Cheer Cheer

I grew up in a Notre Dame family. What exactly does that mean?

It meant that for second grade show in tell, I brought in a leprechaun lapel pin that when pushed played the fight song electronically through it's porous back side.

It meant that my brother brought home kindergarten art projects starring football players with the numbers 1, 25, and 36 emblazoned on their jerseys.

It meant that we visited South Bend every fall, we waited in line to get into the bookstore, and we sipped hot chocolate while sitting on the cold benches of Notre Dame's original stadium.

It meant that the first person who saw the Dome was the winner.

It meant Aunt Connie's fried chicken at Uncle's Jim's tailgate.

It meant lighting a candle for Grandma and Grandpa at the Grotto. 

It meant the smell of fall, the sound of the band, and the gritty feeling of a football team that would fight on to victory.

We learned how to do push ups early on in life. We feared what my Mom did; going 'over the wall.' We were mesmerized by my Dad's big blue class ring. We all wanted to be as fast as the Rocket. And the 1812 Overture meant one thing: Lou.

It meant collegiate football at its authentic best. A program so enticing that it lured not just one of us, but all of us to Indiana to attain our higher education.

Ironically, when I ended up going to Notre Dame for college and then back again for an MBA, my experience with the institution was less and less defined by the football team. Sure, I loved the tailgates, particularly as I graduated from hot chocolate to Bloody Marys, but with each disappointing season, my energy shifting from the endeavors on the football field to my own personal ones in the classroom and on the lacrosse field.

Other parts of campus started to hold more meaning than the storied stadium: the Basilica. the fireplace at Coleman Morse where I would study for exams, the Library in the School of Architecture which took me right back to Italy, the ceramics room, North Dining Hall, runs around the Lake in the morning, bike rides home at dusk, Finnegans and Heartland, 1011 and 702, the people, the friendships, the characteristic warmth of it all.



***

For the past three weekends, we've driven down to South Bend to take in the magic of Notre Dame football weekends and share it with our kids. We witnessed one win and two rather bleak losses. In her new cheerleader outfit, Mary cheered, in his ND pullover Bobby tailgated (and then crashed). We rallied with the band, high stepped with the Irish Guard, and believed that each point was a turnaround moment. But we couldn't help the team eek out the wins they needed.

I worried a little. What if the football team doesn't return to glory? What if they don't have the fight in them anymore? Will my kids still feel the passion that I felt for the University at such an early age, when the football program was so good?

The losses didn't seem to phase my kids though. And maybe that's because they don't phase me anymore. In fact yesterday, Mary asked if we were going back to Notre Dame this weekend. She wanted to see Nana and Opa. She wanted to see the band and the cheerleaders. She wanted to run around the lakes, sing Cheer Cheer, and get a cookie from Aunt Connie.

So maybe it's not all about winning. And maybe it's not all about football. After all my experience as a student was more about the other stuff. But I wonder if the luster would be quite as golden without all the national championships and Heisman Trophies. And I wonder if the passion of the student body would be as great if they didn't have a team that they knew would win it all again. Someday. 

Lo.  

Golden Girls

While Notre Dame sloppily added a W to their schedule this weekend, their victory over Michigan State wasn't the headline. Bigger news was clamoring through campus, starting early Saturday morning.

First, there was a rainbow. Scratch that. A perfect rainbow, stretched all the way over Carroll Hall's massive, 'GO IRISH' sign. It was gorgeous.

Soon after, my cousin got down on one knee near the Grotto, adding some beautiful bling to Katrina's left hand. About eight hours later, a friend and fellow blogger got a, 'yes' to his big question too.   

Aunt Connie's fried chicken took home the blue ribbon in the tailgate cook-off. A couple bridesmaids had an overdue reunion. And a couple others totally missed each other. Finally, the real grabber of a headline: Mary met a cheerleader (...while her Mom glowed at the starlet in front of her, gushing about how she had always dreamed of being thrown up in the air by a burly cheer man in the middle of Notre Dame stadium.) Mary stuck her tongue out. 

This weekend, Mary also got mistaken for a 'buddy' several times. Girls wear jean jackets too, people. She partied at her first tailgates. And saw her first sporting event. There were some suspicious eyes as I carried a six-month old through the Frank Lehry Gate and up to our seats, but there was never a better fan. She smiled and cheered with the best of them. And likely would have lasted the whole game, but we left short of a melt down. 

This weekend, Irish eyes were definitely smiling. 

Lo. 

