Devil's Night

When I was in sixth grade I worked with my Dad to take our little vegetable garden to the next level. After all, I was the Double G, and it was my responsibility to carry on the potato farmer's legacy. I went beyond the Big Boys, beyond the string beans, beyond the herbs, and even beyond the zucchinis. In May, I laid the seeds for a miniature pumpkin patch.

All summer long, while my Dad worked his green thumb magic on the flower beds, I kept careful watch over my vegetables, and specifically over my pumpkins. I watered them every day, I untangled the zucchini vines from their vines as they fought to gain more ground, I talked to them, told them to grow big and strong, and coaxed them to prove the other Shadyside amateur agronomists wrong. Pumpkins could and would grow in the city of Pittsburgh.

By mid-summer, I had watched pumpkin flower after pumpkin flower fail to convert to fruit. I was getting nervous, disappointed, sad that I might not get a pumpkin out of the mass greenery that I had accrued. And then I saw one, a green lump. And under the next leaf over, another green lump. I saw about eight all together, and I knew right then and there that they would turn into proud little pumpkins.

When fall came, a couple had fallen casualty to the wet weather and the slugs, but five were still going strong, ready to be picked, and ready to join the ranks of the big Simmon's Farm pumpkins that were being prepped inside for carving. I gathered them, carefully cutting them from their vines, preserving their gnarled stems. And I might just have named each of them. I seriously think I loved those pumpkins.

Although our Halloween display tended to pale in comparison to the neighbors with spider webs, scarecrows, bushels of hay, and flying ghosts, I couldn't help but think we had the best on the block that year. Because five of the pumpkins were homegrown by me. And not even the first iteration of the puking pumpkin could compete with that.

On October 30, Devil's Night, of 1993, I was really nervous - scared for our display and the little pumpkins that were part of it. The ones that I had spent all summer tending, loving, and nurturing, who were out in the cold, vulnerable, hoping that they wouldn't be targeted by the neighborhood bullies who were notorious for their Devil's Night antics.  I figured it would be okay though - after all, there were better displays to disrupt. I gave them each a hug, said they'd be alright, and found a way to fall asleep.

The next morning, when I woke up, all of our pumpkins were gone. The big carved ones, the ceramic one that my parents loved, and each of my little baby pumpkins. I was so, so sad. The saddest sixth grader in school that day. I thought it was so unfair. Why? Why would someone care so little about the person who loved those pumpkins so much?

I got over it. But to this day, there's a little bit of Don't Mess in me on Devil's Night, which is tonight. And in Big Town, USA, where the pranksters outweigh the police units, I'm pretty sure there are some little punks looking to make their troublesome nature known tonight.

At half time of the Steeler game, we carved our pumpkins. A couple of beauties grown at Maynefield Farm, which is down the street from us.

Then we lit them and put them out to tell the Halloween spoilers to bring it on. Because tonight, I'm ready for them. I've got a Don't Mess Antonio Brown dance in me. I've got the Ancho chili pasted, Don't Mess Beef Brisket Chili that I made for dinner in me.

And I've got the Mr. - the one who taught the obnoxious teens who honked at my little Mini yesterday to think twice before messing - next to my Mrs. And I know that lethal combination will keep all the vagrant teens away.

Ain't no one messing with us ... or our pumpkins this Devil's Night.

Lo.

Claire's Cake

Some families collect jewelry as heirlooms; others collect photos, newspaper clippings and slides; and still others collect letters and the stamps that got them where they needed to go. My family, on the other hand, collects one-liners as family heirlooms - inside jokes and the zealous laughter that corresponds to be passed down from generation to generation. 

My brother, sister, and cousins have an innate skill for finding them, pulling them out into the public, and then corralling the giggles. If those giggles turn into thunderous guffaws, then you know you've got a winner.

There are certain breeding grounds for these one-liners - circumstances, where you just know you're going to hear one. Post Christmas dinner, about the time when the 5th magnum of Champagne has offered its final pour, the "kids" go into silent mode as they wait with baited breath for something like:
Yes, we have a lot to carry ... 
or,
I'm so glad that you're such good friends and that you play together ...
or better yet,
I hate wet salad ...  

