The Boy has a new crush. Since he was spending every spare moment of his time texting her, it was obvious a new romantic attachment was forming. After I watched them hug at the end of play practice, it became imperative to grill the kid.
"So, do you like I----?" I asked him
"Maybe," He blushed.
"You seem to text her a lot."
"Maybe."
"Is she the girl you hugged the other day?"
"Maybe."
"Are you guys 'going out' ?"
"No."
"Are you going to the Valentine's Dance with her?"
"Uhh...Yes."
"Are you going to bring her a flower?"
"WHAT!?!?! NO WAY! That'd be embarrassing!"
"Girls love flowers. We LOVE flowers."
"No. I'm not bringing her a flower. I'd feel so stupid, standing there, holding a flower, saying 'Here I----, this is for you."
"I'm telling you, bonus points if you bring her something..."
I was beginning to have fun at his expense. The poor kid was so uncomfortable with this line of conversation, I had to prod him more and more. Ruthie, picking up on an opportunity harass her brother suggested, "Maybe one of those chocolate lolly pops."
"Remember when Cole gave Ruthie that hemp bracelet with the peace sign on it? It wasn't a big deal, but Ruthie really loved it," I added. "So maybe not even a flower, maybe there's something else she likes better."
Ruth blushed and nodded.
"No. Way." He said emphatically, turning more red by the moment.
I could tell he felt like this conversation was getting away from him. So I pushed at him some more. A mom's got to find her amusement somewhere. "It doesn't have to be a rose or anything. A carnation. Carnations aren't threatening." I said.
"No. I'm not doing it." He said.
"Ooh, I like carnations," Ruthie said.
"How about you get six flowers. One for each of your little girlfriends. Then you'd be REALLY popular. Oh my goodness, you'd have a harem for LIFE!"
Joshua just glared at me. "Six?!"
A few minutes later, Jeremy wandered downstairs into the conversation. He listened while Joshua tried to win a few points on his side of the debate. "I just texted I----, and she said she wasn't a flower kind of gal. So. There." Joshua said.
"No girl," Jeremy said, "Is going to tell you what they want. You're supposed to guess. Or they'll always say the opposite, son. Because it doesn't mean anything when they tell you. Not only that, but you just ruined the 'romance' factor by telling her what you guys were talking about. It's the surprise and the gift giving elements that makes it 'romantic.' That is what girls like."
Joshua made a face. "I'm still not bringing her a flower."
"I'm wouldn't call myself much of a 'flower' girl either, Josh, but when Daddy brings them home and I'm not expecting it, I go all gooey. All girls, deep inside, like flowers when it's a surprise. Especially when its a surprise. Don't you like flowers, Ruth?"
Ruthie nodded.
"How about you, Hannah? Do you like flowers?"
"I'm more of a gorilla kind of gal, myself," Hannah said nodding.
"Well, then. Your future boyfriend is going to have an interesting time of it, finding you a gorilla."
"It better be stuffed," Jeremy added, dead pan, "I'm not housing any large furry apes in the back yard."
Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A Double Wide Sleeping Bag
It's entirely possible I've told this story before. It's a classic in our home, and we have friends who request it from time to time. It's up there with "The Canoe Story" which, in truth, "The Canoe Story" needs to be told on video, by Jeremy, to truly appreciate it in its entirety. I searched my blog for this story, and having not found it, I must make the assumption, I've posted it before in threads, but never actually wrote it down for posterity. After awhile, it becomes difficult to remember who heard this story, and who heard that one, when it comes to the classics.
I know there are some who long for their early days of marriage when love was an explosion. When everything felt fresh and exciting and new. Not me. Jeremy and I are complete opposites in so many ways, it took a long time before we began to mesh. His polar opposite personality is what attracted me to him in the first place. I craved that calm, solid, disposition he has always had, because I'm a bit, er, emotional. And then we had some fairly large cultural differences to overcome as well. Blending a little bit of his family with a little bit of mine, and then adding our own twist to the mix was a challenge, and it's taken years for us to become our own unique family outside of the ones we both grew up in. He wanted what he knew. And so did I.
