The Great Gun Debate

I come from an anti-gun establishment - a household where even the purchase of a Super Soaker was scrutinized. Real or fake, in my family, purchasing a gun was out of the question. So as kids, we played the kind of non gun-toting make believe that always threw our friends for a loop when they came over.

Well ... we're not equipped to play cowboys and Indians here. Would you like to reenact the Johnstown Flood instead?

I did hold and shoot a gun - once. Riflery elective, session II of Calvary Camp, 1999. The sole reason I joined this elective was to have the counselor that I had a crush on help me handle my gun. But since I was the awkward 17-year old camper, I ended up getting no attention at my station, pulled the trigger, and launched a shot that missed the target, hit something else, and ricocheted, Christmas Story style, back at my lip. Blood dripping from my mouth was not the hippie hot look I wished to impress that day. I did finally get some attention from the cute counselor, but it wasn't the fawning kind - it was more medical and carried with it incredulous facial expressions that in so many words told me how moronic I was. 

Peter, on the other hand, would have been a Riflery ace. He didn't only grow up playing Cowboys and Indians, he had the tools and resources to stage bank robberies, war reenactments, and espionage thrillers. He collected pocket knives to forge trails through the uncharted parts of Bemis Woods Forest Preserve. His favorite section of any museum is the armory collection. And he hunts. Like puts on camouflage pants and hunts. 

So I live in a house divided by the gun debate.
He's for.
I'm against.
My rationale, and it's good enough for me: I'm scared of them; I've heard too many stories of accidents; And I don't see any reason why I should want or need to own one. The "yah" side of the equation thinks I need an education - that if only I knew a little more about them, I would immediately jump in line to register for a gun owner's license.

While I stringently held my ground, Peter instituted lesson one in my education this weekend.

Lesson 1 - The Goose


For the past eight months, ever since they deemed it warm enough to fly back to Chicagoland, the nearly domesticated River Walk geese have etched out their territory, Sharks verses Jets style, along the River Walk. They literally own certain parts of it, forcing pedestrians to run way off course, less they be maimed by these blood sucking geese. About four months ago they decided to mate with anything that flies, and soon enough they didn't just have a section, they claimed the whole thing. 

I f-ing HATE these geese. Every morning, they hiss, spread their wings, run at me, snap at me with their freaky beaks, and try to cross one more human off their most wanted list.

When Peter told me that he was going to go hunting for geese on Saturday, I became entirely present in the conversation. I started thinking that his gun might just come in handy. I asked if he was going to do it on the River Walk, which was apparently an inane question, but wherever he was going to do it, I figured it would be curbing the overpopulated population of the most annoying geese known to man.

Peter spent Saturday morning hunting with friends and Saturday night telling me about it.

His photos were stunning. Straight out of Field and Stream. And they actually made me want to see the world from a hunter's point of view sometime.

The troop shot ten geese and one duck. 

 

And I received four goose breasts. I don't want to know how, but they arrived deplumed, deskinned, and ready to prepare. And I have to admit, I thought, 'Now ... I will have my vengeance. Monday, we will have a roast goose feast.'

Yesterday, I marinated the breasts all day. Then in the evening, butterflied them, tenderized them, and rolled them up with a caraway seasoned apple, pecan stuffing. I roasted them at 350 degrees for about 50 minutes and served them with potatoes and pan gravy. 

It was good. Gamey. Hearty. Satisfying. Straight out of the Kings Crown Tavern in Historic Williamsburg good. And I was kind of happy that I had done my part to clean up the River Walk. 

I'm still not sold on the NRA and will continue to anticipate debates and lessons (which hopefully will have a squirrel or two in them.) But until it's finally cold enough for those damn geese to fly south and bother the old folks in Florida, I'm telling them to get out of my way because my husband's got a gun!

Lo. 