Everyone seems to own a one-liner or two (or if you're me, just a word, and there are more like a dozen of them. 'Ka-BOOM!' and 'Mongoloid' will live in infamy.)  My Aunt Dee-Dee has a classic. She is responsible for the quote, "Maybe it's because of the reason." It's a one-liner that we put down in the record books around 2003. My cousin was on her first leave from the Army, and my Aunt had hosted a party complete with her signature apple pie for dessert. When we commented on how delicious it was, she said, "Maybe it's because of the reeeeason ..." And left it at that.

I know. Bad story. Not funny. (I know.) Perhaps it was in the delivery of the line; Or the fact that she never actually told us the reason (one can deduce it was for my cousin who hadn't had a real meal in six months); Or maybe we just wanted something to laugh at that evening; But right then and there, after she said it, we were in stitches and repeating, "maybe it's because of the reason," all night long. 

Last night, after I cut myself my fifth little sliver as a nightcap to my first big hunk of cake, and this morning when I cut myself a piece for breakfast, I did one of those lone laughs and thought, "maybe it's because of the reason." 

Peter said it, not me, it was the best cake yet. And I truly believe, it was because of the reason. It was because of the person who it was lovingly prepared for. Claire.

Last night, Peter and I hosted a little family birthday party for her. As a newbie to the family birthday party throwing, I wanted to make sure it was done with panache, so I planned a retro, The Help inspired feast of buttermilk soaked fried chicken, corn bread, mashed potatoes and gravy, individual spinach souffles, and a cake that would make Aibeleen and Minny proud.

The dinner was great - Well done by all the contributors. But that was the part that Peter, Peggy and I could have done in our sleep.

The cake though, that took a reason - it took the special person it was made for. The kind of person who deserves all the good in life. Who lights up a room the moment she enters it. Who became my lucky 11th follower yesterday (and in turn, the maker of my day.) Who is not only my new sister, but my very good friend. And of course, who is the mother of this adorable bundle of joy. 

Claire's cake started on Wednesday evening when I made the almond layers in between the time I set the jambalaya on simmer and I screwed up the white rice, which made for a 75% edible Wednesday night dinner. I was supposed to make two layers, but I made three instead. Claire deserved three. I let them cool, wrapped them up, and refrigerated them overnight. Then yesterday morning, before the sun's (and Peter's) alarm went off, I made the lemon icing, toasted the almonds, stacked it up, and topped it with powdered sugar.  

Still sleepy-eyed, I posted a photo of it on Facebook, set in the refrigerator to chill, and prayed that it would taste as good as it looked. 

It did. 6 times over and one to grow on this morning. And I gave a silent nod to Aunt Dee for being so spot on. There is only one reason why this cake turned out so well, and that is Claire. I've made everyday cakes, even celebration cakes, but my Claire Cake, that was the winner.

Happy 29th #11.


Lo.

David Lebovitz' almond layer cake with lemon frosting. I followed the recipe exactly, but added another layer (and some more icing.) Oh, and I didn't add a layer of raspberry preserves.I've never liked jelly in cake.

The Cheater

In fifth grade I cheated. I had figured out answers to the first, second and third fill-in-the-blanks. But when I got to fourth, I was stumped. Perhaps, had I read the book I'd have known what Danny's favorite possession was. But as a non-reader, I was solely dependent on class discussion. And we so didn't discuss that minute detail in class.

By the fifth grade, I had actually gotten rather good at taking Reading tests without actually having done any reading. The multiple choice answers were easily deduced; the essays were my bread and butter, mostly because I could always find one little thing we had talked about in class and massage it into an essay about me, which was lauded for its creativity; but the fill in the blanks - ugh, they were tough, and they seemed to multiply in number with every advancing grade level.

With three minutes until the end of class, and with half of my classmates out the door on their way to lunch, I still didn't have an answer for number four. And my stomach was growling. I raised my eyes as if conveying a pensive expression, and then despite my best intentions, my right eye drifted down and then over to Paul B.'s test. Aha! I got it.

Witch

Danny's favorite possession was a ... witch. That makes total sense. Done. Handed it in. Cold chicken patty sandwich, here I come.