Looking back, it should not have been a surprise to me that we would disagree over something as simple as a bed, with a mattress, sheets, pillows, and a comforter. After all, I believed, incorrectly, that most normal people in the whole of the United States slept in beds. An ignorant assumption to be sure, but I was young, fairly sheltered and thereby naive to much beyond what I knew in my sleepy little world.
I won't go into our wedding story, but just know it was a rather unusual arrangement, thanks to Uncle Sam and the US Army, causing us to be separated for the first month and a half of marriage. It would have been longer, but we were granted a reprieve, thanks to the Russian Government who didn't wish any U.S. Government passports to cross their borders. As a result, we were left without a place to live. We had made arrangements to be housed upon his return from Russia, and so our future place was still occupied. We lived in "Guest Housing" for longer than I care to admit (yet another story) and so I had not really had the opportunity to see Jeremy in his natural habitat. He had always been at home in his parent's guest room, in the barracks where ever he was stationed, in a hotel, or guest housing.
We finally moved into our little mobile home that we were renting. I stood inside the empty space and declared we needed furniture, but first, and foremost we needed a bed.
"A bed? Why do we need a bed?" Jeremy asked.
I just looked at him for a moment before I said, "To sleep on?"
"I thought we'd get a piece of foam. I always slept on a piece of foam growing up. It's great!"
"I'm not sleeping on a piece of foam. What's wrong with you?"
"You just have to try it. I know you'll like it."
"I know I won't."
Being that he was newly wed, and male, and he wanted to ensure good things would continue coming his way, he caved into the whole bed v. piece of foam argument and we went mattress/box spring shopping. It was delivered and set up the same day. Standing over the bed I then declared we needed to go buy some sheets and a blanket.
"Why?" Jeremy asked.
"Why???" I said. "Because i"m not just sleeping on an uncovered mattress."
"I just thought we'd get a sleeping bag. I always slept in a sleeping bag. It's great."
"A sleeping bag?"
"YEAH! I know...we could get a double wide sleeping bag!"
I just looked at him, incredulously. "A double wide sleeping bag," I said flatly. "Really. You want me to sleep in a double wide sleeping bag? That's kind of gross. You can't wash a sleeping bag that often."
"But they are sooooooo comfortable," he argued. As if this was really going to sell me on the virtues of a DWSB.
"No they aren't, " I pointed out. "They're hot. And stuffy. And the liner gets picky, and gives me the chills. No way."
And because he was young, and male, and newly wed, and wanted to ensure good things would keep coming his way, we went shopping for sheets and a blanket that very same day.
Jeremy still hasn't given up hopes for the Double Wide Sleeping Bag. When I'm cold and complain the response is, "You know if we had a DWSB..." So, I avoid the "Camping" section of the department store as if it were the quarantined quarters of a hospital, knowing all it would take is one sight of a DWSB, and I'd be owning it, though I very much doubt I'd get talked into sleeping in it. Because he's while he's not newly married anymore, nor as young, he's still very male and always wanting to ensure good things keep coming his way.
I know there are some who long for their early days of marriage when love was an explosion. When everything felt fresh and exciting and new. Not me. Jeremy and I are complete opposites in so many ways, it took a long time before we began to mesh. His polar opposite personality is what attracted me to him in the first place. I craved that calm, solid, disposition he has always had, because I'm a bit, er, emotional. And then we had some fairly large cultural differences to overcome as well. Blending a little bit of his family with a little bit of mine, and then adding our own twist to the mix was a challenge, and it's taken years for us to become our own unique family outside of the ones we both grew up in. He wanted what he knew. And so did I.
Looking back, it should not have been a surprise to me that we would disagree over something as simple as a bed, with a mattress, sheets, pillows, and a comforter. After all, I believed, incorrectly, that most normal people in the whole of the United States slept in beds. An ignorant assumption to be sure, but I was young, fairly sheltered and thereby naive to much beyond what I knew in my sleepy little world.
I won't go into our wedding story, but just know it was a rather unusual arrangement, thanks to Uncle Sam and the US Army, causing us to be separated for the first month and a half of marriage. It would have been longer, but we were granted a reprieve, thanks to the Russian Government who didn't wish any U.S. Government passports to cross their borders. As a result, we were left without a place to live. We had made arrangements to be housed upon his return from Russia, and so our future place was still occupied. We lived in "Guest Housing" for longer than I care to admit (yet another story) and so I had not really had the opportunity to see Jeremy in his natural habitat. He had always been at home in his parent's guest room, in the barracks where ever he was stationed, in a hotel, or guest housing.