4th and 1

I can boast a good understanding of the game of football. I often call holding violations before the refs throw their flag. I'm able to find the open man before Brent Musburger breaks it down for the television audience. And I've been known to throw a mean spiral. But one thing has always perplexed me; why teams punt on 4th and 1. It's one little yard and nine times out of ten the team going for it, makes it. So why do coaches give up the drive and punt the ball?

Yesterday, I feel like I got the answer. That final yard is different than the previous nine. The defense comes on harder, the pressure is heavier, and the stakes are higher. It can be the longest, toughest yard of the game, so to play it safe, most teams just avoid it. The realization came to me as I was running my own fourth and one.

It's my fourth time down a 26.2 mile road, but my first time doing it as a mother. And it's a whole different ball game. Getting a good night's rest isn't possible, my stride isn't the same, my breathing is off, my pace is slower, and yes, my boobs continue to be a burden. Around mile 13 of 16 yesterday, I was about ready to punt. With each hot step of those final miles, I asked myself why I was doing this? I was already up - why should I keep driving?

The shirt I was wearing reminded me though. As a member of Team RMHC, I'm going the distance to support the more than 8,000 mothers who are staying at Ronald McDonald Houses this evening. They are there, watching over their babies as they fight illness or injury in the hospital. I'm running so if God forbid, Mary got sick - so sick that we had to travel to receive the best care for her - we would have a place to call home temporarily. I'm running so I could be there to hold her little hand, give her hugs and kisses, and help her fight.

It hurt a little more than usual, but I ended up converting yesterday. And we celebrated of course. With champagne, friends, and a whole lot of smoked protein.

It's been a tough call and a tough training season, but I have no doubt that I will be able to find a hole and push through the finish line on October 13 with more than 600 of my fellow Team RMHC runners.

Your support helping me get there, is always appreciated. Your support helps give children the best medicine of all - their families.

http://teamrmhc.kintera.org/teamlo

Lo.

8-0

Last night, Pete - IT, class of '88, Greg - development, class of '98, Lo - marketing, class of '04, and Mike - security, sub alum class of '64, gathered at the very back of the auction floor, in the electronics section lined with Apple's newest products and the bigger than big, big screen TVs to sneak peaks of a very pivotal Notre Dame game.

Together, we checked ourselves to see if we were making any social faux pas or worse yet, shirking our duties as volunteers. Together, we shared stories about Notre Dame's glory days. And together, we nervously anticipated the outcome of judgment day, quietly dreading that Oklahoma would uncover mediocrity.

When the lights flickered and the announcer told us to take our seats in the Ballroom, we each reluctantly said some parting words and resumed our roles for the evening. Some of us sneaked back into the auction room to watch a couple downs, others relied on under the table text messages from friends with far better seats, and I followed the slow progression of a miniature football on Gamecast, jolting and jeering as my iPhone unlocked one delayed play after the next.

Throughout the game, I kept thinking of my brother. With each nail biting play, as we took the lead, lost it, then regained it, and as the Irish, working as a team, pulled away and convinced the nation that yes, indeed, they were relevant, I thought back on him as a little boy, back in 1988.

Yes, I was only six. And yes, he was only three. But we had already been indoctrinated into the deep rooted passion and defining culture that characterized Notre Dame fans. From a very early age, whether we were gathered around the television in the sun room or watching the game live in South Bend, Fighting Irish football was ritualistic. We wore, sang, argued, and even drew our pride.

At the age of three, my brother started taking creative liberties with the team's starting lineup. By the age of five, he knew the contours of every face mask, the various dimensions that a running back's or quarterback's pads would add, the perfect crayon to shade in the luster of the gold helmets, the number of every player, their key stats, and the color of their eyes, hair, and skin. Every fall our family's refrigerator would be covered in the team's likeness. From Tim Brown and the Rocket, to Chris Zorich and Todd Lyght; from Rick Mirer and Jerome Bettis, to Derrick Mayes and Lake Dawson, he loved and looked up to them all.

But over the years, as the team's losses started to add up, and as my brother's idolizing and cartooning was replaced with the need to make a name for himself on his own team, my Irish enthusiasm started to wane. Ironically enough, it faded even more when I went to school at Notre Dame and then again when I returned to get my MBA. But throughout, my brother remained optimistically loyal. With each new recruiting season, with every coaching change, and with every glimmer of hope my brother went against the odds and saw a national championship in the future.

Last night, as an Irish win was confirmed with a late fourth quarter field goal, I was excited for the players and for a long-suffering ND nation. But I was more excited for my brother, and all the little boys who back in the 80s and early 90s dreamed of putting on a golden helmet and taking the field with their favorite players.


