Chapter 34: Resting Near the Parthenon

(from 2012)*


My summer falls into a pattern of trying to bore my kids to death and answering email from students and email from my family in Cuba.

I send them news about my kids.  Sometimes I paste it in a translator, sometimes I try to tell it on my own.   I have learned not to entirely trust Google Translator when I wrote an email to my Cuban family explaining how Zoe was graduating from 5th grade. The translation was that she was being kicked out of 5th grade. My Mom fixed it up, but not until we got a good laugh and promised to never tell and forever horrify uber-sensitive honor-roll safety-patrol Zoe (now you have to promise not to tell her either, OK?).

In the exchange of information, the part where I don't tell them that not only am I watching a tarantula that someone BOUGHT (Americans buy spiders? Que?) but actually spent money buying bugs for the tarantula to hunt and then bought two new hamsters for my kids. 

I don't tell them of the air conditioned days in a  house with too many sofas watching people on TV compete to cook things and compete to have the best wedding. I can't explain Toddlers and Tiaras (actually, I kinda don't want to), Teen Mom, Jersey Shore, Master Chef or Dance Moms.

If I were to really explain TV to them it would be mostly  to warn them about Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares and Gordon Ramsey overall because if no one warned me about him and he just showed up and yelled at me I might die a little.  Imagine one day he pops up in a little restaurant in Cuba and shouts "you call these potatoes? how long have they been in this cabinet? since the Russians sent them?"   But I don't tell them about him, not yet. I'm not sure they're ready.

They send weather reports (there is no Weather Channel in Cuba, someone please fix that?) and  food reports ("it's been two days since I've had protein and I keep thinking about a wonderful piece of real steak").  Some emails come in ALL CAPS and some in all lowercase, but all are  filled with besitos and abrazos and over the top I love you so much kiss kiss kiss.

No one asks me for anything from me in their emails except for my words, which is a relief because I don't have any clue how to get things from me (point A) to Cuba (point B).  Even though they ask for nothing, I'm already packing my bags (in my head) full of things for them, things I'll give them face to face on my next trip.  Spices for Olgita. Clothes. Underwear. Shoes. Spaghetti. Books. Makeup. A belt-buckle that is as cool as the spinning dollar one my cousin now wears. 

 My Mom copies me on all her email in and out of Cuba.  Hers are better. They read like professional business letters in impeccable Spanish written by a skilled diplomat. She asks more questions, better questions. She asks "How is your daughter? Does she need anything for graduation?" and "What size shoes does he wear?" Our family, the part that is stuck over there,  asks for dresses, for special shoes for an owner's manual to car (and could we fax it?), children's fever reducer, stomach medicine.

Her emails sharpen my Spanish and help me remember names, spellings, relationships.

 I don't read them carefully, not all of them, not any more than most people read every email they are bcc'd on. I glance through and evaluate and mentally file each. Ah! These are the people from the green house; this must be the driver I never met; oh! this is the family from Trinidad.  Another one about the weather. Another one about the weather. Oh! here is from my mom's god-daughter....

Today I read the beginning of an email, just enough to bolt up and call my Mom right away.

 She answered Hello and I was silent and I couldn't say what was stuck in my throat at first, I kind of had to cough it out, and when I did, I swear to you, it isn't what I meant to say, but it was the best I could do.

"You could have called me," I sobbed then continued (not me, not me, this was not like me at all) "You can't just cc and bcc me when someone dies, this isn't how you DO it."

Her silence told me that she didn't mean it that way, didn't know it would land so square on my jaw and knock me down. Neither did I.

"At least you knew him, at least you met him," she offers like a big chunk of gold I had forgotten I was holding right there in my palm.  He came to Tia Lourdes' house when we were there, I met him, Olgita's father who people call "Cuco." Everyone calls my Abuelo "Cuco" too, which made him family to me so I stood on my tippy toes to reach up and hug the tallest oldest Cuban I had yet seen, and then left him in peace while he flipped through the copy of Marvin's Book someone handed him.

A knock on the door was the signal that his ride was here to pick him up. More hugs. Pictures. Then the conversation swirled to lunch, to Miriam.

On a walk down the Cienfuegos block back to the hotel L'Union  my  later my Mom explained it was Cuco's  job to walk her to school, home for lunch, things like that. He was kind, gentle, very protective. I could tell, I could still feel it I told her, just about as we arrived in front of Abuelo's store and took those pictures and moved on to asking more questions than finding answers.

  Now that he has jumped into the sky to laugh in the wind, his body rests in our family tomb, the one that still has space for a few more people under the oaks and near the Cienfuegos Parthenon.