We finally moved into our little mobile home that we were renting. I stood inside the empty space and declared we needed furniture, but first, and foremost we needed a bed.
"A bed? Why do we need a bed?" Jeremy asked.
I just looked at him for a moment before I said, "To sleep on?"
"I thought we'd get a piece of foam. I always slept on a piece of foam growing up. It's great!"
"I'm not sleeping on a piece of foam. What's wrong with you?"
"You just have to try it. I know you'll like it."
"I know I won't."
Being that he was newly wed, and male, and he wanted to ensure good things would continue coming his way, he caved into the whole bed v. piece of foam argument and we went mattress/box spring shopping. It was delivered and set up the same day. Standing over the bed I then declared we needed to go buy some sheets and a blanket.
"Why?" Jeremy asked.
"Why???" I said. "Because i"m not just sleeping on an uncovered mattress."
"I just thought we'd get a sleeping bag. I always slept in a sleeping bag. It's great."
"A sleeping bag?"
"YEAH! I know...we could get a double wide sleeping bag!"
I just looked at him, incredulously. "A double wide sleeping bag," I said flatly. "Really. You want me to sleep in a double wide sleeping bag? That's kind of gross. You can't wash a sleeping bag that often."
"But they are sooooooo comfortable," he argued. As if this was really going to sell me on the virtues of a DWSB.
"No they aren't, " I pointed out. "They're hot. And stuffy. And the liner gets picky, and gives me the chills. No way."
And because he was young, and male, and newly wed, and wanted to ensure good things would keep coming his way, we went shopping for sheets and a blanket that very same day.
Jeremy still hasn't given up hopes for the Double Wide Sleeping Bag. When I'm cold and complain the response is, "You know if we had a DWSB..." So, I avoid the "Camping" section of the department store as if it were the quarantined quarters of a hospital, knowing all it would take is one sight of a DWSB, and I'd be owning it, though I very much doubt I'd get talked into sleeping in it. Because he's while he's not newly married anymore, nor as young, he's still very male and always wanting to ensure good things keep coming his way.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The chick's first flight from the nest
When one raises a child who nearly sets the hedges on fire (age four), cuts the curtains, couch, and phone cord (age five), melts wax on the furnace (age 7 or 8), climbs out onto the roof and hangs by the satellite dish (age 10), one is hesitant to allow one's offspring to leave ones sight for very long. In fact, when one's child is the only child required to have a parent come along to most outtings, it does little to encourage the parent's confidence in said child's ability to cope outside of the family home.
And so, with mild trepidation, I threw my chick out of the nest for the weekend. Yes, he's a little old to have his first truly away (no mom and dad, no grandparents, aunts, or uncles) trip, but there have been reasons for that. I have always known the leaving us would be alright. Never having been a clingy child, he has always wanted to leave us behind. I was more, and always am more, concerned that he can manage himself without a keeper watching out for him. And I worry that he'll make too much work for whoever is chaperoning. After all, I needed to know he'd be wise enough to not climb a 30 foot tree and get stuck. I didn't want the camp director to have to call in the fire company for a emergency rescue.
So we've waited until we knew he had the skills to cope and a self-reserve of resourcefulness before sending him out on his first away-trip without one of us playing 'chaperon.' Despite this, it was suggested to us, perhaps, just maybe, Jeremy might want to consider going along for this trip. I put my foot down. One, Jeremy would have had to give up a Friday-night gig with his band, Seventh Corvus, Two, I knew the kid needed to go on this trip without us. It's the first step in many towards his independence.
Located up North in Pennsylvania, several groups of teenagers from all over were congregating in this one spot for the weekend, filling the campus with about 200+ rowdy kids aging from 13-18. The girls from our youth group rode in one vehicle, the boys in another. Apparently, after two and half hours of riding, a van of teenage boys will become rather resourceful. Among their more mild entertainments, they started making up and talking in foreign accents, or their impressions of them. The older guys decided Joshua had the best Scottish accent, and that he needed to pretend he was an exchange student from Scotland. They'd all have his back and make the story more believable. One them, even went so far as to "coach" him on some Scottish history. "Now if someone asks you about William Wallace..."
