). So, maybe nothing could be assumed. Yet, they assumed I was Jewish- and Israeli. After all- I spoke Hebrew - and they couldn't tell how poorly. I didn't realize this until the manager of the daycare asked me point blank, "Are you observant at all?" I was offended. I think of myself as pretty observant; I tend to notice details and subtle social hints. Had I missed a new hair cut or something and this woman was angry with me?

Seeing the utter confusion and look of horror on my face the woman asked, "Are you Jewish at all?"

"Oh, observant like that!" I laughed. "Yeah, no. I really am from Utah. I was raised Mormon."

Which probably didn't explain why I knew all the words to the Sabbath prayers that we would sing with the children every Friday. Fridays were the best part about working at the day care. Instead of the normal snack time, we would light the Sabbath candles and sing the Sabbath prayers. Then we would eat challah and pass around cups of grape juice. The older kids from the religious school next door would come over to sing songs with the children. There was a lot of biddy-bum in the songs. Enough to make me feel Hassidic, or like a cast member of Fiddler on the Roof.

I loved these Fridays at the day care because they reminded me of arriving at Grandpa Shmulik's house in Rehovot in time to walk him back from the synagogue. We would arrive back at the house, the Shabbat candles already burning, the smells of Hungarian food filling the apartment. He would tell us again the Talmudic story of the angels who escort people back from the synagogue on Friday night: one good angel and one evil angel. When they arrive at the house, they look to see if there is a beautiful Shabbat feast prepared, whether everything is in order, and there is harmony in the family. If so, the good angel blesses the house so that the next Shabbat will be the same. The evil angel doesn't want to, but he must say 'Amen'. If there is no Shabbat feast, there is disharmony in the family, and everything is in disarray the evil angel wishes that the next Shabbat will be the same. Against his will, the good angel must answer 'Amen'.

When we arrived back, we stood around the table and sang the song to welcome the angels and to fill the house with peace. I would look from beloved face to beloved face and see them smile, heads thrown back in song. How many families can sing on key, let alone in harmony? I knew I had found something special.

Then, someone would say Kiddush, the prayer over the bread and wine, sung to welcome in the Sabbath. Everyone would join in for the last part, "For You have chosen us and sanctified us from among all the nations, and with love and good will given us Your holy Shabbat as a heritage." I learned the words and sang in Hebrew, but the better my Hebrew became, the more the words disturbed me. I was not one of those "chosen from all nations".

Singing Kiddush with the children every Friday in Boston, I would long for Grandpa Shmulik's home, but I was still disturbed by the words of the prayer. Then one day, while singing in Hebrew: mee kol ha-amim (from among all nations) I realized that if I switched the "mee" to "eem" it changed the meaning of the song to be, "with all nations". Thrilled with my discovery, I sang faithfully each week: "For you have chosen us and sanctified us with all the nations, and with love and goodwill..." It made sense for me and it made sense for a daycare that had representatives from many nations. I decided then that if I believed in god again, it would be in a god who blessed all the nations. And if I never believed in god again, there was still something for me to value in the taste of the fresh baked, soft bread and the sweet juice. There was still something lovely in celebrating a thing as simple as the end of another week with people that I loved.

I did this to myself...

One of my best friends called me in the throes of postpartum depression. Her body had been ravaged by the hardest delivery experience I have ever heard someone surviving. She was exhausted and overwhelmed by trying to recuperate from the major surgery the experience required and still care for her brand new son.

"But do you know what the worst part is?" she asked me. "I have no one to blame but myself. I got myself into this mess!"

Chocolate Chip Baby

For the last few months, I have been craving chocolate desperately. The truth is, even before the last few months, I always wanted chocolate. I am a chocolate connoisseur. The other day, flipping through a magazine, I discovered a list of all the haute couture chocolates that one should scour the world for. I was both a little proud and a little shocked to find I had tried them all. Repeatedly. From Vouges in the Soho to Neuhaus in Brussels. So, when I say I am desperately craving chocolate, I mean an obsession gone haywire. I mean, I started to contemplate eating Hershey's at the grocery store or when filling up my car with gas. I didn't often cave in to these thoughts, but I felt like I was fighting a losing battle.

