Bittersweettoast

You've probably noticed that my productivity this month has dropped off significantly. Writer's block? Not exactly. Life has gotten in the way and, in particular, the passing of a generation has stymied my creativity. My stepmom died last week, and as is so often the case with those battling a terminal disease, the speed of her decline was both a blessing and a shock. Emotionally, I was on a different timeline, one that would allow at least a few more conversations, maybe even one more visit. Instead, a generation in my family slipped away before my siblings and I really had time to ponder what this means. We are the sole survivors who will now need to take it upon ourselves to plan gatherings. It's up to us to pass down stories and traditions to keep our parents' memories alive. As with most new stages in life, I feel woefully unprepared, maybe because I'm the baby in the family. For every ten pictures taken of my brother as a baby, I got one. My brother and sister...

We enjoyed a trip of extremes two weeks ago, starting in LA and ending in Whistler, B.C. College family weekend, swim meet, then skiing. Water in two very different forms took center stage, which got me thinking about H-two-oh. Solid, liquid, gas -- we use it in so many ways and for many different reasons. As a novice bartender, my biggest battle has been with my freezer. How do I allow my beautiful ice cubes to cohabitate with my frozen peas and Trader Joe's Mandarin Orange Chicken? Flavors in a drink can mask the added flavors that sneak into the ice, but I know that I'm serving an inferior product. The ice cubes that most regrigerator ice makers produce are also less than appealing -- the cubes are the wrong shape and melt too quickly. I've done a little research and the prospects, though extreme, are tempting.  Apparently I'm not alone in my obsession. The first article I read ditched the home ice cube tray and suggested freezing water in a large bowl...

After seeing the movie "50/50" several years ago, I declared at the dinner table that in my next life I would be marrying Joseph Gordon-Levitt . My family's reaction was surprisingly nonchalant. Granted, I was talking about my "next" life and about a man who is twenty years younger and a wildly successful young actor. These minor hurdles have a way of neatly working out in your next life, a fact I just love about the next life. I've been hooked on Joseph Gordon-Levitt ever since seeing his Glee-like rendition of the Hall and Oates tune "You Make My Dreams" in the movie "500 Days of Summer."  Go ahead, click on that link. I guarantee you'll be smiling by the end. I know, I am setting the bar quite high, but I do have a backup if things with Joseph don't exactly work out.  A few months ago I was listening to Fresh Air on NPR and tuned in midway through an interview with J.R. Moehringer, author of the memoir The Tender Bar . While...

I have been in love with everything French since sixth grade despite my first French teacher's attempts to make all her students dislike the subject immensely. Madame Gishe (pronounce "Geesh")  did not treat us as the sauve debonaire newly-minted middle schoolers that we were. To her we were more like second graders who could be controlled with the help of M&Ms. If we "behaved", we would each receive two (yes, two) M&Ms at the end of the period.  Being the clever sixth graders that we were, it quickly became apparent that this system of rewards was in need of repair. As a class we agreed to present our most angelic side to Madame Gishe and thus convince her that we could help pass out the M&Ms at the end of class. After all, there were a lot of us, and surely she had other tasks to perform. It took her a while to realize how quickly we were decimating her supply, and for those few lovely weeks she actually convinced several of my fellow students tha...

I'm starting to think that maybe I should skip over the month of February. Last year, ironically on Valentine's Day, we spent the afternoon at Children's Hospital and learned that a bump on our daughter's arm might just be sarcoma. A bump she had had for seven years following a run-in with a faulty tree branch; a run-in that resulted in a broken arm. A bump that various doctors assured us was scar tissue. A bump that naggingly hung around, causing pain from time to time. A bump we finally decided to diagnose with an MRI. That's when we learned that life can turn on a dime. For one scary twenty-four hour period of time, we contemplated what this diagnosis would mean. We left the day-to-day world of school, work, chores, activities, etc., and turned inward. Life had been awfully kind to us on the whole. Maybe it was our turn to deal with a curveball. I thought about all those parents who, in times like this, hold steady for the sake of their child. I was not this kind...

Many years ago when our children were little, my husband and I went through a rough patch in our marriage as we adapted to our relatively new parental roles and tried to understand how we each had changed and been changed through the process. We sought the help of a counselor who, after meeting for the first time, assigned us the task of writing a family mission statement. Covertly we both rolled our eyes, but, good students that we were, we completed the assignment. Now, a dozen years later, I am still surprisintly fond of that mission statement. The last paragraph, in particular, which seemed so futuristic when we wrote it, is becoming more and more in focus. "As we grow older we will seek flexibility in dealing with new situations as they arise. We hope to gracefully transition from the parent/child relationship to that of a peer with our children. We hope to always learn from and accept the values, cultures, and spiritual beliefs of others. And may our children and their...

It snowed at our house ten days ago, somewhere between a half inch and an inch, and that light dusting still lingers. On days when blue skies prevail, the sun does its best to begin the melting process, but that's a difficult proposition when the thermometer stays below freezing. Then the fog settles in, encasing that light dusting in another layer of frost. Sun. Fog. Sun. Fog. Fog. Fog. Resolutions, as we all know, are hard to maintain. When the sun comes out I feel empowered to take them on. But when the fog rolls back in, all I want is a warm blanket and a comfy couch. Resolutions be gone. Is this how people my age start thinking longingly about places like Florida and Arizona? Am I just getting soft in my old age? This schizophrenia, I fear, has trickled down into my drink choices. I have struggled these last few weeks to find a direction for my mixological ways. When blue skies prevail, I think about light summertime drinks. But when the skies are grey a...