This morning, as I ran seven miles through the suburbs, up into Hinsdale and back through Western Springs, I saw at least 20 Notre Dame flags draped from people's homes. (Not only does my community have the highest concentration of Irish Americans in Chicago, it apparently has the highest concentration of Fighting Irish fans too.) Within each of these flag flying households, I imagined that there might be little boys, like my brother, drawing pictures of Manti Te'o, Louis Nix, Theo Riddick, Everett Golson, Tyler Eifert, Cierre Wood, and heck, even Mike Golic Jr. And I thought, how great it was that these kids could look up to a team that not only knows how to hit hard, run, pass, score and swagger; but also how to speak eloquently, study, give back and graduate. 

After my run and after Mass, I sketched and sifted my own version of Irish pride into brunch.

And it tasted as sweet as last night's victory.
8-0.
Lo.

Boozy French Toast

Five pieces stale Italian bread
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1 tablespoon Grand Marnier
Powdered sugar

Whisk together eggs, milk, allspice and Grand Marnier. Dip each slice of bread into the egg mixture until well coated and soaked through. Over medium heat, melt a little butter on a griddle. Brown each slice of French toast (about 3-5 minutes per side.) Dust with powdered sugar.

A Saturday Routine

Yesterday, Livia was showing me how she could stand in first position, do plies, pose in an arabesque and leap across the carpet with a grand jete. Her aunt had given her some of ballet's fundamentals, but in a couple months she would be able start taking classes in her neighborhood. I could sense her excitement about the upcoming opportunity to take the steps she had learned and weave them into a routine that she could perform in living rooms across the Western Suburbs. 

It made me think about my experience dancing - the first steps that I learned - the anticipation I felt as my teacher started piecing them together - the thrill I found when my movements started to make sense - and my pride in knowing with absolute certainty all the fancy footwork and armwork to match. After a while, improvisation and swaying from my prescribed routines started to confuse me. I needed the precise rhythms, measured spaces and calculated cues. Without them, I felt lost.

This notion of strict choreography started to seed itself in my day to day activities as well. I embraced knowing what came next. But when I met Peter, all the solo acts that I had memorized and perfected, were no longer relevant. I needed to start developing duets.

However, trying to establish a new routine with a partner who prefers improvisation is quite difficult. While he thrived on the riffs, scats, and jam sessions in life, I tried to tame the dissonance with structure. There were times when we just flopped.

In the end, we learned to compromise and take turns leading. Some days, we used my choreography, but set to songs that I knew Peter would like. Other days, we would wing it, constantly changing keys, tempos, and direction all in the name of creating something different. To my surprise, both ways worked and both ways made the performers and spectators happy.  

Peter and I tend to be really good together on the weekends, and yesterday was no exception. I must say it was one of our most successful routines - one that combined both of our styles and possessed all the right elements. Sure, there were some trials leading up to its execution: a steady rain that made us soggy; a cheese shipment delay, detouring us from one theme to Peter's love affair with the pig; a goal line stand controversy; and a cider press conundrum. But the show, good food, cheers, and juices went on - another little thing I taught Peter about show business.

And it went a little something like this. 

5,6,7,8 ...
A good read. 
Followed by a good run.
A special frittered breakfast.

 

Then a couple chores and some stokes of the smoker. 

Quick chasse into the shower. 
Chopping, slicing, pestling, chilling.
Brendan, enter stage right. Stoke, stoke.  
Brises or jumps, followed by plies to the beat of hole finding, pass grabbing, quarterback scrambling, helmet hitting, fumble recovering, field goal kicking, touch down scoring, and goal line standing.
Bill and Meghan, enter stage left. Mira and Livia scurry in. 
Slicing, smashing, pressing, apple foam tasting, bottling. 

 

 Shredding, eager forks noshing, stacking, Carnitas consuming, stomach satisfying. 

Little bow. 
Bravo!

The crowd wanted an encore of apple fritters, so I've included it below. 

Lo. 

Apple Fritters (makes about 8 fritters)
Adapted from Pioneer Woman

1 apple, cored and sliced into 1/8 inch rings
1 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Pinch of salt
1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon melted butter
Vegetable or canola oil
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and almond extract.

In another medium bowl, beat eggs. Then add milk and melted butter. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.

Heat oil over medium high heat until about 375 degrees. Keep this temperature consistent. Drop each apple slice into the batter to create a thin coat. You made need to coax the batter along to stick on the apple slices evenly.

Drop battered apple slices into oil, perhaps three per batch. Fry for 1-2 minute per side until golden brown. Keep a careful watch over them as they can quickly burn. Remove from oil and set on a paper towel lined plate to dry. Repeat process with remaining apple slices. Serve immediately with sifted powdered sugar.