And my obsession was starting to get even weirder. I started to feel like even if I gave in and ate all the chocolate in the world, there would never be enough, so I might as well not bother. The times when I would cave in and eat something sweet, I was completely ashamed. The day I knew I had gone over the edge was the day I stopped for coffee and got a chocolate muffin and then crammed the enormous muffin in my 5 X 8 square purse and zipped it shut in order to smuggle it in to my office. As though someone there would say, or even think, "My god, what are you doing! How could you eat a chocolate muffin?" That's right, I am admitting to insanity, on the internet no less.

The next day brought an epiphany via a conversation. I realized that the same time my chocolate obsession went haywire, I had started wanting something I never wanted before: a baby. That's right. And how do I feel about wanting a baby? The truth is I am horrified. I feel like wanting a baby is a deep, dark secret. Something that is completely out of my reach right now, so my desire will never be satisfied. Not only that, I am ashamed of wanting babies. Having told a few friends about this, I found the usual response is "Eh, come again? You are ashamed of wanting a baby?"

I didn't realize this was not a common emotion to associate with wanting children. But I am ashamed. I feel that wanting a baby is somehow anti-feminist. Or degrading in some way. Like I am in danger of giving in to purely animalistic, biological drives, my enlarged frontal lobe be damned. Or that I am being horribly selfish to even think of bringing a child into this over-populated world and inflict on him or her all my own neuroses. I thought that kids were something that I could give or take. I was more focused on finding a partner and willing to have kids or not, depending on what made sense for the relationship.

I have been smuggling these dark wishes around for the last few months. And somehow, in trying to ignore these thoughts, I ended up craving chocolate, knowing that it wouldn't satisfy me, and being terribly ashamed of the craving. It's been nearly two weeks since this realization. The intense craving for chocolate has gone away and I am coming to terms with the fact that a child isn't the worst thing in the world to wish for. And that wanting something doesn't mean it has to drive my behavior or push me somewhere I don't want to be. I tell myself that I can pull an Angelina Jolie and adopt children as a single mom. Or that I can put all the excess maternal energy into volunteering with pet therapy animals, or seeing-eye dogs, or for people in a variety of situations. I haven't convinced myself yet, but I think it will.

"Tell me what it feels like," Abbie asked me. "What does a 'baby craving' feel like?" Abbie's worst fear is that she will experience her first baby craving at the age of 50 and everyone in her immediate environment will crowd around her in a circle and point at her and tell her, "See, we told you you would regret your terrible, selfish decision to never have children." I tell her she is nuts and the chances of this happening are close to nil. And if they do, she'll handle it when it happens.

"It's probably like the way you want a dog," I said. Abbie has wanted a dog for approximately forever and her agreement with her non-pet-loving husband is that she can have one when she turns 30. She's been deciding on what kind of dog to get for years already.

"You mean, when you see one on tv, you think, 'Oh! I want one of those! Why can't I have one of those! I need to love and cuddle something like that. That's how I feel whenever I see a puppy."

"Yeah, kind of like that."

"Phew. Yeah, I definitely don't feel like that about babies. Puppies, yes. Babies, no."

"Glad you're relieved," I tell her, sarcasm dripping from my voice. But the truth is, I am a bit relieved too. Relieved that I no longer feel like that about Hershey's kisses.

Slippery Slope

When my older sister was in high school, she decided that she would never shave her legs. She conceded to shaving her armpits, but the legs, no! Then one day, after months, or possibly years of this policy, she took a package of disposable razors, shut the bathroom door, and went to work. I waited outside the door for the verdict.

"How did it go?" I asked.

"It took almost the whole package, but it's done," she declared, showing off her smooth flesh.

"Yuck," was my response.

When she was in college, she was living in Seattle and surrounded by fellow young women dancers who were anti-shaving. Their dance teacher one day berated them for inflicting their hairy armpits on her day after day. In response, the group went out and tried to dye their underarm hair purple. Having never tried to dye underarm hair, they did not realize that dark hair needs to be bleached in order to take in any other color, so they all ended up with purple armpits, but no change in hair color. I don't think either they or the teacher were pleased with the results.

