Musing: A Story I Heard

I heard the following story from someone I believe.

My source went to Great Britain for her semester abroad. One of her classmates had a prosthetic leg.  This person was a bit of a jerk. Young. Immature.  When it came time to go through the metal detector at the airport, he never said a word.

Of course he set off the detector.

HIs fellow classmates told him afterward, “Hey, stop being a jerk.”

The process repeated at every airport. Coming and going. I’m surprised the individual wasn’t put on some kind airline list.

The kicker, though, was what he confessed when they eventually landed back in the USA at their “home” airport: he’d used his prosthetic leg for smuggling Cuban cigars into the country.

Really?

 

 

 

 

Mommy Files: Food by the Color

When Y-Chromo was a baby, I would serve him only apple juice or Juicy Juice. There were two flavors of JJ that he loved, both colored red. At the time, it was easier to ask him if he wanted apple juice or “red” juice than to remember if we had raspberry or cherry juice open. One of my husband’s friends overhead me asking Y if he wanted red juice and commented, “Juice by the color? Like orange juice?”

I also used to make spinach fettucine with pesto sauce. Y-Chromo loved it. One time, I happened to be on the phone with my father when Y finished his serving and wanted more. He started pounding on the tray of his high chair and yelling, “New news.” Or would that be spelled Noo-noos? My dad asked, “What’s he yelling about?” I replied, “He wants more noodles.” (Noodles being easier to say than fettucine.) “Then give the boy more noodles!” Y’s favorite color has always been green, so spinach fettucine with pesto sauce became known as Green Noo-noos and eventually Green Noodles. By the time both children could say “noodles”, I had started to add tri-color cheese tortellini to the mix (the family was growing), but always and forever, in our family, pasta with pesto is known as green noodles.

 

 

 

Memory: The Start of a Family Tradtion

In late January of 1966, Central New York was hit with an epic blizzard that shut the area down for days. Here’s a link to some photos taken at the time.

I grew up in a rural area. My aunt, uncle and four cousins lived next door on one side, my grandmother and step-grandfather lived on the other side of us. My uncle and dad couldn’t get to their jobs, so there was lots of family time between efforts to dig out.  Here’s  a photo  of  my  dad  on  the  1934 Ford tractor  and  my  Grandpa  Jim  working  on clearing away  the snow.

It was during the blizzard that two of my family traditions began.

My parents pulled out the flour, sugar, eggs, and such and went on a baking spree. We worked together as a family. I recall my mom unearthing a cookie press she’d never used, finding a recipe for chocolate spritz cookies and using the cookie press to make them. They were wonderful. A pain to make compared to mom’s usual cookies (and my mom baked great cookies!), but worth the effort. And yes, my dad was also involved in the bake-fest.

The first lesson I learned was to always make sure there is a stockpile of food in the house come winter. Ingredients and basics. It’s a lesson I had to remind my son of when he moved out on his own. Even if you keep only cans of soup in the cupboard, make sure you have something to eat. You never know when a storm is going to hit. Which is why you’ll never find me out on the night before a predicted storm scrounging for bread and milk.  I’m always prepared.

The second lesson is that baking together during a snowstorm makes wonderful memories. Now, I didn’t often get to take snow days with my children, but the times I did, we pulled out a box or two of quick bread mix (I am not my mom) and baked together. I used the time to teach them fractions (if the recipe calls for half a cup, how many quarter cups should you use?) and other life skills. Plus we were spending time together. That was the important thing.

I hope their memories are as nice as mine.