My Friend Kate

When Molly told me that her sister Kate was looking for a job, I told her to apply to my restaurant. I knew her but not well. She was Molly's younger sister; the second of the Quinlin girls who lived up the street. She was the girl who looked a little bit like Natalie Portman and a lot like Geena Davis, the League of their Own years. She was the pretty sophomore with an attitude. And the appointment before mine with Anne that seemed to take an extra amount of time. I figured she knew the who's who of Pittsburgh, in her interview she confirmed a higher understanding of food culture or at least how to eat, and as an Ellis girl, she could dress the part. Naturally, I hired her.

Like me and so many others before us, she had turned to the restaurant industry as a pivot point in life - as an I'm trying to figure it out, but need money in the meantime gig. We immediately bonded over a lack of direction, good clothes, better shoes, a fear of tipping scales, Chef McDreamy, and the need to get out of Pittsburgh stat. 

In the year or so that we spent as much time together as possible, she taught me some of life's most important lessons. 

That black is best; and that a five pound weight gain can easily be covered up with big hair. 

She taught me how to gracefully dismount a simulated motorcycle ride in Vegas while covering up the giant comprising hole in the jeans that ripped on said attraction. 

She showed me how to laugh off a fall, even when the blood dripping down your knees is staining your four inch heals. 

She let me know that girls had just as much right to unbutton their pants after a big meal as guys. 

Her narcoleptic attacks gave me the confidence to flirt with the boy at the next table, or at least they positioned me as the only available one. 

She showed me how to be a professional by day and a party girl by night. 

She demonstrated that I deserved better. She showed me a reflection of myself that I had failed to see. And she proved that you could look just as good alone as with a guy by your side.  

Kate was the kind of friend I needed. Real and raw. But with the most thoughtful, kind, and caring center. And I continue to feel blessed to have her perspective, sense of humor, and loyal friendship in my life today. 

When we went our separate ways after serving Pittsburgh's fine diners, I wondered, but never worried about where she would end up; I knew she was bound for great things. 

Turned out, she landed a dental residency, then partnership, boyfriend, and condo an expressway away from me in Chicago. And when she told me that the boy loved her, that there was going to be a ring (a big one) and a wedding, I let her know how happy I was. 

On Saturday, Mary and I watched her walk down the aisle, say 'I do', and became a Mrs. And I showed my little girl just who can put the pretty in princess. Kate looked more radiant than ever - sure it was the hair and makeup, the dress and the shoes - but mostly it was the glow in her eyes as she looked up at her husband - on the altar, around the dance floor, behind her tiered burnt almond torte, and in front of all her guests. 

And ironically, I found myself applying several of Kate's life lessons on Saturday; I wore black to cover up my six and a half month large baby bump, I made my hair a little bigger to compensate for a hearty weight gain; and I found a way to laugh after stumbling down the stairs of Heinz Chapel, skinned elbow, crying baby, and all. 

And Steve, like me, I'm sure you already know that when fall, there's no one who can pick you up and still make you feel fabulous better than Kate. 

Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Looking forward to your eventual move to the Burbs ...   

Lo. 

Open House

At the end of our block on Bartlett Street, at the peak of the hill I used to scale and fly down on my bike, was a ruddy red brick, Georgian Colonial house. The Spolar Family lived there.

Mr. had a mustache, a beard and a hearty laugh. He was slightly shorter than Mrs. who was tall, thin and the first Marathoner I knew. They were really nice, had three cute kids, and went to the same grocery store, ballet teacher, and dynamo soccer field that we did. They were the only other family on the block who decorated with a Christmas tree instead of a menorah in December. And every year, I looked forward to their holiday party.

The Spolars were one of the only couples to send an invite addressed to the whole family. My mom, dad, brother, sister and I were all invited to their annual Open House. Kids were welcomed with open arms. Santa came. The food and liter Cola were great. And Mr. and Mrs. were cordial, gracious, and unphased by children running around their home every year.