They let the girls from our group in on the joke, so they could lend credence to the story. Well into Friday night, and part of Saturday our teens had the ruse going pretty strong. Because some of our teens have been to this camp several times over the years, theirs were familiar faces. But this was Joshua's first time, and being that he was an 'unknown' element, their joke was made even better. The Boy was able to keep the accent going, never slipping out of character, and according to the seventeen and the eighteen year old who came up with the idea to pass Josh the Scot off to all the other campers, the girls flocked to my son's side. "It was the accent," Josh the Scot said, when telling the story to me later. "They thought I really was from another country, and so I was quite popular." The other boys told me Josh could and probably would have made most of the camp believe he truly was an exchange student if he hadn't forgotten his impromptu history lessons..."William Wallace? Never heard of him..."
Later last night, while he was leaning on his bedroom door, Joshua said to Jeremy and I, "I have a confession to make. I didn't think about you guys ONE bit the whole weekend. It was that great." He stretched, and sighed, then shut his door. Jeremy turned to me and smiled and said, "He did reaaally well this weekend. Really well."
Whew.
And so, with mild trepidation, I threw my chick out of the nest for the weekend. Yes, he's a little old to have his first truly away (no mom and dad, no grandparents, aunts, or uncles) trip, but there have been reasons for that. I have always known the leaving us would be alright. Never having been a clingy child, he has always wanted to leave us behind. I was more, and always am more, concerned that he can manage himself without a keeper watching out for him. And I worry that he'll make too much work for whoever is chaperoning. After all, I needed to know he'd be wise enough to not climb a 30 foot tree and get stuck. I didn't want the camp director to have to call in the fire company for a emergency rescue.
So we've waited until we knew he had the skills to cope and a self-reserve of resourcefulness before sending him out on his first away-trip without one of us playing 'chaperon.' Despite this, it was suggested to us, perhaps, just maybe, Jeremy might want to consider going along for this trip. I put my foot down. One, Jeremy would have had to give up a Friday-night gig with his band, Seventh Corvus, Two, I knew the kid needed to go on this trip without us. It's the first step in many towards his independence.
Located up North in Pennsylvania, several groups of teenagers from all over were congregating in this one spot for the weekend, filling the campus with about 200+ rowdy kids aging from 13-18. The girls from our youth group rode in one vehicle, the boys in another. Apparently, after two and half hours of riding, a van of teenage boys will become rather resourceful. Among their more mild entertainments, they started making up and talking in foreign accents, or their impressions of them. The older guys decided Joshua had the best Scottish accent, and that he needed to pretend he was an exchange student from Scotland. They'd all have his back and make the story more believable. One them, even went so far as to "coach" him on some Scottish history. "Now if someone asks you about William Wallace..."
They let the girls from our group in on the joke, so they could lend credence to the story. Well into Friday night, and part of Saturday our teens had the ruse going pretty strong. Because some of our teens have been to this camp several times over the years, theirs were familiar faces. But this was Joshua's first time, and being that he was an 'unknown' element, their joke was made even better. The Boy was able to keep the accent going, never slipping out of character, and according to the seventeen and the eighteen year old who came up with the idea to pass Josh the Scot off to all the other campers, the girls flocked to my son's side. "It was the accent," Josh the Scot said, when telling the story to me later. "They thought I really was from another country, and so I was quite popular." The other boys told me Josh could and probably would have made most of the camp believe he truly was an exchange student if he hadn't forgotten his impromptu history lessons..."William Wallace? Never heard of him..."
Later last night, while he was leaning on his bedroom door, Joshua said to Jeremy and I, "I have a confession to make. I didn't think about you guys ONE bit the whole weekend. It was that great." He stretched, and sighed, then shut his door. Jeremy turned to me and smiled and said, "He did reaaally well this weekend. Really well."
Whew.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
In search of a brain...umm, I mean yarn.
