juliloquy

we propose this toast

Shmooie requested French toast today, then helped me make it. This is our conversation as I put it into the skillet.

Me, reviewing [everything's a teaching moment with us, poor kids]: So, what is the mixture we dipped the bread into?
Shmoo: French!
Me, laughing: egg and [waiting] . . . milk, right?
Shmoo: Why do we call it French toast? Is it French?
Me: I don't know - I don't think so. Maybe people just wanted a fancy name for it . . . Oh and we put cinnamon in it, too . . .
Shmoo: And cimmanim comes from French, right?
HPR, from the next room: Cinnamon comes from India.
Shmoo: So we should call it India toast! Indian toast!
Me: Yes indeed. India toast!

gusti gori

I nearly shared a message at Quaker Meeting this past Sunday. It didn't make the cut because I wasn't convinced it was divinely inspired. Also, I wasn't sure whether I should say "ass" (the best translation) at Meeting or go with a more benign term. A blog seems to be the perfect medium for messages that don't quite make the cut on Sunday. And saying the word "ass." So here it is:

HPR told me a joke in Bulgarian. It's a play on words, so I'll have to do some explaining. First, the joke.

Novelist Ivan Vasov and painter Nenko Balkanski are hiking. They reach a scenic spot with views of mountains, forests, and a lake. Vasov looks around, inhales deeply, and says "Gusti gori, Balkanski!" Immediately Balkanski jumps in the lake.

Here's the explanation. Whereas Vasov said "A tangle of woods, the mountains!" the same words, spoken, can mean "Your ass is on fire, Balkanski!"

It's a silly joke, but as I thought about it, it occurred to me that it's a nice yin and yang for environmental activism, and beyond that, how we might conduct our everyday lives. Appreciate your surroundings and get your butt in gear - take action. Action without focus can be futile busywork, and appreciation of beauty without action gets nothing done.

Happy Thanksgiving!

overshare; tmi

HPR's immediate reaction to my previous post was "overshare! You know, certain mothers and sisters read your blog." I've given it some thought, and, you know, he's right. None of you need to know that I fixed the toilet at work. It was just gratuitous hero-posing on my part. Please accept my sincerest apologies. I really overstepped appropriate boundaries.

I also got an email from a guy in our religious community (hi Thomas!) who reads this blog. The subject heading of his email was "TMI." You know what a dour bunch those Quakers are. He gave me a tip for how I could edit the "overly revealing" content of my post. Here it is:

Thanks, guys!

Evidence that we're doing the right thing by giving him a sibling.

It has happened. Shmoo has an imaginary friend. Allow me to introduce you. This is "Girl."

Girl is on the back of a box of Kix. Shmooie somehow felt a connection with her and he carries the box around the house. He props it up on the edge of the rug in the living room and narrates to her what he's doing. "Girl, I'm running around!" "Girl, do you see the marbles?"

He is so taken with her that he wants me to befriend her mom. "Mommy, talk to the girl's mommy." Now, I think I do pretty well with the "let's play pretend" business. I do the voices of worm families in the tackle box and Sir Topham Hatt with equal aplomb. I'm sorry, Shmoo. She looks perfectly nice and all, but an imaginary conversation with an imaginary adult takes it one step too far for me.

Shmooie and I got back Wednesday after a weeklong stay in Minnesota, where he got a cousin fix (and grandparent and uncle fix). He didn't greet Girl upon our return and hasn't yet said a word to her. But the Kix box is waiting for him the next time he feels lonely.

They don’t call it “the place that loves you back” for nothin’

I guess Philadelphia must have overheard my proclamation of love the other day. Because that very day I got this invitation in the mail:

My reporting date is February 14. That’s right, Valentine’s Day. Awwww, how sweet. What should I wear? Oh wait—the website answers my question: “casual dresses are . . . appropriate.”

Honestly, I will be happy to serve. I’ve been called before, but have been unable to serve each time either because I had moved (Tacoma, St. Paul, Minneapolis) or was about to give birth (Philadelphia, 2004). It’s unlikely that I’ll be assigned to a criminal case since I’m Quaker and against the death penalty. I’ve also heard that if you confess to knowing about jury’s rights you’re unlikely to be chosen.

Here's a bizarre Philadelphia thing: You are not allowed writing materials into the courtroom. What a strange rule! As HPR can attest, my memory is not so good (except about gossip and food) (and anything that he does or says that is wrong), so I’ll be forced to convince my fellow jurors with “you know, that thing he said? about that one piece of evidence? . . .”

In other news, HPR makes a media appearance.

In still other news, after the overwhelming response to my pantsuits contest, I am happy to announce that Robyn from Crochet by Faye is our winner! I may have to commission one of those. Robyn, your prize will be in the mail soon.

Also thanks to the non-lurkers who delurked last week! It was cool to find out that I already know who most of my readers are.

I just can't stop. Big congratulations to Family Isoglossia and Family Strangeafeet on their recent announcements.

 

City of Brotherly - and Otherly - Love

Why was this past weekend fantastic? I'll tell you, in a tidy, bulleted list.

