Thanksgiving Day, I’m finding out, is less about giving thanks and all about maintaining family traditions.
This year, I thought, I’d chuck just one tried and true family custom for a new one, but this has ruffled quite a few feathers in our household. For the past some years, on the fourth Thursday every November, I’ve been waking up before the rooster crows to slave over a bird that never bothers to thank me. So, this year, I’ve decided to take the advice of some fine experts who insist I ditch the annual “martyrdom” and instead enlist the help of other Indians and Pilgrims to cook up the golden bird.
I didn't realize I'd be taking on the role of the fabled "Little Red Hen." I asked my mom and my younger sisters if they would be honored to take over the turkey duty. They all said they lacked the pluck to handle a wild fowl. Running out of options, I volunteered my hubby. He’s usually a good sport but he didn’t like being bagged and looked for an escape, including soliciting Obama to consider him for this year’s presidential pardon.
But faced with the prospect of a turkey-less Thanksgiving, he decided to get back in the game and offered to go round up a gobbler. As he ran out the door, he asked, “So, should I get a 40- or a 50-pounder?” I was just thankful hunting season on Long Island was off to a slow start.
Fearing the worst -- no bird to grace my dinner table on T-day -- I sat down to contemplate on alternatives. I could save a turkey and send out for pizza, cook a duck, or a chicken. I wouldn’t have to face two weeks of turkey leftovers and sandwiches. But no matter how you slice it, Thanksgiving just isn’t Thanksgiving without the turkey.
As I chastised myself for listening to the experts and was about to set out to the market to buy a bird and embrace martyrdom, my cousin called to talk turkey. And she offered to take care of the big bird for the big feast. “Golden,” I said, ever grateful for her help. Now I can sleep in on Thanksgiving Day while coz slaves away in the kitchen. And I hope my hubby will be back in time from his hunting session to carve the bird.
Clarification
A reader alerted me to updated statistics on teen texting (see previous post). CNN.com reports that the average teen sends 3,339 texts per month. Thanks reader!!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
‘Dear Mom, YTB. XOXO’
That’s the text message I would get from my teen should I get her a text messaging plan. And I’d respond: “FCOL, IHA. Stop being so kewl.”
Of course, I would have to consult an Internet slang dictionary every time I needed to communicate with my own daughter.
[Translation for above text slang
Headline: “Dear Mom, You are the best. Hugs & kisses.”
My response to her: “For crying out loud. I hate acronyms. Stop being so cool.”]
It took three years of lobbying before teen finally got her first (freebie aka ugly) cell phone just a few months before she graduated from eighth grade. When she was in fifth grade, she had handed us a list of top 10 reasons stating why she should get a cell phone. It took her dad and me three years to work out the contradictions listed therein (I can call my friends vs. I will always use it for emergency only) to process the request.
But teen’s latest request, via email and chat phishing attacks, is not making me LOL, laugh out loud. For one thing, teen has offered just two reasons: her friends never talk on the cell phone, they only text; and “it’s the cool thing” — which means she expects us to deliver the verdict in less than three years. Two, her reasons are not plausible. Parents so do not want their children to be “cool.” We want them to master their chemistry, biology and social studies so they can earn a Nobel prize and be “cool” in their later years.
Moreover, we discovered, for a child who said she and her friends hardly ever talk on the cell phone, she definitely has a way with words. Our last two cell phone bills leave us speechless. The mobile company assured me there was no billing error. Teen just has a gift of gab.
If the old-fashioned way of communicating is cost-prohibitive, perchance it might be a better idea to get teen a text plan. Apparently, she will be joining a host of kids doing “the cool thing.” The Pew Research Center’s Internet & American Life Project reported in April that 72 percent of all 12-to-17-year-olds in the country send an average of 1,500 texts a month.
Obviously, teen texting is getting way out of hand and inflicting financial and emotional pain on many families. But as a parent, I’d like to have the last word in this conversation. Since teens are great at KPC, keeping parents clueless, for any text plan to work in my house, I would need to get a PhD in teen-IM slang so I can decipher all the messages teen sends and receives.
Given my current time constraints, learning to crack the code of teen lingo will take at least another four years. By then teen should have graduated high school and be able to afford her own new "cool" cell phone and text messaging plan.
OO, Over and out.
Of course, I would have to consult an Internet slang dictionary every time I needed to communicate with my own daughter.