I'm sitting here with my mouth on fire, lips tingling from the spicy buffalo wings I just ingested. I figured while I was between wings, I'd quickly jot down a blog post. Allowing sufficient time for the burn to abate might be considered an added incentive, but in truth, I figured it's been awhile since I updated the blog. (Let's blame the weather and the holidays for that, shall we?) Why am I eating spicy buffalo wings at 8:25 pm on a Wednesday evening? Because I just got home from 'some things looming' where I was working in the loom room sampling yarn.I've been loo
king for soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky, 2 ply yarn to weave with. Why soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky, 2 ply yarn? Because I want a yarn has a low epi (ends per inch or the amount of lengthwise threads that fit into an inch, for the non-weavers out there). I could go into the reasons why, but for now, that's secondary to the task at hand. It's an uninteresting pursuit, I know, and yet, I sit here and write all about it, anyway. I'd even bet that there's plenty of folks out there who could recommend exactly the yarn I need. (Feel free!)I usually work with cottons, rayons, linens, silks, copper wire, and blends thereof, that are rather thin, as in fingering weight or thinner, for you knitters out there. Most of my pictoral weavings are made up with various mill ends, and of varying textures. My warp is always perle cotton, sometimes mixed with other things
, but mostly, it's just the vehicle for the imagery, so it doesn't have to be luxurious or glamorous, since it hides in the background, merely providing the structure to the cloth. Utilizing tapestry and lace techniques, I alternate transparent areas with opaque. So, apparently, I've gotten rather out of practice when it comes to threading my loom in anything but a straight 1-2-3-4 draw with fuzzy, fluffy yarn. You see, I only need four shafts threaded in the most basic of ways to accomplish my work. (That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).Want to know where to get good mill ends? I could possibly recommend a few places. Want to buy perle cotton in bulk? I have a few sources, some I don't use anymore, yet I could probably tell someone where to look. Soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky, 2 ply yarn? Apparently, I have no clue. Hence my quest.
Detail, Kaliedscopic Daydreams, (c) 2009
No stone is going unturned. Along the many paths I've searched, I've found wool yarn that's definitely nice, and uh, well, somewhat thicker, with a recommended epi of 10, so that fits, sort-of. But I'm not yet convinced it's all that soft. I'll work it up tomorrow, wash it and brush it, and see what I've got, but until then, I'm just hoping I'll end up surprised. I've found soft, 2-ply wool yarn, but it's kind of thin, and I'm looking for bulk. The other day while on my hunt, I had a lovely phone conversation with the Master Weaver at Halcyon yarn and learned a few things that 15 years of weaving never taught me, but still no real satisfactory answer. I've even checked out the yarn section of the mega-monster-craft store. Which is what I was working with tonight. Surprisingly it wasn't all that bad, but I completely forgot the rule of smelanie ritter mitchell
ampling before I sample. In other words, I should have made a small swatch, before working it up into full length test-scarf. Good thing it only took me three and a half hours to set up, weave, and cut off the project. I might be more depressed than I already am. I would have needed to add an entire bag of Hershey's chocolate nuggets to my buffalo wing dinner. (Chicken Molé anyone?)Apparently I'm brain dead, because I know better. And it pains me to admit to such a mistake, out loud, all over the world wide web. But hey, I made a very nice balanced plain weave. Not too much of the weft showing. Not too much of the warp. If I were weaving a saddle blanket, I'd be extremely proud of myself right about now instead of writing a confession to the world. I know what I did wrong. Even understanding my mistake doesn't take the sting from this perfectionist's heart. So tomorrow, I will make sure the brain is fueled up, neurons firing, before I face my loom again. And I will continue my quest for soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky 2 ply yarn, because at this point, it's no longer about the project at hand. It's all about the conquering the quest. Oh and hey, I can feel my lips again. Guess I can go finish my dinner now.
~Melanie
It's been an interesting day in the Mel house.
"Multiplication flash cards?...Where'd these come from?" I asked Jeremy.
"Oh, Hannah got them from her teacher." He replied.
"Is she having that much trouble with Multiplication? Poor baby!"
"Oh no. She just wanted them. She had to buy them for a dollar."
"A dollar? Where'd she get the money?"
"I dunno. She said don't worry about it. She 'had it covered.' "
"She actually used those words?"