Until today I could never tell you I met, hugged and laughed with a person who is buried in Cuba. Not in this lifetime at least (we can address the rest later).

Somehow, that changes things, everything.

I just can't tell you how, not until I move a little futher along in the story at least.

Summer School 6: Now I know that God has other plans for me

Originally published June 14, 2017

The idea of a cooking project makes me smile, but I'm not ready to tackle it quite yet on this Monday evening in Summer.

The next day when I arrive on campus I find Mr. D* sleeping in front of my classroom door using his backpack as a pillow.  I don't want to bother him but I'm also worried something is genuinely wrong.

The classroom door is locked (thank GOD that's all, for now) and I have to run back upstairs to get Valarie which reminds me to give Valarie back her bright red umbrella which I borrowed from under her desk while she was on vacation.  We walk back downstairs and open the classroom.

Mr. D* sits quietly while I get my stuff ready -- computer on, projector on, files out -- and then I'm ready to talk.

He tells me he's lost his phone, and because he was looking for it so late he missed dinner being served at the shelter and he's hungry.  I offer to go upstairs and look for something in my office or the faculty lounge and he's thankful.

But I don't go.

 I stay and tell him that I read every single word of every single page he wrote.

He nodded.

I take a deep breath and ask, "You told me how they died, could you tell me a little more about how they lived? Did they have any favorite recipes?"

He nodded and we both cried a little because what he has gone through, what he has lost, is too too much.

I go upstairs and bring back chips and crackers and make a note to myself to bring Mr. D* breakfast tomorrow.

In the time I was gone, Mr. D* has filled four pages with stories and recipes that he folds over and hands to me.  May this project bring him   healing and joy, now and in the future.

Of course the rest of the class has no idea what Mr. D* has handed me, they're ready for lecture and it's time to start.

This semester I am making sure to clarify that the US has long been a violent nation with all sorts of riots, big and small.   Today's lecture includes the story about Preston Brooks beating up Senator Charles Sumner over his comments regarding a cousin and the state of slavery moving to Kansas.  After that we cover John Brown's actions in Kansas and Harper's Ferry and close with the Civil War starting at Fort Sumpter after Lincoln pronounces he has no intention to disturb slavery in the states where it exists but they don't believe him. Actually, Missouri-Kentucky-Maryland-Delaware believed this, and stayed in the Union. So the war wasn't simply between slave states and free states.  Little light bulbs go off over students' heads. They've learned enough.

After lecture I help Mr. D* get his backpack on and wish him well as he goes off into his day.

I am quite aware that Summer School ends next Wednesday and I should be writing Mr. D*'s recipes up quickly, but the Attorney General is testifying in an open session and I watch it and remember to add "Watching Congress" to my list of things I like to do. But lower on the list than EPCOT.

The Art of Cooking by Mr. D*

....I did not want to live any more after that, but now I know that God has other plans for me.  I go to school. I am the first child in my family to go to college. I am going to school to get my Ph.D. in Social Work so that I can help people who are disabled.  This is my true purpose in life at this day and time. So is this the beginning or is this the end? I am a 60 year old, homeless and a student. In October 2014 I had a massive stroke so I cannot cook anymore.  This stops me from doing something I love, but I also love helping people.  I am a people person, so maybe this is what God intended for me. I am truly grateful and I want to thank God for giving me this opportunity to share my recipes with the world. 

Pretzelitized 3: Cookie Dough is not an Ingredient

 My Sunday was full enough without rolling dipping string cheese in hot Cheetos and frying them.  I get everything done on my list and make a list of the things I have to finish before 9am the next morning.  Zack is busy in his room doing Zack things, going on missions and submitting assessments and whatever else is he has going on.

 The hot Cheeto thing didn’t come up again until late Monday when I asked if he needed anything from my quick run to Publix.

He said no. 

 I reminded him about we were going to make the hot Cheetos cheese thingys and he shrugged it off because he wasn’t sure he wanted to make it, he was still thinking…. Could he please show me a video?

For some reason, I gave in, completely stopped my momentum, I sat down and watched the video.  

Perky background music set off shiny forks flashing around making “Three Ingredient Recipes.” 

A few seconds into the video I have to break it to Zack this video is a sham, “cookie dough is NOT an ingredient” and he gets what I mean. Eggs are an ingredient.  Milk is an ingredient. We snicker together at how ridiculous it is to call cookie dough an ingredient but are stuck for a better word. 

The video continues the recipe and when the second ingredient is announced I throw my hands up in fake exasperation. “Oreos are not an ingredient!”  

Maybe they are, I could be wrong. 

Who puts oreos and cookie dough together? who? Geniuses, I guess. 

I couldn't look away. 