The Brewer's Bock

Around midnight last night, after manning the most central post at the registration desk at my organization's annual fundraising gala; judging each and every dress that walked by me; winning the self-designed registration throughput competition; handing out awards on stage; and finally, snickering with my co-workers about the creepy guy stroking his wife's back as Richard Marx sang "Right Here Waiting for You," I arrived home. But ... not to our atomic ranch. To our brewery. And not to Peter, the banker. To Peter, the brewer. The garage smelled like the deep fryer, the kitchen like hot sauce. (hmm ... chicken wings). The Boss Cruiser was in the middle of the garage waiting to tell me about all the adventures it had been on today with Peter. The Brew like a Monk, Clone Brews, and Brewer's Bible books were off the shelf and ear marked for tomorrow's chemistry. The yeast was rising. And my little brewer was asleep on the couch, hoppily dreaming.

The opening of the cookie jar, the unavoidable noise of biscotti eating, and the laborious face washing needed to remove the stage make-up shellacked to my face woke him up. Groggily, he told me about his big doppelbock plans tomorrow, and I agreed once again to be his brewnette. 

To marry Peter, was to marry a brew master - to inherit a garden lined with hops and a basement full of specialized brewing equipment. It meant that I only had room to shelve two collections of varietal specific wine glasses, because he needed the rest of the shelving for his collections of stout, porter, ale, pilsner, and Belgian glasses. It meant that I needed to include every issue of Zymurgy that ever was in my attempt to categorize and organize the mountainous library of books and periodicals that we have accumulated. It meant that I had to accept shopping dates to the Brewing part of Brew and Grow. It meant that we would always have a home brew or two on tap, and that every other month, we would dedicate a Saturday or Sunday to brewing.

So today. We brewed.

Well, Peter did most of the brewing, while I observed, learned a little more, guessed how many degrees the concoction was at various temperature reading parts of the process, and documented the different steps.

After five hours of brewing, we (he) created the first phase of a doppelbock - a malty, hearty, dark beer that monks used to drink during their Lenten fast as a meal replacement of sorts.

And while he created, I embraced what a brewing day meant for me. Time to hang out with the brewer - to talk and laugh with him. Time to read - and how fitting, I'm reading the Brussels Chapter of Neither Here Nor There by Bill Bryson. Time to go for a run. (Or two.) Time to update the scrap book. And time to plan the warming menus that will accompany the Bock this winter after its finished its fermentation.

The bock is resting now. And so is its brewer. And while I figure out dinner tonight, something that will go with the Belgian Wit that was tapped as I typed, I can confirm once again, that this is the place, both physically and mentally, that makes me happiest.

Lo.

Leftovers. But Cookies for the Cookie Jar

I've been told that it's just because it's the honeymoon period. I hear side remarks, breathy whispers, and Outlook Messenger dings expressing that it won't last much longer.
Just watch - she won't be cooking like that in two months. Just wait till she has kids - she won't have the time. Just think how much she's spending on groceries every night. Just look at how much easier it is to order in.

Pshaw. For two months, plus the four years that Peter and I were dating before we said, "I Do", I've proved the nay-sayers wrong. I've continued to cook, and usually something new and different, just about every night that we're together. And fine, we still might be in our honeymoon period, but my goal is to never leave it. My goal is to live, at least after hours, during the weekend, and during our vacation days, like we are back in the south of France.

Tonight, I feel like the others got the best of me though. I gave in a bit. Instead of staying on the Champs Elysees part of our honeymoon, I took us into the more humble part of town. Leftover-ville. A place that wasn't on the itinerary - a place that I've had a love / hate relationship with in the past.
(Love: Veal Parmesan, Thanksgiving Day, and Goulash leftovers.
Hate: Meatloaf leftovers. And for some reason, more often than not, the leftover on tap growing up was always meatloaf.)
But a place that I thought we needed to give a shot.

With a refrigerator full of Tupperware from a week's worth of overcooking; with a closer eye on the budget; and with a renewed commitment to not being wasteful, I decided we were going to have innovative instant replay. The Chili from Sunday was, "poof!" turned into beef brisket tacos for Peter; I indulged in the creamy spinach, sausage and pine nut pasta from Tuesday which was zested up with the small pumpkin from our porch roasted to perfection; and the remaining enchilada accoutrement from our celebration of La Dia de los Muertos on Wednesday was our salad.