Fast forward 12 years. I am laying in the sun in California, my sister is also laying in the sun in California, only about 200 miles north of me. She is relaxing by the side of the pool at a conference. "Guess what I am doing?" she asks, via cell phone.

"I have no idea."

"I stared electrolysis hair removal! I can't take shaving anymore and waxing just isn't cutting it. Down with razor burn! My skin is just too sensitive for this nonsense."

"Really? I've been wondering about that. How much does it cost?"

"Um, yeah. That's the catch. I decided how much I was willing to spend, you know a couple hundred, and then you go in there and of course they have all these perfect, gorgeous women working there, and they tell you 'You can have package a, b, or c' and all the packages are about 3 times more than I am willing to spend and include all these crazy additional treatments, but by the end of their explanation of all the packages, you think, oh, wow! I could save so much money and get all of these treatments! Fantastic! Until you leave and do the math and realize you just totally blew your budget and 'saved money' spending more than you ever intended. It's a slippery slope! So if you go in, you have to totally have your mind set and ignore everything they say."

"So, how did the electrolysis go?"

"Well it hurts. My god, it totally hurts. And I have to keep going back for more. But, while I was in the treatment room, the lady showed me all of these machines that do all of these insane treatments- like remove any spider veins. And so she gave me an example of how it worked. And it worked! She got rid of some of my spider veins. And then she told me that treatment costs a few thousand dollars. But now, here I am sitting here at the pool and scouring my legs for any spider veins that I need to remove."

"You are nuts!" I laughed. "I still remember your first pedicure! It was only three years ago!"

She laughed too, "That's what I am talking about! It's a goddamn slippery slope!"

Mormon Movie

Most of the time I forget that Salt Lake is different than any other mid-size Western American city. Then I drive either north or south on I-15, the major thoroughfare of the state of Utah, and I am immediately reminded that I am inhabiting a secular, heathen island in the middle of the land of Zion. The reminder? The billboards. The ads change from the slightly blasphemous Wasatch beer campaign and the Blue Boutique posters featuring scantily clad women, to ads for wedding rings, bridal stores advertising their wide selection of modest dresses, and, my favorite, Mormon Movies.

Mormon movies have become their own genre. The one that started this trend was God's Army. It told the story of a young missionary struggling with his faith (you can guess the ending). I went and saw it in the theater with Yuval. I was still religious then, and kept my fingers crossed that the Mormons would be portrayed in a way that wasn't entirely humiliating. And they weren't. They seemed normal, interesting, and slightly mad for spending two years of their lives preaching the word of God, but not completely inaccessible.

God's Army was made by someone who had been in the movie industry for a while and wanted to focus on the Mormon audience, but still make the movie accessible to non-Mormons. I think he succeeded. He certainly succeeded in kicking off an entire genre of films produced only for Mormons.

The Mormon movie phenomenon is a natural progression in the line of Mormon stuff. There are Mormon novels, books, art work, cartoons, children's toys (including plastic prophets- one of which my parents gave me as a joke after I left the church), and all sorts of accessories like scripture bags designed to fit all the holy books of the church. When I was religious, I used to find the stores that carried these items a little disheartening. A lot of people seemed to be making a lot of money on this stuff, that didn't seem to be much a part of the religion itself.

When I moved to Boston and visited New York, I learned that Mormons are not the only religious people who produce stuff. There were two Jewish bookstores in my neighborhood. A bit like the old joke:

Q: Why does a Jew need two synagogues?
A: One to go to services in and one to never set foot in.