I can still see my route upon entering their house. First, to the buffet table in the dining room which hosted the minty layered brownies that I had waited 365 days to bite into again. Then to the kitchen for a Coke. Next, upstairs to check out the action in the playroom. In my red smocked jumper I wasn't dressed for indoor hoops, so back downstairs to grab more brownie bars and cozy up under their Christmas Tree, waiting for Santa and a candy cane. I always felt at home in their house. And I don't think I ever really appreciated their hospitality until recently.

***

On Sunday afternoon, Peter and I were getting ready to open up our backyard and ultimately our house to some neighbors, friends and family for some good old fashioned fun. Peter had schlepped a truck load of apples back from Southern Illinois, Double G's famous press was getting a scrub down, and my pregnant belly was grumbling for cider.




A couple weeks ago, when I sent out the family-friendly invite, I neglected to do a count. And I kind of forgot that all of our go-to guests have kids of their own now. So on Sunday morning, when Peter asked me how many we were expecting, I started to panic. I ball parked. 20? 25?

By 3:30, we were nearing 40. Children were running around playing hide and seek in our back yard; there was ample man power quartering apples, smashing them, and pressing them into fall's sweet nectar; kids were lined up under the spout of the press to drink cider from its source; apples flew, crackers crumbled, and little hands got a little messier with each chocolate chip cookie. Even when the party and some leaves flew inside, I found myself just taking it all in and smiling. Mostly, because I saw how much fun all the kids were having, including Mary. And I thought this was just the way Grandpa Barry would have wanted it.

After this weekend, I'd like to think that I have a little Spolar in me. And I believe I have uncovered one of the secrets to a really great fall party - inviting the kids. The novelty of fresh apple ciders is made just for them. 

Lo.    

Trick or Treat

It's Friday, I'm exhausted, and I'm out of words. So I'll use Mary's. 

Pumpkin. 

Candy. 

Kelton. 

Cute. 

Gnome. 

Shoes. 

Hat. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

Walk. 

House. 

Girl. 

Trick or trrrrrreat. 

Mommy! 

House. 

Door. 

Trick or trrrrrreat. 

Candy. 

Elf. 

Friend. 

Cold. 

Snow. 

All done. 

And so am I, Mary.  

Night night. 

Happy Halloween. 

Love you my little Gnome. 

Lo. 

Happy Ghosts

In my lifetime, I have seen very few horror movies. And there's a reason for that. I'm an easy scare and prefer sweet dreams over scary ones. Growing up, the Gremlins, Seymour the man-eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors, the head Witch in the film adaptation of Roald Dahl's the Witches, and the two hoodlums that engaged our Ford Taurus in a car chase around Squirrel Hill gave me my fill of fear. These were the images of my nightmares; the reason I didn't want to go into the basement alone; why the tropical plant room at Phipps Conservatory could be bypassed; and the rationale behind yelling at Peter for passive aggressive driving to this day.

At night, I would run into my parents room if I had a dream haunted by a Gremlin or Witch, hoping to be welcomed by my Mom's healing embrace. But before she could even extend an invitation for me to climb up next to her, my Dad was leading me back to my room, back to my bed. He would nestle me under the covers, pat my back, and sooth me into a sweeter slumber.

***

I often wonder what Mary dreams about at this young age. I have to imagine her stuffed bunnies and bears make appearances. There's likely lots of milk and a couple tea cookies from Kirschbaums. Chalk and crayons, red and yellow leaves, Dora and Diego, buses, trucks, trains, and bikes. Oma and her potato pancakes.
   

Mommy's icing. And the layers of pumpkin cake inside.  



Jooooooe.


Walking and running with Nanny and Opa in the forest, crossing bridges, and quacking like the duckies.

I like to think she dreams of her family and friends and all the fun that life has already presented to her.

However, for the past three weeks, I've been alerted by a scream in the middle of the night to something else entering my little girl's dreams.