[Translation for above text slang
Headline: “Dear Mom, You are the best. Hugs & kisses.”
My response to her: “For crying out loud. I hate acronyms. Stop being so cool.”]
It took three years of lobbying before teen finally got her first (freebie aka ugly) cell phone just a few months before she graduated from eighth grade. When she was in fifth grade, she had handed us a list of top 10 reasons stating why she should get a cell phone. It took her dad and me three years to work out the contradictions listed therein (I can call my friends vs. I will always use it for emergency only) to process the request.
But teen’s latest request, via email and chat phishing attacks, is not making me LOL, laugh out loud. For one thing, teen has offered just two reasons: her friends never talk on the cell phone, they only text; and “it’s the cool thing” — which means she expects us to deliver the verdict in less than three years. Two, her reasons are not plausible. Parents so do not want their children to be “cool.” We want them to master their chemistry, biology and social studies so they can earn a Nobel prize and be “cool” in their later years.
Moreover, we discovered, for a child who said she and her friends hardly ever talk on the cell phone, she definitely has a way with words. Our last two cell phone bills leave us speechless. The mobile company assured me there was no billing error. Teen just has a gift of gab.
If the old-fashioned way of communicating is cost-prohibitive, perchance it might be a better idea to get teen a text plan. Apparently, she will be joining a host of kids doing “the cool thing.” The Pew Research Center’s Internet & American Life Project reported in April that 72 percent of all 12-to-17-year-olds in the country send an average of 1,500 texts a month.
Obviously, teen texting is getting way out of hand and inflicting financial and emotional pain on many families. But as a parent, I’d like to have the last word in this conversation. Since teens are great at KPC, keeping parents clueless, for any text plan to work in my house, I would need to get a PhD in teen-IM slang so I can decipher all the messages teen sends and receives.
Given my current time constraints, learning to crack the code of teen lingo will take at least another four years. By then teen should have graduated high school and be able to afford her own new "cool" cell phone and text messaging plan.
OO, Over and out.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Shh, mom’s got homework
Oh joy! Kids are back to school.
After some two months of scratching my head figuring out how to keep my kids out of my hair, you would think that now they are back in the wonderful care of the school system, paid for by my taxes, I can actually catch a break and go out for recess.
But I don’t hear the bell ringing yet. ’Cause, first, mom’s got to finish her homework.
I don’t mean shopping for school supplies, sorting through the piles of letters informing parents that their kids might be interested in this soccer club or that drama group, signing tons of paperwork that I’m sure is just a test to make sure parents can still do basic reading, writing and arithmetic. I can do all of the above, and pack lunches and snacks (times three kids) with my eyes fully closed, and pass these mundane tests with flying colors.
But my first “real” homework assignment is a challenge. It necessitates that I use my brain cells cleverly. Such as, writing a letter telling my teen’s teacher about my child’s interests, strengths and any other pertinent information that the teacher would find useful in getting to know my child.
Now I can easily string two words together and I know my kid well enough to write a tome. But aren’t homework for kids? Parents send their kids to school so they can put their brain cells to use while parents do real work, i.e., toil and sweat to pay the bills and run the household. That’s work enough.
Plus this is a tricky assignment that could spell disaster. The last time I wrote a letter about my son for his teacher, which my son had to read aloud to his classmates, my daughters gave me an F and crucified me. “How could I write [such and such] about him,” they cried out. “You totally embarrassed him.”
So, yes, the kids are back in school and it’s high time I kick back and relax with a glass of wine (or make that a cup of tea out of deference to my teen’s non-alcoholic pledge), but I need to do my homework first. And I need to think through this assignment. Especially since the subject matter is not my elementary school child but my teenager. I would rather be called into the principal’s office and be suspended than “EMBARRASS” my teen.
I am two days late with my homework so I had better get to work before my teen’s teacher sends me to detention for flouting homework rules by blogging my time away instead of turning in my assignment. Plus, I’m still hoping I can go out for recess.
After some two months of scratching my head figuring out how to keep my kids out of my hair, you would think that now they are back in the wonderful care of the school system, paid for by my taxes, I can actually catch a break and go out for recess.
But I don’t hear the bell ringing yet. ’Cause, first, mom’s got to finish her homework.