We watch, mesmerized, as a hand lays out neat rows of Oreos on top of a flat layer of cookie dough and then TA-DA pours brownie batter over the entire thing.  

As it happens we shout out BROWNIE MIX is not an ingredient EITHER together and laugh but not so hard that we shake the screen and miss a vicarious bite.

He then shows me a video where someone is  making pizza dip that looks like a pepperoni pizza, then another video on how to making bowls out of churros by piping churro dough around the bases of overturned muffin tins. This is way out of my league, and also, churros meant to be straight not all curly like bowls, so I just can’t.

Ten minutes later Zack tells me he knows I need to go, but maybe can he just show me this other thing and I say yes, yes, of course yes. 

 Two hours later I’m still in there and in no hurry to go anywhere.

We watch videos on deep frying candy bars. Apparently the trick is to use pancake batter.  Maybe you knew this, maybe this is normal in your world, but my mind is blown. Pow.

We watch someone mix flaming hot Cheetos with marshmallows and make something along the lines of the horrible step-sister to rice crispy treats that is lumpy and orange and so vomit inspiring that they added a caption I saw in no other video: “This tastes better than it looks!” Doubt it. Pass.

We learn how that ice cream bread is a thing (pint of ice cream, flour, sprinkles, bake, you can try it but for me I’m thinking no thank you!)  and that s’mores can be fried but first you need to freeze them.

We learn that peanut butter stuffed skillet cookie is a thing, and that the trick to making neat banana Nutella sushi is to smooth the chocolate on just one ¼ at a time, then rolling the banana log in rice crispy treats. 

We watch a whole series about what can and cannot be made in a waffle iron, then get up and try to make tater tots in the waffle iron.

 

Can you waffle iron tater tots? YES YOU CAN

Score. 

After that I head out to the grocery and come back with pizza dough and brownie mix and cookie dough and crazy things like that.

(continued)

Pretzelitized 2: Hot Cheetos

Pretzelitized 2: Hot Cheetos

You would think after all my mind racing panic I would be wide awake but my response to Zack is terse. Hmm what?

I want to show you a video about….

I wave my hands. Nope. Nah. I hate when people show me videos on little screens, and on top of that I just can’t even do videos before coffee but I’m nice about it and ask him if he knew it was Sunday - he said yes -  then he asked if he could just describe the video to me.

OK fine. If you wait until I make my coffee.

(He waited. He is a saint.)

Then he explains to me in great detail how he was watching a video on to use hot Cheetos, flour, eggs and string cheese to make fried cheese and ended with  the inevitable “could we please make them?”

I take a sip of coffee, settling into this gift of a Sunday.  

The sun isn’t even up yet, it is too early to say no to something as interesting as this, so I told him my favorite phrase – “Yes, later.”

Unprepared for so quick a victory he just nodded at me and I nodded back. 

Then he asked if I wanted to see another video and I said not to push it and we laughed.

(continued)

Pretzelitized: Part 1: Oh No.

I wake up at 5:38am to screaming silence because my alarm didn't go off.

Oh NO.

Thank GOD I woke up but now I only have seven minutes to shower, get myself a cup of coffee, become a nice person and wake Zoe up.

Ready set run.

Seconds later I'm in the bathroom moving faster than my thoughts but still wondering what went wrong in my system.

I never forget to set an alarm, a backup alarm, and a backup backup just in case.

 I don't have have the luxury of accidentally sleeping in.

I am quite sure all hell would break loose if I slept in.

Completely sure, actually, and that belief holds me together so leave me with my ideas and all.  

These past few weeks have gone so well because I make pockets of time here and there for this and that and then I get it all done but OH NO I have so much more to do.

My mind keeps marching around as the water pounds me awake.

Oh no. I didn't grade all those exams that I said I'd have graded for today.

Oh no, I didn't give any feedback on the service project proposals that I said would be done for today.

Oh no, how am I going to face my students today?

OH NO, where did all the time go that I was supposed to use grading?

Oh NO what am I going to lecture on?  Yayyy one of my classes is in the middle of WW2.  I love this war, especially the part where it turns into the Cold War.   I get  a little giddy thinking about teaching because the college has seen fit to outfit my classroom with a posh system where my new Macbook goes right to the projector.  This means I don't have to worry about saving files to one drive, emailing myself a backup and then emailing another backup to a different email just in case, then wait for the  classroom computer to wake up and hope to fetch my files. This is a huge step forward, like keyless cars, and I love it because it frees my energy for professoring instead of technologying.

Just as I'm toweling off I think of other good things; Zack's homeschool is going extremely well, Zoe is ready for homecoming, all the towels are clean, I'm so glad I got that run in before the Miami game last night.