The next day when we got our tests back, I cautiously turned it over, hoping that I had miraculously stumbled upon the kind of perfect A+ paper that my sister always received. Instead I revealed that my usual B had turned into a B-/C+. What did that even mean? It meant that Mrs. Harbist was harder than the other Reading teachers I guess. She apparently didn't like my essays. "Use more examples from the novel." Great. Her multiple choices were riddled with double negatives. And her fill in the blanks ... I mean seriously, who reads each line that carefully? I looked at my stolen answer, which was crossed out in red, and glaringly replaced with the word, watch.
Oh.
That actually makes a lot more sense. Danny's favorite possession was a watch. I guess that's why my B- was teetering on the verge of a C+. Mrs. Harbist knew I cheated.

Among my family members, I was labeled as the non-reader. And I literally, made it through second to seventh grade without reading an assigned book for school. I could read perfectly well. In fact, I was always good at reading aloud in class. But I just chose not to. Instead, I paid close attention to class discussions so I could pull out nuggets for the test, but to this day I only have a foggy idea what Number the Stars, Hatchet, Red Badge of Courage, and Island of the Blue Dolphin are about. I did read some American Girl Collection books, mostly so I could play with my Molly doll more effectively. And I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in fourth grade. But besides that, my Book It numbers were completely fabricated. (I guess that would count as the other time I cheated - there was a personal pan pizza on the line, you would have done the same.)

My standardized test scores reflected my voluntary illiteracy too. I was always 98th or 99th percentile in Math, but in English and Reading Compression, I was in the mid 70s - An embarrassing low stat at St. Edmund's and in my family.

I attribute my literary turn around to The Giver. It was the last book that we were assigned in the seventh grade, and I decided to give it a chance. I ended up finishing it in two days - I loved it and wanted to talk about it. My teacher was shocked at my sudden desire to answer every question in class. And I was shocked by how exciting it was to be the go-to respondent. It ignited a spark and in eighth grade I read all the books. Throughout high school I couldn't put the books down. And in college, I switched into a major where all you did was read and write. By the time I applied for MBA school, my test scores had completely shifted. The verbal section trumped the math section, which actually didn't look so good to the right thinking admissions committee, and which made me use my words to negotiate not taking the test again.

Now, as someone who calls reading and writing her profession, it is really hard to believe that the girl who cheated on her Reading test was me. (It's also really hard to believe that at one time I was acing advanced Calculus tests, but that's another story.)

Yesterday, I discovered another past persona that was equally hard to recognize - Lo. I realized that she had changed a lot over the past three years, and that the "About Lo" page on this blog was a little scary. So, delete, delete, delete. Out went the pragmatic dater. Out went the theory of finding a relationship through optimizing your marketing mix. Out went the confidently, clueless single girl who wanted to use the jargon she learned in business school in a more creative way. In came me. I replaced the old Lo with the girl behind the computer.

Who loves cooking, running and traveling. Who keeps her family and friends close and invites them into her stories. Who loves remembering when. Who loves playing all the different roles that life demands of her. Who writes about what she knows now. And who loves being able to say that she is no longer a single girl - she is married. And will never be a cheater. 
Lo.

Winning

Earlier this year, Charlie Sheen lost big. Catastrophically, disastrously, embarrassingly big. However, in outlandish interview after outlandish interview he claimed that he was in fact, winning - that he just had a different definition of the word than the studio execs. We all made fun of him, and said he had gone crazy. But fresh after another Notre Dame loss, I'm thinking perhaps Charlie did know a thing of two. Maybe there was something to his redefinition. After all, I had a winning Saturday despite witnessing a humiliating loss. I do believe us Domers have more in common with Charlie than we thought.

Winning to ND Nation obviously does not mean beating USC under the lights, during the first night game since 1990 ... that would be too easy, too contrite for us enlightened football fans. Instead, we have to define winning in other terms.

For my cousin Tom, winning meant that his smoked ribs were given the seal and siege of approval by Peter.

For Peter, it should have been said ribs, but apparently it was the Song Girls.

(Oh there were more pictures ...)
For my friend Keith, it was the potential of winning a multi-stakeholder bet, gaining a pair of sweet receiver gloves, and coming away from the weekend with MBA bragging rights.

For my friend Rhiannon, it was actually winning that bet.

And for my friend Carrie, it was knowing that she just plain won.

For my brother and sister-in-law it was experiencing a beautiful Notre Dame weekend from a fresh set of eyes.