The bookstores were like that. One catered to the modern, "tasteful", wealthy Brookline class. There was always soft new age music sung in Hebrew playing. The menorahs seemed to be all made of polished nickle or stained glass. Feminist Jewish literature lined the shelves. The prayer books were all tastefully leather bound. But the one on the other side of the street was my favorite. It appealed to the wealthy Brookline class, the tiny community of Ultra-Orthodox Jews, the Russian and Eastern European elderly community, and the Lubavitchers who came in from Brighton. The menorahs there were much more diverse and ran from the gloriously tacky family of Ultra Orthodox people eating at a table in a line, looking uncomfortably, and unintentionally, like Leonardo's depiction of the Last Supper,to the fantastically expensive brass menorahs that looked as though they might have been saved from the ruins of an ancient synagogue. I was relieved to find that Mormons were not the only people to grow up playing with Biblical sticker sets, read "inspirational" books, and fill their houses with pictures (that should not even loosely be referred to as art) of their holy people and places.

Recently the movie, Emma Smith: My Story, came out in theaters. The advertising campaign was big enough that it made it into Salt Lake proper. The ads started about the same time as the Longing for Zion polygamist ranch in Texas was raided. Emma Smith was the (first) wife of Joseph Smith, the prophet and founder of the Mormon church. When I was a child, I was taught she was THE wife, as in the one and only wife, of Joseph. When I read history books not sanctioned by the church, I learned she was only one of many wives and that she didn't know that she was only one of many for over a decade.

In the Doctrine and Covenants, one of the books of scripture that was dictated by God to the prophets there is commentary at the start of the chapter where God commands the Mormon people to practice plural marriage: Although the revelation was recorded in 1843, it is evident from the historical records that the doctrines and principles involved in this revelation had been known by the Prophet since 1831. So, after 12 years of Joseph "marrying" other women, or at least talking about marrying other women, God finally comes out and tells everyone (through Joseph) the following:

51 Verily, I say unto you: A commandment I give unto mine handmaid, Emma Smith, your wife, whom I have given unto you, that she stay herself and partake not of that which I commanded you to offer unto her; for I did it, saith the Lord, to prove you all, as I did Abraham, and that I might require an offering at your hand, by covenant and sacrifice.
52 And let mine handmaid, Emma Smith, receive all those that have been given unto my servant Joseph, and who are virtuous and pure before me; and those who are not pure, and have said they were pure, shall be destroyed, saith the Lord God.
53 For I am the Lord thy God, and ye shall obey my voice; and I give unto my servant Joseph that he shall be made ruler over many things; for he hath been faithful over a few things, and from henceforth I will strengthen him.
54 And I command mine handmaid, Emma Smith, to abide and cleave unto my servant Joseph, and to none else. But if she will not abide this commandment she shall be destroyed, saith the Lord; for I am the Lord thy God, and will destroy her if she abide not in my law...
56 And again, verily I say, let mine handmaid forgive my servant Joseph his trespasses; and then shall she be forgiven her trespasses, wherein she has trespassed against me; and I, the Lord thy God, will bless her, and multiply her, and make her heart to rejoice.

For those of you not used to reading this sort of language, let me translate. Joseph has been having sex with multiple women for years, and tells Emma he is going to go public with this and start marrying these women and tell other men that God wants them to do the same. Emma, reacting like a normal woman, is angry and horrified. She also doesn't have a lot of options. She is a woman in the 1840s, with no outside job, whose whole fortune is tied up with this man. If she leaves him, her whole community will think she has been damned and acted against their beloved prophet. Who would take her in? She would lose everything if she doesn't go along with it. And then her husband tells her that God is speaking and God says:

You better take in these other women as fellow wives. And don't go thinking that because your husband is sleeping around you can too; you will be destroyed/damned if you do, and you will also be damned if you don't go along with this whole plan. And the only way you will be forgiven your own sins is to forgive your husband. And then we'll all be happy.

I wonder how this part of Emma Smith's story was handled in the movie. She is a fascinating person and this moment is full of human drama. She was at once the most powerful woman in her community, and yet powerless to stand up for herself and to keep the minimal rights that a woman had at that time.

It's amazing to me that 150 years later, over 100 years after the Mormon church banned polygamy, even those of you who don't have Emma Smith: My Story coming soon to a theater near you, can watch this drama play out on the nightly news broadcasts from the Texas polygamist Ranch.

