Why do I have to eat this?

Yesterday, I tried to live blog cooking with William on Daddy Daze’s Facebook fan page (you’re a fan, right?). It didn’t really work because Facebook is a pain in the ass. But that’s not important. What’s important is why I did it: It’s our responsibility, our duty to make the dishes we grew up with, to honor the women who prepared them and to teach our own children to do the same. By eating green bean casserole, polenta and spinach and chicken with mushroom sauce we show our respect for the hard-working women who fed a hungry family on a razor thin budget.

After undergraduate school, I lived in a basement apartment about the size and shape of a phone booth. At one end was a twin bed, and at the other end was a love seat. Next to the bed was a narrow, wooden crate. I kept my alarm clock on that shelf and my TV — an appliance I received as a pity loan — balanced on top. At the foot of the bed was a closet so shallow that the corners of the hangers bumped the back of the door.

Between the bed and the love seat was what I called the kitchen. A white enamel counter top followed the wall for about five feet before bending into an “L” and extending for another two feet. In the center was a sink about the size of a large dictionary. Next to that were two electric burners — a glorified hot plate.

Beneath the stove, just before the “L,” was a small refrigerator that may have been designed by Fischer-Price. Inside was a freezer about the size of a shoebox that sealed itself closed with ice every seven to ten days. Typically, people place things into a freezer for long-term storage. If I failed to eat my frozen goods quickly, I had to free them with a hammer.

I had no phone (I used a pay phone in town) and no car.

What I did have was food.

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At the ready

How did you find out?

My narcissistic daughter loves looking at pictures of herself. Earlier this week she got out one of the scrapbooks. The first page features a used EPT stick. “What’s that?” she asked. “Oh, that’s just something your mother peed on and decided to keep sealed behind velum forever,” I thought to myself.

“That’s just a stick, honey,” I said. “Let’s see what else we can find.” She accepted my non-explanation and turned the page. I, however, was still thinking about that stick.

When we first suspected that my wife was pregnant, we got one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests. I remember sitting on the bed while she was in the bathroom. I also remember floating on the ceiling and watching myself sitting on the bed, which I believe is what they call an “out-of-body experience.” She returned from the bathroom with the used test and a puzzled expression.

“That looks blue, right?” she asked, handing it to me.

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Greatest portrait ever

Click for full version.

Toy of the Week: Magnetic tile building set

Buying toys for kids is hit-or-miss. Often times you’ll labor over a decision to buy. “Will she really like this? Is it worth fifty bucks? OH MY GOD DID I JUST CONSIDER SPENDING FIFTY BUCKS ON A TOY FOR THAT INGRATE?”

Others you toss down onto the floor in hopes that it’ll keep their pie holes sealed long enough to get dinner on the table.

Then there are those magical toys with near-hypnotic powers. They keep the kids engaged — appropriately engaged, not assaulting each other — for an hour or more. The next day, they’re still playing with it. And the next day. It’s a miracle, and in that moment you don’t care how much the damn thing cost.

This magnetic tile building set is one of those toys.

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Pre-skate

Mommy’s way vs. Daddy’s way

Shortly before Grace was born, we attended “parenting prep” classes at the hospital. When the nurse wasn’t showing us just how pliable my wife’s vagina could be, she was offering practical advice. The most useful, it turned out, was directed toward the future moms.

“Moms, don’t pay attention to the way Dad does things.”

Now let me make it very clear that this is NOT one of those “silly fumbling Daddy just can’t get the poopy diaper right” deals that seems to pass as comedy these days. I detest that nonsense and, frankly, find it insulting. However, it is true that my wife and I do certain things differently. For example:

• I have washed my son off with the sprayer in the kitchen sink. I’m pretty sure my wife has not.
• I told Grace that sticking raspberries on the ends of her fingers is “funny.” I think “rude” was the word my wife used.

• I’ve noted that I think it’s a riot when Grace’s  poo-poo “looks like tortellini,” and encourage her to compare it to other nouns in her world: Animals, toys, even Dora the Explorer.

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On the beach

Enter sandman

We live by the beach, and we’ve got a sandbox in the backyard, so the kids are around sand all of the time. Since we’d like to keep as much of the sand outside of the house as possible, we’ve taken the steps that help a coastal family survive a sandy summer.

First of all, the outdoor shower is up and running to rinse the kids. As soon as we get home it’s swimsuits off and under the shower. Also, the clothesline has been strung up for the swimsuits and Strawberry Shortcake beach towels (as an aside, nothing says “Manhood” like pinning Strawberry Shortcake beach towels and princess swimsuits to a clothesline). I’ve also mounted several hooks to the ceiling of the tool shed to hang bags of toys, beach chairs and so on.

It sounds like we’re well prepared, but Bill still manages to smuggle sand into the house.

In his butt.

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Remember that?

I remember my father in  his twenties — younger than I am now — wearing plaid pants, dollar store slippers and a bright blue t-shirt that read “Master of Disaster” in fuzzy iron-on letters. A soggy cigar hung from his mouth. It was early in the morning, and we had already been up for hours, fishing for our breakfast in a Canadian lake. Standing in the grass, he was gutting a perch. I must tell you, there’s nothing quite like sawing the head off of a still-gasping fish.

Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

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