Label: Clear - CLR424 • Format: 2x, Vinyl LP, Album • Country: UK • Genre: Electronic • Style: House, Abstract, Minimal
To celebrate we are giving him a new name Liev and removing personal identifiers from this site. Until I tame the renaming, posts will vanish, appear, and reappear. Thank you for your patience as I relaunch my site! Upstairs, my son hums a violin-like, Flight of the Bumblebee melody. More hops. The water in my glass ripples Jurassic Park-style. I peek in the computer room. Soft keyboard clicks whisper.
Rapt, Freaks On Parade - Various - When The Kids Go Go Go Crazy - A Tribute To The Groovie Ghoulies composes a bedtime plan as tidy as any accountant.
As he rattles on, I smile. He speaks at me, rather than to me. Therapists might shake their heads at this observation, but I have a different Get Off Of My Cloud - The Rolling Stones - Got Live If You Want It!. Liev is energized, passionate. Not fearful words, descriptive ones. His whirlwind of tics, hops, and songs are as a beautiful as his quiet typing.
Nourish every child as a whole person. We are all part nature and nurture, but nurture is for nature, not against it. By accepting neurology instead of suppressing it, the worth and dignity you give now will sustain a child through a lifetime of difficult moments and judging glances.
Mom, who is our usual chef and organizer of fantastic feasts, declined hosting the celebration due to a painful hip. Our aging Montgomery Ward table would creak under the weight of my homemade repast. The day before the dinner, I invited Mom over to prep. Vegetables would be chopped, bread cubed, and chardonnay sipped.
Limping heavily, she asked me to unload boxes. I swung open van doors to a staggering assortment of containers. I should not have been surprised. Incredible detail goes into her perfect dinners. Box one contained two quarts of crystal clear turkey stock for gravy.
Handpicked and hand mixed, the aroma evoked decades of Quaker Thanksgiving pasts. Generations of women before us used these same herbs, perhaps even diced and rubbed with the same fastidiousness. Butter, margarine, and two kinds of cooking oil nestled in the third box. I smiled, remembering Mom teaching me about the properties of cooking oils.
Peanut oil is flavorless and rarely smokes. Butter needs special attention lest it burns. I make a mental note to scoop my recently charred onions into the compost pile. Box four held folded parchment paper and ancient copper cookware. I opened box five, a gallon metal-hinged storage container. Mismatched measuring cups and favorite stirring spoons protruded from items wrapped in decades-old but immaculate! As I hauled in a sixth box Favorite frying pan!
Gargantuan whisk! Metal bowls I remember from first grade! Was the idea of post-Thanksgiving washing and packing up thirty years of loved kitchen supplies daunting?
Not as much as feeling small and un-hostess-like. Each instruction rendered me younger and younger until at last, I was six years old. My broth sucked. My onions burned. My spices stank. How could I host such a special event? Tension stirred my shoulders, but remembering my real age, I poured us each a glass of wine.
Conviviality resumed. Back to following instructions, I handed Mom her largest cutting board delicately wrapped in a pillowcase that once belonged to my A Quiet Week In The House - Doctor Rockit - The Music Of Sound. I cringed. An abundance of crisscrossing knife marks etched and blackened its putrid yellow surface. Mom, noting my grimace, reminded me that her chopping block was quite sanitary since she microwaves it daily. Mom launched into her chopping ceremony with a knife sharpening ritual she also brought her sharpening kit.
I washed veggies and used the food processor to A Quiet Week In The House - Doctor Rockit - The Music Of Sound Vidalia onions for my famous green chile cranberry sauce. I joined Mom at the cooking station, with my super-ultra-white bleached cutting board. When Mom sensed me drifting off, she addressed Misty.
Here is a knife for onions, a knife for celery, a knife for bread, a knife for me to stab myself in the head with, and so on. The more she instructed, the more irritable I became. I was the hostess! This was my meal to screw up or succeed.
De Ti Enamorado - Oscar D León - De Ti Enamorado wanted her to listen to me, be proud of me, and accept me and my burnt onions as good enough because I was her daughter.
Instead, I snapped at her when she asked Misty why I forgot to buy shallots. Mom pursed her lips and eyed Misty, but wisely stayed silent. I huffed around the kitchen for a bit, until I noticed Mom and Misty regarding me with amused affection. She laughed, too and Misty dashed around the house in celebration. An unspoken peace presided.
Mom praised my green chile cranberry sauce, and I offered her my special nut-chopping knife. Compliments flowed. With her guidance, we served an excellent meal. As I look back, I A Quiet Week In The House - Doctor Rockit - The Music Of Sound I missed what was happening.
Mom was passing the torch to me. She packed up her whole kitchen with delicate care. She assembled ancestral herbs spices and took her time to walk me through it step by step. I was so enamored by the thrill of being the host; I forgot the tradition, deliciousness, and my dear mothers place in our family history. Her lessons, however, are still with me. I burn onions and dry out the turkey, but now these misadventures are funny stories we share.
Maybe the biggest lesson I learned was to accept myself as imperfect and know that I am loved. When he was five, my son decided that apricots had souls. His spiritual journey began the day Lull Farm had a sale on fresh apricots. Their unblemished perfection reminded me of the two immense apricot trees that grew in my childhood backyard. These fruit powerhouses kept Mom busy making jams, cobblers, yogurts, and every conceivable confection.
Even our dogs harvested apricots, navigating the inner branches to reach choice fruit. To make my favorite treat, fruit leather, Mom boiled apricots into a paste in a two-day marathon. The sweet, almost tropical aroma clung to Naugahyde chairs and bead curtains for weeks. Thick, sticky apricot goop got everywhere, and I licked spoons and fingers until my stomach grumbled ominous warnings.
My son deserved a taste of that glorious tradition, so I purchased a few quarts of fruit. At home, I cleared the table to make a dramatic presentation to him. Like my mother before me, I offered an apricot to him and asked him to admire its beauty:.
Soft, like velvet. See its colors? Yellow-orange, orange, and pinkish-red? Even though I followed the script that won me over as a child, it did not work for Liev. He is a child who loves the fragile and defenseless — a rescuer of slugs, earthworms, and pill bugs. He understood that fruit is likewise helpless.
So, his apricot friend rested on our kitchen table until it shrunk and moldered. He buried it with a song, hoping for a baby tree to grow from its seed. Winter friends, circa Anxiety and stress triggered bouts of fruit hoarding.
Patrice Grente & Etienne Bonhomme - Infini, Chopin Prelude II - Philip Corner - Piano Realitys, I. Pagodes - W.A. Mozart*, Claude Debussy, Franz Schubert, Bela Bartok*, Ernst Gröschel - Ernst Grös, After Dark - Russ Morgan And His Orchestra - After Dark / Bye-Lo-Bye Lullaby (Shellac)