It worked, and we still toasted the meal. But I felt like I was leading us astray - that if I kept it up I would lead us right out of honeymoon land. So I figured I could make up what I lacked on the stove, in the oven. I took out the flour, sugar, butter, and eggs; almonds, lemons, and cointreau; and whipped up one of my favorite desserts - biscotti. Those heavenly, long, thin logs that Mia's grandma used to send her; that Mia used to store in the kitchen for a snack after practice; that I used to wake up at 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning to not-so secretly steal. Those perfect cookies that are conceivably light enough to have five or six. And the cookies that I was dying to have the perfect recipe for.

I turned to Smitten Kitchen of course - her "hole in one recipe" was all that. And with the added lemon zest, a little more. Five or six. That would be kind. 

By 8:30, we had moved out of leftover-ville and into the upgraded Italian influenced patisserie around the corner. Better yet, by 8:30, we had more leftovers, and they filled the cookie jar. So tomorrow, after Peter takes off his costume ...

And I'm relieved of my Vanna White duties, we will be able to come back to our honeymoon phase over a biscotti or two.

Lo.

The Saints, The Souls, and Me

It is really hard to believe, but I have a planning meeting tonight for Christmas - a little family dinner to discuss the who, what, where and how of the tree trimming, turkey carving, church going, and present opening of 2011. (The first time I will do it away from Pittsburgh.) I also just designed my very first photo card for Christmas; picked out invitations for our rocking retro Christmas Party where I will definitely be making deviled eggs; and downed a cup of Starbucks coffee with the message, 'When we're together snowmen come to life' on it. (My hunch is that they were trying to convey that Starbucks was magical or something, but I'm seriously wondering how that agency pitch made it out of Seattle and into a store near you.) The blood, guts, goblins and ghouls are slowly coming down from the trees, windows, porches, and doors of Naperville, and in their place are going twinkling lights, wreaths, and the G-Rated collection of lawn ornaments. It's officially the holiday season. And like I said, I can't believe it.

I always complain about it, but I hate how our culture says, 'forget about November, forget about Thanksgiving, let's get right into the job creating, economy stimulating, consumer sentiment raising Christmas holiday.' But this year, it's really bothering me. This year has already gone fast enough, why do we need to rush it more?

So I've decided to give November and it's holidays, their due attention. Starting with the first and second of the month - All Saints and All Souls Days. All Saints is an obligatory church going day for us Catholics, and All Souls is more of a suggested thing. (They never seem to want to make you go two days in a row.) And in my own little way, I celebrated both.

On Tuesday evening, after leaving work a little early, I joined a full church of parishioners to celebrate the Saints, to pray for their intercession, and to hope that one day I might be like them. The mass started and ended with St. Edmund's Chapel classics - (down beat) "For All the Saints ..." and "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones." I didn't even need to turn to page 783 in my blue book to belt out the words. I knew verses one through five of both hymns by heart.

The music coordinator missed my all-time favorite hymn though - it wasn't included in the line-up for the evening. I really wanted to sing, "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God." The best. It's all about who the saints were - just regular old folks like us - "one was a doctor, and one was a queen, and one was a shepherdess on the green" - and how we should aspire to be like them too.

But just as I was thinking about that song and its message, the priest delivered a homily that said all that and more. He said that we tend to hold the Saints up like super heroes - like they were born with some super human power. But by seeing them in that way, we are actually diminishing how special they were. He said, that they were just as human as us - and that they just chose God's way over the world's even when it was very difficult. He said that we had the ability to do so too and asked why we chose the way that wasn't right. I rarely commend a priest on his homily when I shake his hand upon leaving church, but this time I did. "Great homily Father."

