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.

For first time, I alone was responsible for what I ate. In college I went to the cafeteria. Before that, I lived at home. So I started cooking. Each weekend, I’d grab my backpack, climb onto my bike and ride to the small grocery store about a mile away. With my haul strapped down with bungie cord, I’d ride home.

Combine 1/4 oz. 2 lbs. cremini mushrooms (halved if small, quartered if large); 1 onion halved and sliced thin; 2 tsp. olive oil; 1/4 rinsed and dried porcini mushrooms; 1 tsp. minced fresh rosemary; 1/4 tsp. salt in a large Dutch oven. Cover and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened, about 10 minutes. Uncover, increase the heat to medium-high, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are slightly browned, 5-6 minutes longer.

At first, I prepared the simple foods I enjoy; chili, hot wings, fried chicken. The chili gave me food poisoning and the smell of greasy fried chicken was in the air for a week.

Elaborate cooking was difficult (with only two seven-inch electric burners, almost everything qualified as “elaborate”), but I still held dinner parties for my non-claustrophobic friends. One particular summer evening my girlfriend, her friend and my sister visited to eat lobsters. I bought several sticks of butter for dipping and a large bag of oyster crackers. I was very proud of the huge lobster pot I had bought just for the occasion and filled it 3/4 full of water, set it on a burner and turned up the heat.

Half an hour later, small bubbles had just started to form at the bottom of the pot, we had eaten all of the crackers (after dipping them in the melted butter) and my girlfriend suggested that we ask my landlord the caterer if we could use her “normal” stove to boil the lobsters, who had begun to show signs of hope and relief on their little faces.

Eventually, I returned to the foods I enjoyed on cozy Pennsylvania evenings: soft string beans in steaming cream of mushroom soup, topped with crunchy, fried onions; dry toast dipped in hot coffee for breakfast; elbow macaroni with butter and grated cheese; my grandmother’s creamy polenta with vegetables. With each plate I remembered not only how to prepare these dishes, but why.

Stir in 2 minced cloves of garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add 12 ounces of spinach, one handful at a time, and cook until wilted. Stir in 2 cups of halved cherry tomatoes and cook until softened, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover and take off the heat.

My mother made green bean casserole because her mother did, and maybe even her mother before her. The ingredients were inexpensive and could feed a hungry family. That’s all they had, and that’s what they used.

Meanwhile, bring 4 cups of water and 1/2 tsp. salt to a boil in a heavy-bottomed pan. Slowly add 1 cup coarsely ground cornmeal, whisking constantly.

Today, we eat these dishes because we ought to. We eat them to know where we came from, to acknowledge the sacrifices that our parents and our parents’ parents made to feed their children, their spouses, their friends. We dip our bread into simmering pots of pasta sauce to taste our family culture. We eat meatloaf sandwiches to remember the simple meals that nourished our forebearers. We sit at the table to honor our grandparents, our parents, ourselves and our children.

Bring to a simmer, stirring constantly. Reduce heat to low, cover and cook, stirring vigorously (be sure to stir the corners of the pot), until the polenta becomes soft and smooth, about 10-15 minutes. Off the heat, vigorously stir in 6 tbsp. of grated Parmesan cheese and 1/2 stick of butter, cut into 1/2 pieces. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Divide the polenta among 4 bowls. Cover it with the vegetable mixture and sprinkle on some additional cheese. Serve hot.

William stars at me from across the table, a steaming plate of creamy polenta with vegetables before him. “Why do I have to eat this?” he whines, crinkling his nose into a knot.

“Because that’s what we do,” I say.

Related posts:

1. School Daze
2. Baby it’s cold inside

“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.

The biggest discrepancy is hair. I suck at girl hair. I can pull it up into some semblance of a ponytail, but there are always wispy stragglers waving about her face. I defend my “daddy-do,” as it’s called, as “natural-looking.”

My wife, on the other hand, brushes that mop until it gleams and manages to get all of Grace’s hair into the elastic through what I suspect is a miracle. Plus, once up, her hair stays in place all day. It’s really something to see.

Dress is another issue. William has a T-shirt that I absolutely love to put on him. It says “For Sale: $75 or best offer.” It’s a hit at story hour and really shocks the blue hairs at the grocery store. My preferred outfit for Grace is a New England Patriots jersey and some jeans. My wife prefers to, “dress her like a girl.” She is cute in a dress, but does she really need to look like Holly Hobby every day?

Finally, let’s talk about the nighttime routine. I admit that I’m a sucker. Our routine is, roughly:
• jammies
• teeth
• books
• kiss and hug
• bed

Grace is extremely skilled at suckering me into “just one more book.” She blinks those little Bambi eyes and next thing I know we’re on book number seven. I emerge from the room wiped, and my wife is smirking on the couch. “How many books did you read tonight, dear?”

“Three,” I say.

“Liar,” she says. “You’re a sucker.”

Yeah, I probably am.  But the way I figure it, that makes up for everything else.

Related posts:

1. Kitchen or kids?
2. How did you find out?
3. Noogie and Sally C Cups

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.