And for Lyla, it was being the cutest little center of attention ever.

For my sister, it was telling the burly guy next to her to kindly remove his hand from her butt when he began encroaching on her space and comfort zone.
For my parents it was having everyone together for a weekend at the Dondo and having nothing to do but hang out with their family all Saturday morning and afternoon.

For me, it was sitting on the field (I mean, we were on the grass) next to my big sister. And enjoying the game from start to finish. Yes, I was there for the entire game. I heard every song the band played, I saw the Irish run out of the tunnel and onto the field, I did the synchronized hand motion during the 1812 overture, I shouted out the "ARE" of "WE ARE ND," and I left the stadium with all the other disappointed Domers. I hadn't done that since high school probably. And I took it as a personal win.

For the University, winning was the cash cow kind of day that they produced. A day that will hopefully enable the marketing whizzes employed by the University to invest in a couple new pump-up songs other than the first three lines of Crazy Train next year; or a jumbo tron so we can relive the inane, catastrophic mistakes that the team continues to produce; or perhaps rally towels that aren't the same color as the night sky; or better yet, how about a well-coached, well-disciplined, swaggering team, that will finally perform, convert and win.

In the third quarter, when Notre Dame was on the 1 yard line, about to tie up the game, and then fumbled, turned the ball over, and watched USC run it back for a touch down, I remembered exactly why I don't make it through many games anymore. They are downright depressing. After that mistake, and after the compounding ones that followed, I started looking into the crowd more than onto the field. I looked at all the people who had built this weekend up for weeks. I looked at the fathers out there teaching their kids about the legacy of Irish Football, and how this was the year they were going to turn it around. I looked at all the mothers watching their boys get beat up again by USC. And I watched all the students starting to sober up, come down from their high, and lose hope that they will get to lift up the person next to them to do push ups. I watched the crowd's winning air disappear as they realized their golden bubble had popped.    

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, I was a young, but HUGE Irish fan, and I believed that South Bend Saturdays during the Fall had one tag attached to them, and that was winning. The 21st century of Irish football has reshaped that tag. We all think we're winners still - we dress like, walk like it, tailgate like it, and spend money like it. The only problem is, everyone outside of the Dome, calls our bluff week after week. And exposes us. And makes us appear a lot more like Charlie than we'd like.  

I don't have an answer, and I'm no football analyst, I'll leave that up to my brother's comment. But I just hope that someday, when I take my kids to campus, the highlight won't be their trip to the bookstore so they can buy a Notre Dame Fencing shirt, it'll be a relevant Irish win.

While I continue to define a winning Saturday in South Bend by the weather, my outfit, the tailgating scene, and the company I keep, winning on Sundays is still exactly what it should be.

Stuffed cabbage and a big Steelers win.

Lo.

(I adapted Smitten Kitchen's stuffed cabbage recipe in an attempt to remember how my Grandma made hers. The combination worked though and it tasted just as I remembered it.)

The S.

At exactly 5:03 PM on Monday, I was standing at the northernmost end of 3 North, waiting for the elevator, anticipating that sweet ding that officially sounds the end of Monday. If I had timed it right, which I usually do, I would have come away with a solo exodus. Free to get in, rapidly push the 'door close' button, and sail down to P2 where my Mini and I would make a clean get away.

On Monday though, I was not so lucky, I was one of six 3 North elevator riders. Five of which, including myself, had left their cubes and thrown their mute buttons on. They were only separated by an elevator ride from being done for the day, and they weren't about to start it up again. The sixth person though, wanted to talk. And he wanted to talk to me. 
"Hiya .... so ... what are you doing with all your spare time now?"
(Oh crap, he's talking to me. Mute button off.) "Um ... what spare time? What do you mean?"
"Well, now that your wedding is over and now that the marathon is done, don't you have a lot more time? What are you doing with it?"
"Oh ... um ... that time ... I guess nothing really ... (Wrong answer. I couldn't think of anything else to say though. Do people really have spare time contingency plans? I turned my mute button back on.)"

After making the great escape, I spent the car ride home thinking about the free time I've in theory gained since saying "I do" and running around Chicago for 3 hours and 47 minutes. Last week I was traveling, no spare time there. This week, I've got a million things to do at work. What spare time?!