I don’t mean shopping for school supplies, sorting through the piles of letters informing parents that their kids might be interested in this soccer club or that drama group, signing tons of paperwork that I’m sure is just a test to make sure parents can still do basic reading, writing and arithmetic. I can do all of the above, and pack lunches and snacks (times three kids) with my eyes fully closed, and pass these mundane tests with flying colors.
But my first “real” homework assignment is a challenge. It necessitates that I use my brain cells cleverly. Such as, writing a letter telling my teen’s teacher about my child’s interests, strengths and any other pertinent information that the teacher would find useful in getting to know my child.
Now I can easily string two words together and I know my kid well enough to write a tome. But aren’t homework for kids? Parents send their kids to school so they can put their brain cells to use while parents do real work, i.e., toil and sweat to pay the bills and run the household. That’s work enough.
Plus this is a tricky assignment that could spell disaster. The last time I wrote a letter about my son for his teacher, which my son had to read aloud to his classmates, my daughters gave me an F and crucified me. “How could I write [such and such] about him,” they cried out. “You totally embarrassed him.”
So, yes, the kids are back in school and it’s high time I kick back and relax with a glass of wine (or make that a cup of tea out of deference to my teen’s non-alcoholic pledge), but I need to do my homework first. And I need to think through this assignment. Especially since the subject matter is not my elementary school child but my teenager. I would rather be called into the principal’s office and be suspended than “EMBARRASS” my teen.
I am two days late with my homework so I had better get to work before my teen’s teacher sends me to detention for flouting homework rules by blogging my time away instead of turning in my assignment. Plus, I’m still hoping I can go out for recess.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Summer vacation? Gimme a break!
Ah, the joys of summer vacation.
Blue skies, sandy beaches in the Caribbean, thrilling rides at Six Flags, road trips to anywhere necessitating a minimum seven-day stay at a ritzy hotel with a pool, sauna and Jacuzzi, and plenty of endless fun-filled activities...
I would keep dreaming but ever since I graduated from childhood to parenthood umpteen years ago, I know all too well that the 60-plus days of classwork- and homework-free days for kids are a ticket to hell, not paradise, for working parents.
Since my kids were old, and bold, enough to ask me what we had planned for the summer, I’ve told them: “This is your brain on summer vacation.”
My message, year after year, has fallen on deaf ears. But in a recent column the venerated “Time” magazine stated its “Case against summer vacation. About time. “All that downtime is making our kids fall behind” in school (“especially for those who can least afford to”) the writer says.
Now that I have “Time” endorsing my long-held theory, I would take this message to school administrators but my campaign wouldn’t stand a chance in a school district that never fails to pass a school budget.
I must say this summer’s been no picnic in the park for me. For a good month and a half now, my primary duty, aside from holding on to a full-time job and keeping the home fires burning, has been to keep my three kids from sheer boredom and “summer learning loss.” Quite a mental and physical workout for their dad and mum.
Hence the numerous trips to the library, ice skating rink, tennis court, swimming pool, shopping mall, movies, day trips, camp for one kid, and other family excursions. Throw in their day parties and sleepovers, time for them to catch up on all the “new episodes” and reruns on TV, and play video and Wii games (yes, we plead guilty). And to make it a really hot exciting summer break the kids can rave about, we even fired up the grill a few times.
So, I asked the kids the other day how their summer vacation’s going so far.
“It’s the B-O-R-I-N-G-est vacation.” Brief pause. “EVER,” the three whined in unison. This was followed by a litany of all the things their friends and cousins did (sandy beaches, ritzy hotel stays) and they did not.
“Really now kids?” My budget just can’t fancy a posh vacation. Nor can it fancy daily private tutorials that some other kids in the district can afford. And getting the kids workbooks as I did last summer are a waste of my hard-earned dollars. No amount of bribery, or threats, can get them to complete their worksheets, I’ve learned, unless I want to hear for the zillionth time: “It’s our summer break, after all, MOM!” Plus, hubby and I have learned, you can take the kids to the moon but if their friends and cousins are not going, it’s still “B-O-R-I-N-G.”
So, I suggested that my more-or-less bright kids slack off a little bit during the next school year so they can go to summer school. My kids, so far, have been pretty good students (I am an Asian-American parent, so deep in my heart, I’m sure, I feel they could always get an A++).
They may still have the “B-O-R-I-N-G-est vacation ever” but I won’t have to fear the damage wrought by “dull summers.” And, perchance, I can catch a break.