The kid eats sand. I don’t mean a few stray grains make their way into his mouth, I mean he’s shoving it in like it’s cotton candy. I can only guess that it’s salty, and that’s what he likes. Or maybe dried seaweed and stray hermit crab parts make quite a nice seafood salad. Either way, we tell him, “No, William, we don’t eat sand,” to which he grins and shoves sand into his mouth. I’m fairly certain I don’t have to tell you what happens at diaper-changing time.

I’ve been on Google researching “eating sand” (because I’ve convinced myself there’s something “wrong” with him), and it seems that it’s rather common and eventually goes away.

What has your experience been, dear readers? Do your kids treat the beach or sandbox as their personal buffet?

Related posts:

1. Floor d’Oeuvres
2. School Daze
3. Noogie and Sally C Cups

By the time a boy is 15 or 16 years old, he has inherited his definition of manhood. Observations of his father play a major part, as do experiences with other male role models. Your first basketball coach, who taught discipline, teamwork and selflessness. Your first boss who expected you to adhere to a code of conduct and to complete a list of tasks in a prompt and effective manner.

The high school teacher whose chalk-stained sport coat hung just against the ledge of the blackboard, gathering ever more chalk dust as he droned on by rote, teaching you both algebra and the danger of settling for “good enough.”

But at the end of the day, and at the end of your twenties, it comes back to dad. Dad, who left home before you were awake and returned after it was dark. Dad, who delayed dinner and set your stomachs to rumbling because “…we’ll eat when your father gets home.” Dad, who sat  you on his lap and let you steer the car as he worked the pedals, and you felt so empowered, so privileged, so grown up.

Dad, who listened to you bemoan student loan payments and a steady diet of tuna, spaghetti and powdered iced tea mix, and cheered your first job after college, and visited your first apartment, which was scarcely bigger than your childhood bedroom.

“Work hard,” he said. “If you work hard and pay your dues, you’ll be rewarded. You’ve just got to pay your dues first. Everyone does. Someday you’ll get married and have kids of your own and you’ll provide them with a home, hot meals, clothing and school. That’s what you’ll do.”

And that’s what you do. You marry a beautiful woman. You find a decent job. Nothing that’ll buy a house on Capri but it’ll pay the bills and allow for a small vacation to the shore in the summer. You have a child, then two. You’re paying the bills. You’re providing for your family. You’re a man.

Then, it ends.

Your employer goes out of business and there’s no more job for you. They say it’ll take six months to close the doors for good. It takes two. Three months pass and you haven’t found a job. Then six. Then eighteen. You find small ways to earn a few dollars but it’s not enough.

You see your wife’s smile fade, and the lines in her face seem deeper. Where they there before? Around her mouth? You can’t remember. She smiles when you come into the room but from the corner of your eye you see a change when she thinks you’re not looking. The smile is gone and you wonder if she’s losing faith. Losing faith in you. You wonder if you’ve failed.

You wonder if you’re a man.

At night you go into your kids’ bedrooms as  you’ve done countless times before, to check on them one last time before heading to bed yourself. Their little mouths breathe in and out and you hear yourself talking. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry. I have failed you. I have failed your mother. I have failed this family.”

And you walk out, and close the door, and get into your own bed and you wonder, “When will this end?”

Related posts:

1. School Daze

And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

The picture was taken in December of 2005, on the first of three nights we spent without power, following a terrible wind and ice storm that tossed a pine tree onto my wife’s Nissan. Ah, New England. It’s so nice here.

Grace was just 2 years old at the time and William was an infant. The only candles we had were scented, so our dark, frigid house smelled powerfully of “Fresh Linen,” “Lilac,” and “Mountain Breeze” all at once.

“This must be what it’s like to visit a brothel in northern Alaska,” I told my wife. She didn’t think I was funny.

The house got very cold as soon as the sun went down. We stuffed the children into their entire winter wardrobes, and to quote Jean Shepard, Grace “looked like a tic that was about to pop.”

I fretted about the kids being uncomfortable (or worse), I obsessed about the food that was going bad, I worried that the pipes might burst. The darkness made me increasingly stir-crazy. And I couldn’t bear the uncertainty: How much longer would we be without power? An hour? A week?

‘Ol Dave was coming unhinged.

Staring at that photo of Grace shivering and chewing American Cheese slices by flashlight, I couldn’t help but think of the cold mornings of my own childhood.

Our house in Pennsylvania was heated by a coal furnace. The basement of our thin home had a dirt floor and stone walls, and even as a 9-year-old I had to stoop to avoid scraping the ceiling. At one end was a great blazing furnace that sat next to the “coal bin.” This was no more than a boarded-up corner of the room, filled to the top with apple-sized chunks of coal. A corkscrew device pulled coal out of the coal bin and into the furnace as needed. The spent ash fell into a steel “ash can” beneath the fire that had to be periodically swapped out for an empty one.

If there’s one thing coal fires like to do, it’s extinguish themselves. They’re the most suicidal of all fires. Some mornings I’d wake up and smell smoke, and I’d know my father was in that dank basement, trying to get a new fire going. In the kitchen, my sister would be wrapped in a blanket, perched on a chair in front of the oven, its door wide open and the heat blazing. Pots of water simmered on the stove top burners. I’d climb onto the empty chair that awaited me next to my sister.