'Ghosts.'
'Ghosts.'
'Ghosts'

You might think or so I thought, she's one and a half, how does she know what ghosts are? And how does she understand that they are scary?

Oh.

That's right. Throughout the whole month of October, my cushy neighborhood is staged like a horror movie. Million dollar homes have scenes straight out of hell displayed in their front yards. And I'm supposed to explain to my 19-month old that hey, that's not scary; those are 'happy ghosts' and 'nice witches' and they love you.

Every year, the suburban execution of Halloween seems to get more petrifying. The collection of skeletons in everyone's California Closets expands and by October 1, there is a mad dash to spew as much blood and gore on professionally pruned lawns as possible. I don't get it. And quite frankly, I'm getting mad about it.

Ironically, it was Opa, or the Notre Dame Leprechaun that Mary calls, 'Opa' that saved the day the past two nights. She demanded that he come to bed with her, and just like that, he used his Irish heritage to fight off the ghouls trying to get into Mary's crib.

To set expectations for the rest of the babies and toddlers on the block. You will never find scares at the White House. Just treats. And they will always be the king size ones. 

Lo. 

Somebody

I grew up with a Mom and Dad who were somebodies. Big wigs. Court champions. Life savers. Artisan bread winners. And I had a dream of reaching their ranks; basking in my own professional prowess.

As an enterprising youngster propped up by my Dad's proclamation that I'd be successful at whatever I decided to do, I felt that I was well on my way. I dabbled in the homemade greeting card business. I up sold my car washing capabilities. Playing restaurant was no game; there was always a bill and suggested tip for the only meal on the menu I could make. From an early age, I knew how to work. And I envisioned my entrepreneurial experiences adding up to something substantial someday. I wasn't going to be anybody. I was going to be somebody.

***

Last week, my right eye started bothering me. After eight hours staring at my computer screen, it was blood shot, dry, and headache inducing A couple drops and a night of firm shut eye later, it was still irritated so I went to see a doctor.

I had never been to an eye specialist before, so I wondered if he would find anything that I hadn't already detected. Vision checked out. Coloring was fine. But yeah, there was something on my eye. It was an ulcer. And I needed to take steroid drops to make it go away. Guarantee baby #2 will be bigger than Mary's slight 5 pound birth frame.

Toward the end of the exam and around the time I had finished explaining my current occupation as Burger Girl, he saw something else in me.

'So you're somebody,' he said.

I perked up at the classification and the novelty of it in my life. My ears rang with pride. Sure, I left out the layers of leadership above me making the real decisions, but I had done it. Even to a physician, I had escalated to a person of interest.

The next day, still high on my somebody status, Mary and I pulled up to her great grandmother's house to take some fall photos. And as always, I was humbled in her presence.

'Gigi,' Mary said.

She welcomed us with her warm smile and sweet embrace. She showed Mary her bronze bull in the kitchen and her doll from Guatemala. She had cookies shaped like pumpkins all in a row, waiting for her little loved ones. Dozens of poses, snap shots and outtakes later, she was still smiling and laughing, surrounded by her bevvy of beautiful great grand children.

When our little fall photo shoot was over, she offered to take all of her grands and great grands to the most magical place in the Western Suburbs - McDonald's. 'Gigi,' Mary said again with a glow. Yep, honey, that's Super Great Grandma Shirley, SGGS.  

It made me think of the way that Mary says, Mommy. When she points to my car in the drive-way. When she introduces me to her friends on the block. When she tells me to sit right there, next to her. When she needs a hug in the middle of the night. To Mary, I'm love, comfort, and care. I'm silliness and songs; explorations and adventures. Colors, happy ghosts, and chalk. I'm somebody, no matter what rung of the corporate ladder I'm able to reach. 

You're only somebody if you're somebody to someone else. And when I was snapping SGS' photo last weekend, I stopped and said, now that is somebody. 

Lo.