"Yup. She 'has it covered.' "
"Well. Ok. Then. What is she...8 going on 38? She 'had it covered.' a dollar." I laughed and shook my head.
"I know!" He said.
-------------------------------------------------
I worked late at the studio tonight. I knew Jeremy would get home and feed the kids, so I didn't worry about them. After all, they're old enough to spend two hours home alone, or so I thought. Apparently, my cell phone ringer was silenced, so I missed two calls from my children. Seeing that I had voicemail from home, I quickly dialed it up to make sure there were no emergencies I had missed. It's rare, when they are home alone, for them to call me. No doubt, the allure of being able to do whatever they want keeps them from reporting in.
Voicemail #1 from Ruth. "Mom, Josh and Hannah are being really mean. They're trying to shred my math homework."
Two minutes later, if that, I had voicemail #2 from Joshua. "Mom, Ruth greatly exaggerates. She wouldn't know a joke if slapped her in the face 50 times."
------------------------------------------
There are moments in life where a child is downright hilarious, but so inappropriate, we as parents have to hold it in. This morning, Hannah brought out her craft kit she's been playing with. It included a page where she can dress the girl on one side, and give the people on the other side hair and make-up, and so forth. She showed Jeremy the dress-up side and said, "Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she beeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuutiful??? Don't you just LOOOOVE her outfit I gave her?"
Jeremy, indulgent Daddy that he is said, "Yes. She IS beautiful."
"And look at these poor children," Hannah said in a sad serious voice while making her eyes big and wide and sorrowful as possible. She flipped the page over to show the bald heads. "These poor children have cancer."
"Hannah," Jeremy said, obviously fighting a smile. "That's really NOT funny. That's tragic when children have cancer."
"Oh," She said. And wandered off.
Jeremy looked at me, "Where does she come UP with this stuff?!?" He imitated her voice, "These poor children have cancer." I mean, I had a hard time not laughing!"
What a day. What. a. day.
"Oh, Hannah got them from her teacher." He replied.
"Is she having that much trouble with Multiplication? Poor baby!"
"Oh no. She just wanted them. She had to buy them for a dollar."
"A dollar? Where'd she get the money?"
"I dunno. She said don't worry about it. She 'had it covered.' "
"She actually used those words?"
"Yup. She 'has it covered.' "
"Well. Ok. Then. What is she...8 going on 38? She 'had it covered.' a dollar." I laughed and shook my head.
"I know!" He said.
-------------------------------------------------
I worked late at the studio tonight. I knew Jeremy would get home and feed the kids, so I didn't worry about them. After all, they're old enough to spend two hours home alone, or so I thought. Apparently, my cell phone ringer was silenced, so I missed two calls from my children. Seeing that I had voicemail from home, I quickly dialed it up to make sure there were no emergencies I had missed. It's rare, when they are home alone, for them to call me. No doubt, the allure of being able to do whatever they want keeps them from reporting in.
Voicemail #1 from Ruth. "Mom, Josh and Hannah are being really mean. They're trying to shred my math homework."
Two minutes later, if that, I had voicemail #2 from Joshua. "Mom, Ruth greatly exaggerates. She wouldn't know a joke if slapped her in the face 50 times."
------------------------------------------
There are moments in life where a child is downright hilarious, but so inappropriate, we as parents have to hold it in. This morning, Hannah brought out her craft kit she's been playing with. It included a page where she can dress the girl on one side, and give the people on the other side hair and make-up, and so forth. She showed Jeremy the dress-up side and said, "Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she beeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuutiful??? Don't you just LOOOOVE her outfit I gave her?"
Jeremy, indulgent Daddy that he is said, "Yes. She IS beautiful."
"And look at these poor children," Hannah said in a sad serious voice while making her eyes big and wide and sorrowful as possible. She flipped the page over to show the bald heads. "These poor children have cancer."
"Hannah," Jeremy said, obviously fighting a smile. "That's really NOT funny. That's tragic when children have cancer."
"Oh," She said. And wandered off.
Jeremy looked at me, "Where does she come UP with this stuff?!?" He imitated her voice, "These poor children have cancer." I mean, I had a hard time not laughing!"
What a day. What. a. day.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Well, I suppose he is the percussion expert.