Flop House

Vin lives up the street from me. And I mean UP. His house is in between Big and Little Cottonwood canyons, which are world renowned for ski resorts that boast some of the best powder on earth. This location is conducive to fantastic views, great hiking, cool evening breezes, and bird watching. It is not conducive to baking.

Baking was one of the things I used to do with my dad, who taught me all the little secrets about how to melt chocolate without burning it, even if you don't have a double boiler. He turned me into a walking cooking/baking dictionary. My friends know that I am the one to call if they want to know what it means to "cut in the flour". Or to find out the difference between chop, dice, and mince. He did not teach me how to bake at 6,000+ feet above sea level.

Baking has always been an activity that centers me. One evening during the war in Israel, I stopped by the market to pick up vegetables for dinner. On the way home, I sat in the bus in a sea of plastic bags overflowing with dark purple eggplants, the last persimmons of the season, rich red bell peppers, and the first figs of the season. My cell phone rang and when I answered it, my friend Mimi in Nazareth spoke.

A bomb had just hit her street; she had stayed late at work or she might have been out on the street walking home when it fell. She lived in an Arab part of town, which made it less of a target, which meant that their were two children playing in the street, which meant that the children were dead. We didn't know this yet. All she knew was noise and fear and impossible loneliness and needed to hear some one's voice. All I knew to do was to tell her to move toward the supporting walls and to stand away from the windows and to sit down, since she was probably in shock. Was she cold? Was she hurt? When was she running away from the north and joining us in Tel Aviv, like the million or so others who had already joined us in the city?

My bus stopped. I gathered my heavy load of groceries and went home. And then I decided that this situation called for chocolate chip cookies. And couscous. I made a three course dinner for the two American friends who coincidentally had timed their visit to coincide with the start of the war. "My cooking is usually better than this," I told my friends, "I was a little distracted this evening."

"Why?" one asked.

"Um, well, war is a little hard on your concentration," I responded. He had spent the day at the beach. I had spent the day practicing moving down from the 17 floor into the bomb shelter. But even that day the cookies were perfect. Which is why it was incredibly frustrating when the chocolate chip cookies I made to thank Vin's neighbor for plowing us out one incredibly snowy day were a total flop.

Vin had urged us to get Pillsbury dough. "They are just as good," he said.

"Whatever! You have just forgotten what a home made cookie is like!" And the hard, flat disks that I pulled out of the oven an hour later didn't serve as a reminder. He was too embarrassed to take them to the neighbor. I couldn't figure out what went wrong, until someone clued me in on the altitude.

That was the last time I made cookies until this week. I made pumpkin cookies (a little out of season, I know). As I slid the first batch into the oven Vin asked, "Did you remember to account for the altitude this time?"

I gasped, paused, and then wailed. But apparently you can't ruin a pumpkin cookie. They came out their usual cakey selves. Which is what gave me confidence to try my hand at a cake this morning. I decided to look up high-altitude baking on the internet. It can't be that complicated, I figured. Well, apparently it is. In order to adjust the cake I learned I was supposed to:

Subtract 1/8-1/4 teaspoon of baking powder and baking soda for every teaspoon
Use 3 tablespoons of extra liquid for every cup of flour
Subtract 3 tablespoons of sugar for every cup
And depending on the website, either do or do not use extra large eggs,
And do or do not turn the heat up by 20 degrees and cook for a shorter time span.

It was more complicated than I thought it would be, but I'd already bought the ingredients and I had already agreed to bring dessert to a dinner tonight. So, I went for it. And out the cakes came, smelling like heaven, perfectly moist, and less than one inch high. I made the frosting according to the recipe and I have two cups of it left over in the fridge; there was just not enough surface area with a cake that height.

I am a little embarrassed to bring my two-layer, one-inch high, lopsided cake over for dessert. I think some of the guests might die of sugar poisoning from the density of the cake. Perhaps I'll pretend it's supposed to be that height. We can call it Tarta d'alta, after one of the nearby ski resorts. I'll pretend it's a high class European specialty. Which it might have passed for until I decorated it with pastel, star shaped sprinkles. So much for class.