Oh no.
The Miami game.
Was last night.
Which makes today Sunday.
Which is why I haven't graded anything yet.
Which is also why I didn't set any alarms.

But I'm up so I get dressed and go get coffee.

Zack must have heard my rustling and rumblings because he came out of his room at that predawn hour, iPad in hand, gave me a HUGE hug and told me he had something to show me.

(continued) 

Book #39: The Mennonite in the Little Black Dress

The student who gave me this book didn't read it. Not all of it, at least, but that's OK. She'd told me all she had was non-fiction, how-to and advice books so I sent her off to find some fiction.   She already read several books I lent her includingValley of the Dolls, Fault in Our Stars, so she kinda knew what I liked.

A week after everyone else turned in their books she brought me this one.  It's funny is all she said and handed it to me.

She was right. 

This book is a memoir of a really really hard time written by a creative writing professor, and her skill and confidence as a writer and storyteller come through on each page. This book dances (oh wait, Mennonites don't dance, so this book dances-ish) with stories short enough to keep my attention that hold together into a book I didn't want to put down and now I don't want to give back. 

There is a section about a guy with a teeny weenie peenie,  a part where a soldier makes potato salad in his pants and an entire discussion of the most shameful foods Mennonite parents pack in their children's lunch pails (...pancake sandwich??) 

This book will make you laugh out loud, it will let you put it down and pick it up, and it will make you a bit more creative and smarter by reading it. 

With that said,I can't believe I've finished 39 books.

 OK, I can believe it. 

Ask my kids, all I do at home (when Gordon Ramsey isn't on) is read read read. 

Ask my students, I use reading all these books for an excuse to not constantly update their grades on blackboard. 

When I was in college we didn't see professors as ATM's that had to give us our "balance" at any moment, but this generation of students seems genuinely pained if/when they don't know exactly what their running weighted grade is at any moment during the semester.  I'm glad they care, but sheesh, back off, I'll get to it in good time, just like I have every semester for 20 years.

Now I have a minute or two now before class, and  I'm choosing to spend it with a new book, not typing grades into spreadsheets on this beautiful Spring day. 



Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home Rhoda Janzen

Cosmic Billiards: The Moon and I

Please ask me how much TV I've watched this summer.

 No, don't.

 I will admit to sitting on the sofa (too much) simmering in shows like Hell's Kitchen, Masterchef, Food Network Star. I get this crazy satisfaction from watching other people get all stressed out when they cook, and feel quite smug in not cooking dangerous dishes like duck or risotto for dinner. 

Besides that I watch pawn shows (my son makes me, and he takes notes) and storage war shows.

 I find myself changing channels over and over looking for more shows on the War of 1812, on Andrew Jackson, on Victoria Woodhull or Annie Bessant. I find none. I look for shows that illustrate how how the whole Caribbean basin - Cuba, Florida, Dominican Republic, Texas, Mexico, Louisiana -  shares a common history with unofficial trade capitals (Santo Domingo, then Havana, then New Orleans).

  I can't find much on that so I watch Real Housewives and Restaurant Stakeout and (omg my favorite) MTV's Catfish.

The other night when I couldn't find anything on demand or on TV I found myself hooked into a dramatically narrated show on the history of earth.  

When I teach college level World History courses I usually start with "before people" and then get us right to "here comes civilization and urbanization and ooohhhhh I wonder if this will work?." 

 I'm not trained on dinosaurs or anything with "zoic" in the word (example: paleozoic trifinial protocrestazoans)  so I generally start with creation stories of many peoples (Book of Genesis; the Navajo Creation Story, etc) and move forward into understood history from there. 

But something I saw on TV might change where I start the story of history.

The documentary on the history of the earth (please don't ask me the title - it was very literal - something like The Earth: A History or History of The Earth or Earth's History). I didn't take notes on the show but I concentrated really really hard, so if I get this wrong, that's OK. 

Here's what I learned. First there's a big bang, and then comes atomic things and heavy molecular things and chemical reactions and creation of suns and of planets.

That part is familiar. 

But here it gets good. 

So after earth has been created,  it's just hanging there between (the not yet named, of course) huge Venus and darker smaller Mars. 

Then at just the right time, out of nowhere, a cosmic billiards player shot JUST the right size object towards the earth that hit at JUST the right angle with JUST the right magic zing that it didn't kill the earth but instead caused a bunch of debris that formed into the moon and sent the earth  spinning like an 8 ball on her axis balanced perfectly and delicately between night and day, always changing. 

Thanks to that collision we have the treasured company of a moon, always there, sometimes invisible.

I think the cosmic billiards player intends it to be that way.