Joshua has been working on a solo piece using a midi-drum track. His instructor told Jeremy that he needed to put the music on one channel and the click track (the metronome) on another. This will allow The Boy to hear the music with the click in his headphones, but the audience would only hear the music. Last night, Jeremy sat down to the task of trying to figure out how he could separate the click from the music and pulled up a bunch of different software programs. He needed a program to convert the midi to mp3 and another to separate everything out into channels. Unfortunately, The first couple of attempts caused the click to be out of sync with the music.
Wandering into the office part-way through the process, Joshua stood next to Jeremy's chair, and added his opinion. "No Dad, it's still off. Still not right." With each attempt, Jeremy would begin to air drum to check whether or not the click track and the music were in sync. After twenty minutes of trial and error, the two of them finally figured it out. Enthused at solving the problem, Jeremy air-drummed with fervor: being silly, making faces, and pretending to do fancy moves on an invisible kit. Josh, continued to stand next to Jeremy passively watching his father for a good five minutes before he said in all seriousness, "No Dad. That's not right. Straight eighths on the cymbal."
Monday, January 03, 2011
Mr. Picky and the Fish Sauce
Jeremy is a foodie. He does the cooking and the grocery shopping, which is natural, since he also does the meal planning. He'll try anything once, and so he has a wide and varied palate. Now many folks would find a reason to envy me. A husband who cooks! You're so lucky! Sure, if you want to eat the same dish over and over and over until he perfects it? Yes. I'm supremely blessed.
We ate beans and rice for nearly three years straight during Hannah's formative years while he perfected the Puerto Ricanian dish. Our pantry was stocked with Adobo. Sofrito could be found nestled in the shelves of our fridge among the other condiments. Don't get me wrong. He makes some mean beans and rice. And taco meat, for that matter. But it is the downside to his 'hobby.'
I've also lived through the "Sushi" phase, which wasn't as long lived, thank goodness. However, it did result in his infamous "Mrs. Paul's Sushi" in which he combined fish sticks, rice, and nori wrappers. Surprisingly, it's not bad, even if the Japanese would cry at the sight.
Recently, we discovered a Viet Namese restaurant that apparently, the rest of our area has known about for years. Because Jeremy is the food-adventurous type, I knew I'd win brownie points when I suggested eating there for our weekly lunch date a few weeks ago. What I did not anticipate was the extreme interest in the special vinegary sauce from my husband. I should have, but I didn't. He tasted it, and savored it, and tried to dissect the various flavors. "There's uh, pepper flakes, and something like a sushi vinegar, and huh! Shredded carrot!"
Last night, he showed me his latest conquests from the grocery store. Included among them was a bottle of fish sauce, some mei fun, and some bean sprouts. "I'm going to try my hand at that dish we had at the Viet Namese restaurant."
"Uh, do you have a recipe?" I asked.
"Yeah, and the sauce calls for fish sauce."
"Fish sauce? I don't recall it tasting fishy at all."
"We'll give it a try."
His first attempt was pretty bad. I tasted fish for at least an hour, and all I did was dip my pinky in and touch it to the tip of my tongue. He altered the ingredients and made me try again. "Still too fishy," I said.
"Well, I like it," He said, and made a salad with the beansprouts instead of the mei fun. Whatever floated his boat. I wasn't having any.
On the other side of the spectrum, we have our son. Joshua eats spaghetti without sauce. Ice berg lettuce without dressing (or any other vegetable for that matter). He will eat a peanut butter sandwich, but not with jelly, unless, of course, it's grape, and only grape. Mashed potatoes are out of the question, but he will inhale piles of plain, unsalted, white rice. Joshua orders hamburgers with just cheese and just ketchup at the Mexican restaurant. And while he will eat sweet and sour chicken from the Chinese take-out, he gets it without the sauce. And because of this, Jeremy gets a small thrill out of antagonizing The Boy with strange foods and culinary concoctions. I don't know why Joshua doesn't just go running and screaming in the opposite direction, but he always sticks around for the torture. Maybe because he knows there's no escape, and it's just easier to get it over with. After all, I have seen Jeremy chase Joshua through the house with something nasty on the end of a dinner spoon chanting "Com'mon Josh. Just tryyyyyy it!" I usually just roll my eyes.