• After Shmooie's nap on Saturday, he and I headed over to the K house, where HPR was working. I had never been inside before; Shmoo enjoyed running in circles on the carpet on the main floor. We also enjoyed watching the horses and carriages pull tourists on Pine and Third Streets.
• HPR then had to leave to close Franklin Court, but Shmoo and I headed to the Mummer's Parade. I am amazed by it every time I've gone. See a great photo set here. I especially like this one.
• Shmooie's Vaudeville humor cropped up again. Our conversation:
  Me, examining his nose: "Is that a booger?"
  Shmoo: No, it'S NOT.
  [All laugh.] Then HPR and I had to explain to Shmoo why it was funny.
• HPR's weekends are now Sunday-Monday; they had been Friday-Saturday. So we are now able to go to Quaker Meeting as a family.
• Although our crockpot scorched the red lentil-coconut milk-cilantro-lime soup I made for Quaker Meeting, I was able to scoop out the good stuff and resuscitate it with a little veggie broth. And people loved it.
• Shmooie's down time/nap on Sunday allowed HPR and me to work on project Shmoo II. Ahem.
• Although the cleaning/organizing/decluttering needs are never-ending in our house and I have tons of thank-yous to write, I ignored them and read for a couple of hours on Sunday, with Loki cat on my lap. I don't make New Year's resolutions, but I did decide it would be nice to read more this year.
• Our lost suitcase was found. An employee of an airline completely different from the one we flew called Sunday to say they had our bag. He saw the return address stickers that were in the bag for our holiday greetings, then looked us up in the city directory. HPR went to pick it up. Although it might have been nice to have $900 in exchange for a bunch of dirty laundry and a suitcase from the '80s, I am glad to have a couple of my favorite pairs of pants back.
  
• After Shmoo woke up and we had a snuggle, I made dinner while watching HPR and Shmoo play in the living room. That is my favorite sight in the world. Shmoo is much less clingy to me these days, especially at home. I attribute the change mostly to the new toys he got for Christmas.
• I am only a fair-weather fan, but it was great to hear that the Eagles won and that it was such a dramatic game.

Changing the subject: Sheryl at Paper Napkin has dubbed January 8-12 "delurking week." (She also created the image on the left.) If you have never commented, I invite you to do so; I love it when I learn who reads this blog.

Friend Claus

If Santa were Quaker . . .*

• He would work with a clearness committee, an oversight committee, and at least 3 subcommittees.
• He would distribute only fairly-traded and educational gifts.
• He would be more slender because of the whole-wheat flour, cage-free eggs, and organic carob in the cookies.
• Fur-trimmed suit? I don’t think so.
• None of this “good or bad” list** crap: He would see That of God in every child and would “hold in the light” any so-called bad children.
• He wouldn’t be out past “Quaker Midnight”: 10 p.m.
• His wife would keep her maiden name.
• He might not be nearly so jolly, what with all the never-ending wars and injustices and never feeling that he was doing enough to Speak Truth to Power.
• His sleigh would be a hybrid –or–
• Rudolph would take turns with the others to lead the sleigh. Every reindeer has a light within.
• The elves and reindeer would earn a living wage.
• He would have to discern the voice of God before shouting “ho ho ho” or “Merry Christmas.”
• No toy soldiers, just conscientious objectors.
• He would make his rounds every day, because every day is holy.

 Anything to add?

*Written with help from HPR.
**If he did make a list, it would be on 100% post-consumer recycled paper, preferably hand-made.

In which I get all spiritual and stuff

Quaker meeting for worship Sunday before last was pretty awesome.

[For those who aren’t familiar with traditional Quaker practice]: We gather in silence for about an hour. No clergy directs the group; if someone is inspired with a message to share, he or she stands and speaks. As you can imagine, one’s experience in meeting can vary widely depending on one’s state of health, ability to concentrate, level of sleep deprivation, and other potential distractions.

This past Sunday, I was able to “tune in” fairly quickly. After a few minutes of settling into the silence, I felt a message bubbling up inside of me. When this happens, I usually wait a bit to try to discern whether the message is divinely inspired. It's a tricky distinction to make, and I’m still learning how to make it. My heart starts pounding (but is that just stage fright?) I wait and reflect a minute or two. My heartbeat regulates again, and a sort of calm and surety washes over me. I feel a direction. I stand and speak.

This time, I was just about at that point, but before I got to my feet someone else stood to speak. I listened to the message; the speaker sat down again; I considered the message. After another few minutes, my message bubbled up again. Just then, someone else got up to speak. This happened another 4-5 times, but the cool thing was—each message seemed to resonate with my own—to complete another puzzle piece of my unvocalized-but-intended message. The (sixth? and) final message of the meeting summed it all up, exactly where I had been heading with my own thoughts. So it really felt to me that we were all together on that hour-long journey, that something united us on the same path.

This sort of phenomenon isn't unique to my experience. Quakers even have a term for it—a “covered meeting.” Other meetings I’ve been to other weeks could fall into this category—and I've even been part of the “vocal ministry” during some of them. But this one seemed to have something even more. It seemed to follow along a plot line written right before us. And I felt such an active call, then settling, with each message.

Well, this post has bounced around in draft form for a few days. HPR made some suggestions (“Write it assuming people know about Quaker practice and say how it was different from other covered meetings. . . .”) It still seems unfinished . . . it’s tough expressing the feel of the meeting. But I have a backlog of other things I want to post about, so here it goes. Any other Quakers out there are welcomed to share their experiences, and anyone with questions about the meeting experience are free to ask.