Yesterday was All Souls Day, and although I didn't make it to mass, I was able to find some quiet time during the day to pray. And to think about the friends and family members who have gone before me. In particular, I prayed for one of the kids who used to belt out "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God" with me - a St. Edmund's classmate that passed away three days ago.

Eric was perhaps the funniest person at that school. Making fun of Ms. Pimentel's cuatro, creating the world's largest paper hat and hanging it from the English room, molding clay into a nacho and cheese bowl instead of "something beautiful," and transforming Katy's school photo into "The Cap'n," were just a small sampling of the things that made me laugh as hard as Meredith makes me laugh today. He was actually my inspiration for becoming the prankster of the Ellis School and enticing Nicole to get involved with me, locking Katy in Latin Class, writing all over Mr. Walker's chalk board and steeling his erasers, and throwing Jessica's clogs in the bin to go to Chinoux Village in Peru. I always thought, I definitely brought a little bit of Eric to Ellis today.

I was very sad to hear about his passing yesterday, and it made me think that more than ever, I need to take each day at a time - to live life to the fullest - and to continue to think about the Saints and trying to live my life as they would have.

So I've decided to postpone thinking about how snowmen will come to life when drinking a Grande Pike, and I'm focusing on this holiday message at the start of the season ... "there's not any reason, no, not the least, why I shouldn't be one too."

Lo.

The Scariest Suburb

My family was great at Easter. We excelled at Thanksgiving. And Christmas - we owned Christmas, trumping everyone on our 95 percent Jewish block.

Halloween, on the other hand, was never our strong suit. I don't know why, but there was always a bit of a halfhearted approach. Sure, we went to the pumpkin farm, carved pumpkins, and went trick or treated, but in comparison to the rest of the neighborhood and the rest of my classmates, we weren't a die hard Halloween family.

 

The costume department was probably our ultimate weak spot. My Dad was a-okay going back and forth to the store ten times a year for more Christmas lights, but going to the store for Halloween? Nah - we had an attic full of hidden gems - boxes and boxes of random articles of clothing, accessories, and favors from black tie galas past that that we could turn into something more special than store bought.

My sister was actually pretty good at this game - She went upstairs, and poof became a scarecrow one year. A gypsy another year. And her biggest accomplishment, a Minnie Mouse the year after that.

I on the other was not so convinced by the magic of our boxes labeled, "Halloween." From our collection, I spent three Halloweens trick-or-treating as a Chinese person (whoever thought that was appropriate, I have no idea), many others dressed up as a fairy tap dancer by putting on one of my old dance costumes and adding a wand, and this youthful Halloween below as a kindergartner in her nightgown. Perhaps I was trying to be Wendy Darling. 

Around the age when I threw on my Mom's long velvet gown circa 1976 along with a crown, and someone dubbed me "Miss Cellaneous" on my candy mongering walk around Squirrel Hill, I decided to throw in the towel on Halloween. I was never going to be good at it.

When I moved to Naperville, the reality of my Halloween negligence really hit. The folks of Bigtown, USA, don't just put a costume and call it a day, they transform block after block into an all-out fright fest.

Basically, you've got all these people who have moved out to the burbs to be safe - away from the parts of town where the murder rates are just slightly lower than the high school graduation rates. But then on Halloween they stage scenes straight out of American Horror Story, True Blood or CSI. Over the past week, I have run by corpses hanging in trees, skeletons straight out of a biology lab, Jason and Freddy and Chucky (OH MY!), ghosts that look far more like the KKK than cute little Casper, blood, gore, guts, and the happiest of people making minor adjustments to their horrid front lawns.

Yesterday, Roscoe and I did a little stake out and took some photos.  

Scary right? Now imagine going for a little jog by this stuff before the sun goes up - frightening! And then imagine the attics where all this stuff is stored when Halloween is over. Heart attack producing 'AHHHs!!!' would be coming from me.

So, I'm out. I will never be as good at Halloween as all the rest of America. But look at this way kids, the money I've saved on costume purchases and lawn ornaments, I've invested in your candy. And that makes me the best house to trick or treat at in Naperville.

Lo.

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.)