Right. “Yeah, mom, G-R-E-A-T idea,” the kids responded emphatically, rolling their eyes. I was shocked my idea got an “F.”
I concede I’ve run out of ideas. It must be the result of all the “summer learning loss” I experienced as a kid.
Thankfully, there are only 19 more days before kids go back to school. But who’s counting.
Blue skies, sandy beaches in the Caribbean, thrilling rides at Six Flags, road trips to anywhere necessitating a minimum seven-day stay at a ritzy hotel with a pool, sauna and Jacuzzi, and plenty of endless fun-filled activities...
I would keep dreaming but ever since I graduated from childhood to parenthood umpteen years ago, I know all too well that the 60-plus days of classwork- and homework-free days for kids are a ticket to hell, not paradise, for working parents.
Since my kids were old, and bold, enough to ask me what we had planned for the summer, I’ve told them: “This is your brain on summer vacation.”
My message, year after year, has fallen on deaf ears. But in a recent column the venerated “Time” magazine stated its “Case against summer vacation. About time. “All that downtime is making our kids fall behind” in school (“especially for those who can least afford to”) the writer says.
Now that I have “Time” endorsing my long-held theory, I would take this message to school administrators but my campaign wouldn’t stand a chance in a school district that never fails to pass a school budget.
I must say this summer’s been no picnic in the park for me. For a good month and a half now, my primary duty, aside from holding on to a full-time job and keeping the home fires burning, has been to keep my three kids from sheer boredom and “summer learning loss.” Quite a mental and physical workout for their dad and mum.
Hence the numerous trips to the library, ice skating rink, tennis court, swimming pool, shopping mall, movies, day trips, camp for one kid, and other family excursions. Throw in their day parties and sleepovers, time for them to catch up on all the “new episodes” and reruns on TV, and play video and Wii games (yes, we plead guilty). And to make it a really hot exciting summer break the kids can rave about, we even fired up the grill a few times.
So, I asked the kids the other day how their summer vacation’s going so far.
“It’s the B-O-R-I-N-G-est vacation.” Brief pause. “EVER,” the three whined in unison. This was followed by a litany of all the things their friends and cousins did (sandy beaches, ritzy hotel stays) and they did not.
“Really now kids?” My budget just can’t fancy a posh vacation. Nor can it fancy daily private tutorials that some other kids in the district can afford. And getting the kids workbooks as I did last summer are a waste of my hard-earned dollars. No amount of bribery, or threats, can get them to complete their worksheets, I’ve learned, unless I want to hear for the zillionth time: “It’s our summer break, after all, MOM!” Plus, hubby and I have learned, you can take the kids to the moon but if their friends and cousins are not going, it’s still “B-O-R-I-N-G.”
So, I suggested that my more-or-less bright kids slack off a little bit during the next school year so they can go to summer school. My kids, so far, have been pretty good students (I am an Asian-American parent, so deep in my heart, I’m sure, I feel they could always get an A++).
They may still have the “B-O-R-I-N-G-est vacation ever” but I won’t have to fear the damage wrought by “dull summers.” And, perchance, I can catch a break.
Right. “Yeah, mom, G-R-E-A-T idea,” the kids responded emphatically, rolling their eyes. I was shocked my idea got an “F.”
I concede I’ve run out of ideas. It must be the result of all the “summer learning loss” I experienced as a kid.
Thankfully, there are only 19 more days before kids go back to school. But who’s counting.
Friday, July 30, 2010
What’s eating Mr. Hubby?
So, I’ve miserably failed the test of a real desi wife – by several pounds.
Hubby left for the doctor’s office for his annual physical exam the other day feeling peachy and robust but came back looking pale and thinner. He had passed the physical exam with flying colors, no need for concern there thankfully, except in one matter. The good desi doctor was taken aback that hubby had shed a few pounds he didn’t really need to.
Weight loss is a big issue in America, the land of plenty, and everyone wants the skinny on how to look trim and fit without moving a muscle, so doc quizzed hubby, “What’s the secret?”
Hubby, blushing with shame, I’m sure, at the mere thought of divulging family secrets and the fact that he now had a little less of his weight to throw around the house, muttered: “Oh, my wife feeds me brown rice and quinoa these days.”
The highly experienced and friendly doc lost it at quinoa, and being a modest desi knew better than to prod further into the details of the healthy estate of our marriage.