As if he couldn't wait to harass the kid, tonight, Jeremy pulled out his prized fish sauce and showed it to Josh.
"EWW. That's NASTY!" Joshua said.
"Just smell it," Jeremy tried to entice him towards the open bottle.
"NO way. That smells like throw-up. Seriously. That's bad."
"No, come here and just smell it."
Joshua took a few tentative steps towards his father, sniffing the air as he drew closer to the bottle. "It's still nasty."
"It's fish sauce. It's good."
"No. It smells like vomit. Seriously. If I just made a pile of throw-up and I poured this all over the floor next to it, you couldn't tell the difference. Nasty."
Frankly, I'm with Joshua on this one.
We ate beans and rice for nearly three years straight during Hannah's formative years while he perfected the Puerto Ricanian dish. Our pantry was stocked with Adobo. Sofrito could be found nestled in the shelves of our fridge among the other condiments. Don't get me wrong. He makes some mean beans and rice. And taco meat, for that matter. But it is the downside to his 'hobby.'
I've also lived through the "Sushi" phase, which wasn't as long lived, thank goodness. However, it did result in his infamous "Mrs. Paul's Sushi" in which he combined fish sticks, rice, and nori wrappers. Surprisingly, it's not bad, even if the Japanese would cry at the sight.
Recently, we discovered a Viet Namese restaurant that apparently, the rest of our area has known about for years. Because Jeremy is the food-adventurous type, I knew I'd win brownie points when I suggested eating there for our weekly lunch date a few weeks ago. What I did not anticipate was the extreme interest in the special vinegary sauce from my husband. I should have, but I didn't. He tasted it, and savored it, and tried to dissect the various flavors. "There's uh, pepper flakes, and something like a sushi vinegar, and huh! Shredded carrot!"
Last night, he showed me his latest conquests from the grocery store. Included among them was a bottle of fish sauce, some mei fun, and some bean sprouts. "I'm going to try my hand at that dish we had at the Viet Namese restaurant."
"Uh, do you have a recipe?" I asked.
"Yeah, and the sauce calls for fish sauce."
"Fish sauce? I don't recall it tasting fishy at all."
"We'll give it a try."
His first attempt was pretty bad. I tasted fish for at least an hour, and all I did was dip my pinky in and touch it to the tip of my tongue. He altered the ingredients and made me try again. "Still too fishy," I said.
"Well, I like it," He said, and made a salad with the beansprouts instead of the mei fun. Whatever floated his boat. I wasn't having any.
On the other side of the spectrum, we have our son. Joshua eats spaghetti without sauce. Ice berg lettuce without dressing (or any other vegetable for that matter). He will eat a peanut butter sandwich, but not with jelly, unless, of course, it's grape, and only grape. Mashed potatoes are out of the question, but he will inhale piles of plain, unsalted, white rice. Joshua orders hamburgers with just cheese and just ketchup at the Mexican restaurant. And while he will eat sweet and sour chicken from the Chinese take-out, he gets it without the sauce. And because of this, Jeremy gets a small thrill out of antagonizing The Boy with strange foods and culinary concoctions. I don't know why Joshua doesn't just go running and screaming in the opposite direction, but he always sticks around for the torture. Maybe because he knows there's no escape, and it's just easier to get it over with. After all, I have seen Jeremy chase Joshua through the house with something nasty on the end of a dinner spoon chanting "Com'mon Josh. Just tryyyyyy it!" I usually just roll my eyes.
As if he couldn't wait to harass the kid, tonight, Jeremy pulled out his prized fish sauce and showed it to Josh.
"EWW. That's NASTY!" Joshua said.
"Just smell it," Jeremy tried to entice him towards the open bottle.
"NO way. That smells like throw-up. Seriously. That's bad."
"No, come here and just smell it."
Joshua took a few tentative steps towards his father, sniffing the air as he drew closer to the bottle. "It's still nasty."
"It's fish sauce. It's good."
"No. It smells like vomit. Seriously. If I just made a pile of throw-up and I poured this all over the floor next to it, you couldn't tell the difference. Nasty."
Frankly, I'm with Joshua on this one.
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