Around 8:30 on Monday night, then on Tuesday morning, and Tuesday night, and then on Wednesday I figured it out. Oh ... that spare time. I literally think I caught myself twiddling my thumbs at 8:37 last night. I don't have a specific, get er done purpose right now, and truth be told, I feel like I have had an excess of time over the past three days. So to your point, elevator talker ... here's what I've done with it ...I picked out the breed of dog that I want to get.

An American Fox Hound. They are really good at exercise. We are going to run marathons together.

I looked at the wedding and honeymoon pictures again. (And again ... and again.)

High five.

I cooked. And baked. And ate. And kept that Frenchie fifteen firmly glued to my waistline.

Pork chops, applesauce and mashed potatoes were the highlight of Tuesday night

I went to bed early. And then earlier. And then earliest.
And then ... last night when I literally found myself twiddling my thumbs, I decided to do a little research. An experiment more or less. I decided to use my Facebook profile as a focus group of sorts, something we've been doing more at work since we don't have the budget to run a real one. I wanted to gauge the reaction of my new, married name. So as of 8:45 or so last night, I dropped the F. and put on the S. Which, I must say, was a little difficult. Mostly, because there is a lot in that F.

In Kindergarten, there were two other girls with the same name as me. In Nursery and Pre-K, I was the one and only. Writing my first name on my show-and-tell item, smock or bag lunch was sufficient. But in Kindergarten, as I was introduced to a W. and an L., and I became the F. The added initial stuck and defined me throughout grade school. 

It made me different than the other Ls. W. was the shy one. L. could stand up to the boys. And I was the loud, dancing, dramatic one, with a slight double chin. Being an F. also put me up front in all lines - to process into Chapel, to get my pizza on Pizza Day, to exit the school in the event there was a fire. The F. did lead to some name calling, but mostly everyone liked L.F. She was fun, unabashed, and hosted one amazing Admore roller rink birthday party.

I started to think about the other stuff that defined L.F. 
She was a little scared of the big slide at Spring Lake.

She didn't stop at three cookies, she always negotiated her way to four. And turned to the hidden Oreos under her bed for five and six.
She was a dancer, a singer, and an actress, and she tended to steel center stage every time the camcorder came out.
She played make-believe in the bushes on Bartlett Street.
She was a St. Edmund's girl who proudly belted out the School Hymn at Chapel.
She was an Ellisian who knew she could be an actress and an all-american athlete.

She was an All Big East lacrosse player at Notre Dame.

She managed a restaurant.Got really tired. And then decided to change careers with an MBA school pivot point. 
L.F. converted her crush.

That guy with the floppy hair.

She started this blog. She finally got the kind of job she had always wanted. She sits on 3N. She ran two marathons. She plays the role of Vanna White at company awards ceremonies. She got engaged. And then she became part of a Mr. and Mrs. equation, where she is supposed to subtract the F.

In a way, and as one of my focus group respondents observed, when I get officially get rid of the F. I will be "a different person." Which is a little hard for me. There is a lot of history, brand equity, and character in the F. But I also know that being an S., despite the fact that our kids will be near the end of the line at school, is huge. As Peter said, it makes us one, which is what marriage is all about. And like any other successful merger, you need to bring together the best of both parties and figure out a name that will convey the "new and improved" of the company to its customers. And that's exactly what my new name will say. 

After the positive reaction I got on Facebook last night, and with the time that I've recently collected, I'm determined to open up the daunting name-changing paper work and suffer through it. I will be dropping the F., keeping my middle name, Louise, and adding an S.

And to alleviate any confusion for my former classmates.I'm no longer L.F, I'm L.S. She's the same old quirky girl, just with a little "new and improved" - "off the market" - "merger complete" on the end.

Lo.

63

Sometimes, Peter jokes that I measure my life in mileage and blog entries. He claims that I believe a good day is putting more than eight miles on my feet and publishing 300-500 words about the who, what, when, where and why people care of my day. And that I believe a bad day significantly lacks in steps and content.