“OK,” he said cutting short the conversation.
“Keep doing whatever you are doing. See you in a year and regards to the wife,” doc said, I’m sure feeling shame for my hubby’s diminished stature, and sent him home, where his late breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and raisins awaited him.
I knew hubby was losing it as he pushed away the bowl of oatmeal and said he needed to beef up and asked for hash browns, eggs and sausage as he narrated what transpired at the doc’s office.
“What?” I steamed, “How could you blame me? Shouldn’t I get some credit? Couldn’t you at least tell the doc I make healthy meals with my own hands, not serve you some frozen TV dinners.”
Now, any Indian knows that the test of a real desi wife is not based on the whether the couple loves each other, how many children the blessed union has produced or even how long the marriage has lasted. The true measure of a real desi wife is based on how round her man is, which is based on how many square meals he is fed by his non-westernized Indian wife. And, sadly, after nearly 19 years, the state of our blissful wedded life has boiled down to two non-exotic grains: brown rice and quinoa. The scale has shifted, but not in my favor.
But I am determined to restore my hubby’s honor – and mine – before he goes back for his next annual and before my in-laws get whiff of baked quinoa and sail across the oceans to rescue their son. Because this is America, the land of milk and honey, and we are Americans of desi origin, we will do it the American way: celebrate hubby’s weight loss with cookies and ice cream.
P.S. As they say in America, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. We are on family vacation next week. That will give me ample time to chew on this weighty matter and find ways to fatten up hubby. But I will need to take a break from my weekly blogpost. Ciao!
Hubby left for the doctor’s office for his annual physical exam the other day feeling peachy and robust but came back looking pale and thinner. He had passed the physical exam with flying colors, no need for concern there thankfully, except in one matter. The good desi doctor was taken aback that hubby had shed a few pounds he didn’t really need to.
Weight loss is a big issue in America, the land of plenty, and everyone wants the skinny on how to look trim and fit without moving a muscle, so doc quizzed hubby, “What’s the secret?”
Hubby, blushing with shame, I’m sure, at the mere thought of divulging family secrets and the fact that he now had a little less of his weight to throw around the house, muttered: “Oh, my wife feeds me brown rice and quinoa these days.”
The highly experienced and friendly doc lost it at quinoa, and being a modest desi knew better than to prod further into the details of the healthy estate of our marriage.
“OK,” he said cutting short the conversation.
“Keep doing whatever you are doing. See you in a year and regards to the wife,” doc said, I’m sure feeling shame for my hubby’s diminished stature, and sent him home, where his late breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and raisins awaited him.
I knew hubby was losing it as he pushed away the bowl of oatmeal and said he needed to beef up and asked for hash browns, eggs and sausage as he narrated what transpired at the doc’s office.
“What?” I steamed, “How could you blame me? Shouldn’t I get some credit? Couldn’t you at least tell the doc I make healthy meals with my own hands, not serve you some frozen TV dinners.”
Now, any Indian knows that the test of a real desi wife is not based on the whether the couple loves each other, how many children the blessed union has produced or even how long the marriage has lasted. The true measure of a real desi wife is based on how round her man is, which is based on how many square meals he is fed by his non-westernized Indian wife. And, sadly, after nearly 19 years, the state of our blissful wedded life has boiled down to two non-exotic grains: brown rice and quinoa. The scale has shifted, but not in my favor.
But I am determined to restore my hubby’s honor – and mine – before he goes back for his next annual and before my in-laws get whiff of baked quinoa and sail across the oceans to rescue their son. Because this is America, the land of milk and honey, and we are Americans of desi origin, we will do it the American way: celebrate hubby’s weight loss with cookies and ice cream.
P.S. As they say in America, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. We are on family vacation next week. That will give me ample time to chew on this weighty matter and find ways to fatten up hubby. But I will need to take a break from my weekly blogpost. Ciao!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Teen can have her cake, and make it too
It’s a good thing I’m on the ever-popular see-food diet since my teen has been cooking up a storm these past two weeks.
Not in my kitchen, of course. Any mom who is a cook and worth her salt knows that the kitchen is the only place where she reigns supreme. Never mind that she, and hubby, work night and day to pay the mortgage and all the assorted bills that keep the home and three kids running on all burners.
But teen being typical teen is always on the quest to usurp my rightful place in the kitchen. She wants to show off her culinary skills while I want her to show off her dish-washing skills.