It's amazing how much my life has changed in under two years. My biggest concern on this May Saturday is how to learn to bake at high altitude, and not whether I or my friends are in danger. It's a strange life. And I am a damn lucky girl. I think I'll have a piece of chocolate cake to celebrate.

What we see in the mirror...

I was speaking to a friend of mine who is gorgeous. I have always envied her long legs, her skinny body, her graceful movements. Even more, I have always admired her carefree carriage of herself, the way her insight and humor draw people to her, and her radiant smile.

I confessed to her that I am having a bad body day, month really, but let's focus on today. I woke up pouting. I confessed to her that I frequently tell myself that I am of viking stock and that I should have been a heavy weight boxer or a line backer. "Sometimes I look in the mirror," I confessed, "and it's as if I can actually see those football player shoulder pads under my shirt." Those times, and when I need to pee while camping or hiking, are the only times I wish I had been born a boy.

"What are you talking about!?" she exclaimed. "You are a viking, a football player, what in the world do you mean?"

Then she confessed, "My bad body image is those teenage girls that have braces, and frizzy hair, and are still chubby, but they don't know it's a bad idea to wear pants that are WAY too tight and then their bellies and their muffin tops hang over it. Sometimes I go out to the store or somewhere, for whatever reason, and I feel like a hot mama. I sashe around the aisles, and I just feel good. Then I go home and look in the mirror and I find that my mascara has run, my hair is frizzy, and I have a muffin top over the top of my pants and I am mortified that I am that teenage girl."

I laughed and so did she and then she continued, "The truth is, I am growing horns. Picture me, and then picture if I had horns where they would be. That is what is happening to me! When I got pregnant, all my hair fell out. Apparently this is totally normal and thank god my hairdresser talked me away from the ledge and now my hair is growing back and it is coming in as two frizzy horns! Now I only like my hair when it is wet and it looks long and straight, or when it is really curly, but most the time, I just have horns!"

"We are crazy," I said. "It is so wonderful for me to hear this, because I know you are completely crazy. I know no one in the world would ever see your horns, or the muffin top, and even if either of those things is noticeable, they wouldn't detract from the overall beauty and grace of you. It makes me feel better. Like my friends aren't just lying to make me feel better all those times when they tell me I am crazy and I think, 'Well, I may look like a member of the NFL, but at least I have good friends who are willing to lie to me'."

She confessed, sometimes I complain to my husband and I tell him, "My body is so different now," and I can see him surveying the situation and identifying the land mines in every direction until he says, "It is different now, but..." and then I wail, "See, it is different!" and he knows there is no way to avoid any of the landmines and so he says, "Honey, you are beautiful," and then an uncomfortable silence settles in for a while.

"I did the same thing today too," I confess. "I recognize that this is the most idiotic thing in the world and yet, I woke up pouting today and told Vin I felt fat." "Do you want me to stop buying junk food? Or to stop pushing food on you?" he asked. "Of course, he is just looking for what he can do to help...

"But you hear him validating all your worst fears."

"Exactly! And then I just got worse. I told him that his dream women are too skinny. That there are other men out there who dream about Beyonce or Marilyn Monroe. Everyone says Marilyn was a 12, but I am what would have been a size 12 back then, I sniffled."

Vin, again trying to help, asked, "Who is Beyonce? I have never seen Beyonce. Has she been in any movies?"

My friend was hysterical, "Beyonce, shmeyonce! What planet are you from? How in the world did you start thinking you look like Beyonce?"

I have no idea how I started thinking this. I think it was in her Deja vu video where there are several shots of powerful, muscular legs and I thought, wow. I'll never be the sex goddess I want to be, but maybe my muscular legs could be sexy too.

"What planet are we from," I repeated, "and how can we torment men like this, not to mention ourselves!" I know there are a lot of reasons that we do it- the media, our self esteem, our unrealistic expectations of ourselves, and on and on, and I know that I will continue to slip in and out of these unhealthy thoughts. I also know that sharing them with someone, put them- at least momentarily - into perspective where it is possible to see how ridiculous they are.