There is a slightly negative undertone to Peter's chide, challenging and pressuring me to think outside my scoring system. And it leads me to bite back against the claim, denying that I really judge my days based on footwork and fodder.
That is SO not true! 
But ... in thinking more about two of my favorite hobbies, two things that do hold the trump card of prioritization in my day, and two things that Peter uses to label me, I'm starting to think there isn't shame in living my life by them. Because I don't only quantify the mileage that I run, I measure the slower paced steps of my walks and strolls. I don't only measure the times that I hit publish, I measure the quality of the senses and sentiments that shape the stories I write the next day. When I assess life, I do it by the steps that I take and the memories that I make. That's not so wrong is it?

For instance, yesterday ranked as an outstanding day. It had the makings of stardom. It was filled with outstanding steps and outstanding stories. And I think Peter would completely agree.

Around noon, I changed out of my sneakers and into my Kate Spade's, a pair of shoes that is just about six weeks old, the same age as the marriage of Peter and I. But within their relatively short lifespan they've been present and privy to a lot of amazing sights: the artisan tile work of Sacred Heart Church on the night that we rehearsed our "I dos," the Casino floor in Monte Carlo, the chi chi beach dining scene in Antibes, and the old cobblestone streets of Saint Germain des Pres in Paris. They have helped shape wonderful memories over the past month, but they hadn't been out of their box since our honeymoon. So I knew we were both in need of the high-healed, momentous mileage they tend to create.

I first took them for a walk down the aisle of Saint Bernard's Church in Mount Lebanon - a walk that brought back many memories of sleepovers at the Cumpstons, Father Walt homilies, and the cousins' reception of the sacraments followed by a run down the hill to Aunt Dee's house for a change of clothes, play time, christening chicken, and one of Aunt Joyce's beautiful, homemade, frosting-covered cakes. Yesterday at Saint Bernard's we saw the marriage of two of our good friends, Greg and Juliette - two of the happiest people that we know. It was beautiful (and the camera would have captured said beauty better than my iPhone had Peter remembered it.)

Then we pushed the pedal on my Dad's Beemer and drove a couple miles down the road to attend another celebration. A private, petite 63rd wedding anniversary party. But because my shoes were so new, they didn't quite understand how big this moment was. They had missed the other anniversary parties, they had just met my Grandpa, and they needed a little education about parties past and just how special my Grandparents are to me.

Well ... there was the 40th anniversary party at this little steakhouse in the South Hills. We had the place to ourselves for the night - to scream "YEAH!" as loud as possible, to relive the first cake cutting, to clink our glasses and ask for a kiss, and to have enough room to fit the growing family into one picture.

Then there was the 50th. I remember the shoes I wore - the original Steve Madden clunkers that every girl had to have. Aunt Joyce's cake got grander, the cake cutting got more ceremonial, the family got bigger, and "how can we forget ..." the speeches got longer.

Then there was the 60th ... Peter made it to that one. The "YEAH'S!" got louder, aunt Joyce made the best cake ever, Grandma looked as beautiful as she did on her wedding day, and I upgraded my shoes to Italian stilettos.

I then told my shoes about all the walks my Grandma and Grandpa had been on together - all the mileage they had covered and how many memories came from it. I told them about one very special walk that my Grandpa included in his note to me on my wedding day. He wrote, "The first time I held grandma in my arms and kissed her was in the alley way leading to her house. That feeling and warmth stays within me to this day and never leaves." I told them that I had a similar feeling of warmth and happiness the moment that I laid eyes on Peter. And that I pray and hope that Peter and I will continue to feel the same kind of love that my grandparents feel today, 63 years from now.

The little celebration we had at Sunrise was quieter than past parties, but it didn't lack in sweetness. There were hugs and squeezes, Croatian toasts, photos to look through, floral arrangements, and reflections on cookie trays, cakes and zucchini breads past.

After a teary end to the anniversary party, we pushed the pedal on to Nevillewood, the dance floor, and the wedding reception of the new Mr. and Mrs. Leutch. Outstanding party.

And although Aunt Joyce didn't make it, the cake was outstanding too.

At the end of the day I probably had more than 15 miles of memories on my feet and hundreds of images and sentiments in my mind that I could easily put to paper. At the end of the day, I confirmed my positioning too, that seeing the world through steps and stories isn't so bad, and I'm glad that I'm writing those stories down two or three times a week. Because there may come a day when I don't remember, and I'll want my groom to read these stories to me, and help me always feel the warmth, the laughter, and the love that I know my Grandma still feels to this day.

Lo.