Still, when teen announced she wanted to take culinary classes at the district’s expense for two weeks, I figured she was one smart cookie. It was her ploy to worm her way into my territory, but, at least, I didn’t have to pay for the class.
The first day at school, teen got her hands rolling in dough and brought home a tray of cinnamon rolls. Just the sight of those sweet streets had mom and the younger two kids salivating. The next day, she came home with even more goodies. Chocolate chip muffins and chocolate chip cookies. As I savored the soft and chewy cookies, I wondered out loud why mine were always dry and crumbly. And I have many more years of experience in the kitchen.
“Jealous, huh?” said teen sweetly.
Petty jealousies aside, we were in sugar heaven. And like Pavlov’s dogs, we were anticipating our next day’s treats.
Now that teen had proved herself and risen to the occasion, I asked her, “So, when are you going to bring us home some real meals?” Feeding three kids breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks during summer vacation is no easy task. And what good mom would feed her kids sugar for all three meals and snacks. So, it was about time for teen to be a real cook and learn to whip up some real meals. Plus, shouldn’t teen be learning to cook from the bottom of the food pyramid and not at the top, which would only add fuel to the rising epidemic of childhood obesity.
Teen must have relayed my message to her teacher, because the next day the class got their hands rolling in dough again to make the all-American dish, pizza. The day after she brought home penne pasta with, um, vodka sauce, which teen couldn’t really stomach (see my previous post on teen’s sobering thoughts on alcohol use). Teen also learned how to whip up a Monte Cristo sandwich, macaroni salad and a tray of Philly cheese steak mac and cheese. For two weeks we have been a well-fed family.
I’ve allowed teen to sign up for fall cooking classes and I hope this won’t turn out to be a recipe for disaster. But should she consider applying her classroom skills to real life, I’ll be more than happy to let her be the kitchen queen for a day or two, but she still has to do the dishes.
Not in my kitchen, of course. Any mom who is a cook and worth her salt knows that the kitchen is the only place where she reigns supreme. Never mind that she, and hubby, work night and day to pay the mortgage and all the assorted bills that keep the home and three kids running on all burners.
But teen being typical teen is always on the quest to usurp my rightful place in the kitchen. She wants to show off her culinary skills while I want her to show off her dish-washing skills.
Still, when teen announced she wanted to take culinary classes at the district’s expense for two weeks, I figured she was one smart cookie. It was her ploy to worm her way into my territory, but, at least, I didn’t have to pay for the class.
The first day at school, teen got her hands rolling in dough and brought home a tray of cinnamon rolls. Just the sight of those sweet streets had mom and the younger two kids salivating. The next day, she came home with even more goodies. Chocolate chip muffins and chocolate chip cookies. As I savored the soft and chewy cookies, I wondered out loud why mine were always dry and crumbly. And I have many more years of experience in the kitchen.
“Jealous, huh?” said teen sweetly.
Petty jealousies aside, we were in sugar heaven. And like Pavlov’s dogs, we were anticipating our next day’s treats.
Now that teen had proved herself and risen to the occasion, I asked her, “So, when are you going to bring us home some real meals?” Feeding three kids breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks during summer vacation is no easy task. And what good mom would feed her kids sugar for all three meals and snacks. So, it was about time for teen to be a real cook and learn to whip up some real meals. Plus, shouldn’t teen be learning to cook from the bottom of the food pyramid and not at the top, which would only add fuel to the rising epidemic of childhood obesity.
Teen must have relayed my message to her teacher, because the next day the class got their hands rolling in dough again to make the all-American dish, pizza. The day after she brought home penne pasta with, um, vodka sauce, which teen couldn’t really stomach (see my previous post on teen’s sobering thoughts on alcohol use). Teen also learned how to whip up a Monte Cristo sandwich, macaroni salad and a tray of Philly cheese steak mac and cheese. For two weeks we have been a well-fed family.
I’ve allowed teen to sign up for fall cooking classes and I hope this won’t turn out to be a recipe for disaster. But should she consider applying her classroom skills to real life, I’ll be more than happy to let her be the kitchen queen for a day or two, but she still has to do the dishes.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Happy hour? Not on tap in this house
Apparently, summer vacation added to the usual joys of motherhood is driving some fine ladies to drink. My kids never need to worry that their elegant and mature mother will ever take to the bottle since my 14-year-old, long before she entered the impressionable stage of teenhood, had determined that I, and she, will never be the life of the party.