Uncle Norman

Vin has a brother named Norman. I asked Norman how old he was and he was quiet for a moment, thinking. "I am going to be 12 in 4 and 1/2 months," he responded seriously. As far as I can tell, Norman does everything seriously. He is the only child of Vin's dad's second marriage, and being 20 years younger than his next closest sibling, he is more like an only child. He is an incredibly thin, straight limbed little boy with big glasses that slide down his nose. He stares over the top of them with big, observing eyes. His mother dresses him for a Utah winter year round, even though they live in Southern California. He came with his father to his sister's wedding rehearsal dinner. She and another brother whisked him inside immediately. They made him take off the long sleeve shirt that he had on under his t-shirt and untuck said t-shirt from his pants. Then they soaked his head in water and styled his hair for him. Then they sent him outside.

There weren't too many kids around, and I felt as out of place as he looked, so I befriended him. I also volunteered to watch his nephew, a three-year old, adorable energizer bunny. We went to explore the enormous backyard where the wedding was held. Through it ran the old trolley tracks of the Pasadena trolley. We followed them through an old train yard until it dead ended in the street. The energizer bunny stomped in a solid line through grass that was waist high for him. When we hit the end of the road, he didn't even pause, just turned around and stomped back. We made it back to the yard and Norman spent a while rolling a ball down a hill to his nephew and then running to get it. Then he let his nephew push the ball down the hill and then Norman would again run to get it. After a while he came panting over to where I stood watching, "Being an uncle is hard work," he said, "but I do my best."

Lilacs

I went over to see my grandmother on Mother's Day. When I arrived, my stepmother, father, and grandmother were in the yard. My stepmom had an enormous bouquet of lilacs in her hand and the threesome was moving slowly from lilac bush to lilac bush as the bouquet slowly grew.

"Oooh! I want some too," I said as I arrived. "I love lilacs."

"I know. Don't the smell lovely?" my stepmom asked. My grandmother pointed out the different varieties in her yard and I made a mental note to get some of each.

"Do you have an old jar or something I can put these in?" my stepmom asked my grandma.

"Nope," said grandma.

"Are you sure? Just an old can or mason jar or something I can use to get these home?"

"Nope. How about a bag?"

"Or a wet paper towel wrapped in tinfoil," I suggested.

Grandma went inside and brought out a plastic bag. We sat in the sun, one of the first truly warm days of spring, and caught up on the family news.

After a bit, my stepmom and dad left. I sat with my grandma for a few more minutes and then went to cut my lilac bouquet. She went inside to find the 1958 brochure of Disneyland that she found that week cleaning out the basement. When I got inside, she handed me an empty peanut butter jar. "Here," she said. "You can use this. I only had one and I thought you would need it more." I arranged my bouquet in the peanut butter jar, enjoyed looking at the map of Disneyland from 1958 and then headed off in my car, my bouquet carefully positioned in the backseat.

I arrived smiling with my beautiful lilac bouquet at the door of Vin's house. He met me there and asked suspiciously, "What are those?"

"They are lilacs! Aren't they gorgeous?"

"What about my allergies?" he asked.

Oops. I had forgotten about the allergies. My face fell.

"Well, maybe they won't smell too strong," he said, and buried his stuffed nose in them.

Unfortunately, the smell is the thing about lilacs that I love. The way the scent is strong enough to be carried on a breeze from yard to yard, strong enough to fill an entire garden with it's scent, strong enough to drive someone with allergies absolutely insane. I left them on the porch and went in. But what to do with them?

I decided to take them to work, where other people would be able to enjoy them. I settled them into my car and drove home. I left them settled in the back seat overnight. As I was falling asleep I realized, I couldn't take them to work either. A's allergies are so strong that scented lotions worn by other women in the office give her a headache and make her sneeze. The lilacs would drive her crazy too.

In the morning, I looked at the sad bouquet that nobody wanted. Who else could I give them to? Abbie! She was just down the street and practically on my way to work. I drove over to her house, parked the car and left the lilac bouquet on her porch. It looked lovely there as I was driving away. A nice accent to the purple tulips and lavender ground cover in her front garden. I just hoped she wasn't allergic.