While still in elementary school, my oldest child had well imbibed the doctrines of a group called DARE — Drug Abuse Resistance Education. The highly acclaimed substance abuse prevention education program, according to the group’s website, “gives kids the skills they need to avoid involvement in drugs, gangs, and violence” (and alcohol). I proudly witnessed my child, then a mere 9-, or 10-year-old, at the DARE ceremony at her school, place her hand on her heart and pledge never to involve herself in activities that would harm her body, mind or soul, and bring shame on her household.
Little did I know that the pledge applied to her mother, too.
Now, in our family, we’ve always been under the Prohibition. Given our austere, traditional cultural and religious upbringing, we’ve been under a long, dry spell. (No Lindsay Lohan-style issues here yet.). But I discovered that my child had taken a vow of abstinence for me as well during a wine-tasting trip in Amish country in Pennsylvania two years ago. As I prepared to raise my glass to appreciate the bouquet and full body of whatever wines I was supposed to sample — heck, I’m still bitter about it — my sweet child had the clarity of mind to burst into tears. Her message to me was champagne clear: I was doomed to be a teetotaler.
I am of a legal drinking age but since I was determined to act mature and not brew any trouble in the house, I decided to become an addict of another sort to survive these heady, tension-filled motherhood years. So, I’ve mostly been under the influence of java beans.
I can’t benefit from a drink or two that some studies say could benefit my health, but fortunately for me, I have some sobering news. A study published last week says beetroot juice can lower blood pressure levels. “The research,” according to hindustantimes.com, “is a welcome news for people with high BP as they can now use a 'natural' approach to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease (including stroke and heart attacks) - the world's biggest killer.” Now, I can drink to that! Raising three kids, without the benefit of alcohol, keeps my blood pressure boiling most of the time. But I don’t want to fall victim to any cardiovascular disease. So, beetroot juice is the perfect drink for me. It’s natural, fresh and deceptively wine-like in its robust coloring — and, most importantly, palatable to my teen’s sensibilities.
Living a teetotaler’s life these many years has taken its toll. So, please pour me a glass of beetroot juice. But, could you please make mine spicy?
While still in elementary school, my oldest child had well imbibed the doctrines of a group called DARE — Drug Abuse Resistance Education. The highly acclaimed substance abuse prevention education program, according to the group’s website, “gives kids the skills they need to avoid involvement in drugs, gangs, and violence” (and alcohol). I proudly witnessed my child, then a mere 9-, or 10-year-old, at the DARE ceremony at her school, place her hand on her heart and pledge never to involve herself in activities that would harm her body, mind or soul, and bring shame on her household.
Little did I know that the pledge applied to her mother, too.
Now, in our family, we’ve always been under the Prohibition. Given our austere, traditional cultural and religious upbringing, we’ve been under a long, dry spell. (No Lindsay Lohan-style issues here yet.). But I discovered that my child had taken a vow of abstinence for me as well during a wine-tasting trip in Amish country in Pennsylvania two years ago. As I prepared to raise my glass to appreciate the bouquet and full body of whatever wines I was supposed to sample — heck, I’m still bitter about it — my sweet child had the clarity of mind to burst into tears. Her message to me was champagne clear: I was doomed to be a teetotaler.
I am of a legal drinking age but since I was determined to act mature and not brew any trouble in the house, I decided to become an addict of another sort to survive these heady, tension-filled motherhood years. So, I’ve mostly been under the influence of java beans.
I can’t benefit from a drink or two that some studies say could benefit my health, but fortunately for me, I have some sobering news. A study published last week says beetroot juice can lower blood pressure levels. “The research,” according to hindustantimes.com, “is a welcome news for people with high BP as they can now use a 'natural' approach to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease (including stroke and heart attacks) - the world's biggest killer.” Now, I can drink to that! Raising three kids, without the benefit of alcohol, keeps my blood pressure boiling most of the time. But I don’t want to fall victim to any cardiovascular disease. So, beetroot juice is the perfect drink for me. It’s natural, fresh and deceptively wine-like in its robust coloring — and, most importantly, palatable to my teen’s sensibilities.
Living a teetotaler’s life these many years has taken its toll. So, please pour me a glass of beetroot juice. But, could you please make mine spicy?
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