My mother would call us to the kitchen sink one at a time, where she’d have us stand on a chair and lean in. She’d wash our hair with just the right blend of warm water from the stove and cold from the tap, and I’d listen to my own breathing in the sink while she scrubbed my soapy head. Then, with our hair washed and dried, we’d eat our Cap’n Crunch or Rice Krispies back in our stove-front seats.

Eventually, my father would return to the kitchen (the basement could only be accessed by first exiting the house, which made these winter morning surprises that much better), covered in soot and aggravation. The fire was lit and soon the house would be warm.

I was jolted from my memory by Grace’s voice. “Remember that, Daddy?” she said, pointing to the picture of herself with the flashlight.

“Yeah,” I said. “What a weekend.”

“That was fun,” she said.

Fun!?! I thought. I was a nervous wreck! I though you two were going to freeze to death! I was going bonkers in all that darkness!

“I like those flashlights,” she said, and then wandered off.

I guess I make a lot of assumptions as a parent. Not only about what the kids’ll want to eat on a given day or what games they’ll want to play, but also about how they process our shared experiences. I wonder if my father did the same.

I really loved those frosty mornings of my childhood — the soap smell and the swirling water; the blue flames in the oven and that hot, dry air on my face; my feet dangling above the cold linoleum. My father, I know for a fact, did not. It’s a funny thing.

And I still haven’t sorted my pictures.

Related posts:

1. Why do I have to eat this?
2. Your father’s music
3. School Daze

1. Please stop sending me dress-up clothes

Well-intentioned friends and relatives have been sending us dress-up clothes. A bevy of princess dresses can trash a bedroom in less than five minutes. The cleanup time is substantially greater, and accompanied by a soundtrack of whining and negotiation:

“Honey, you clean up these dresses and I’ll help you zip it.”

“But I caaaaaan’t. I’m too tiiiiired.”

“You pick up these pink ones, honey, and daddy will help with the rest.”

“But daddy, it’s too hard.”

“If you weren’t tired enough to make this mess, you aren’t tired enough to clean it up.”

“But I caaaaan’t. Waaaaaaaaaaaahh.”

Please. No. More. Dress up clothes.

2. Frack isn’t a swear word, except when it is

I’m a huge fan of Battlestar Galactica on the Sci Fi Network. The characters use the made-up word “frack” as a swear word, and I’ll admit it’s infiltrated my own vocabulary. I say it to amuse myself with a private reference to one of my favorite shows.

That was fine until Grace said, “What’s ‘frack’?”.

Try explaining that one to a five-year-old (or the parents who hear her use it on the playground). That’s it, “Frack” is officially a swear word.

3. Further evidence found of my increasing age

Is it me, or is TV really, really loud lately? I have to keep the volume at 3 or 4, or else I can’t even stand it. It must be those advertising executives, because I’m still a 22-year-old kid just out of college with a 32″ waist line.

4. Confusion at the playground

So the kids and I were at the playground, and Grace and I were driving “cars” (actually sticks) in the sandbox. She made a road and a tunnel, and parked her car inside. Then she told me, “I’m hiding because I love you.”

Um, ok.

5. Daddy’s dinosaur rock

Which fact should be the most embarrassing?

1. I got really excited when my iPod started playing “Lay It Down” by Ratt
2. I still knew all the words
3. I even have “Lay It Down” on my iPod in the first place

Just in case you’re wondering, I was waiting out my daughter’s swim class at the Y when this happened.

6. Girl clothing is ridiculous

My wife and I had this conversation.

“…Just put these under her skirt so she’s not flashing her Friday underwear all day,” she said.

“But those are pants.”

“No, they’re ‘footless tights.’”

“Also called ‘pants.’”

“No.”

Uh, yes.

7. Good night, poo poo

William: “The potty is where poo poos go if they’re sleepy and they want to go night-night.”

8. I’m officially a “Soccer Dad”

…and my wife, a soccer mom. We celebrated by buying Soccer Mom Barbie (yes, it’s real). All I need now is an emasculating mini van.

I will say this, though. Five-year-olds in soccer gear is about the cutest frackin’ thing I’ve ever seen. Oops, sorry.

No related posts.

Son:

Ah, you’re growing up so quickly. It’s been a few days since our last man-to-man. We’re a little older, a little wiser — and a little closer to the years when you’ll want nothing to do with me. Thus, it’s time for another talk. Like I said last time, this is important, so pay attention.

1. Learn how to make a decent paper airplane. Don’t scoff, this is important. A good paper airplane will allow you to entertain yourself, impress your friends, annoy your teachers, and even amaze other kids once you’re an adult like your old man. It requires only a single sheet of paper, so you can whip one out almost anywhere — the airport, a restaurant, Easter Sunday Mass — and often for free. What’s more, you can use almost anything you find lying around, like a place mat or a parking ticket.

There’s more to it than simply folding a piece of paper into a triangle and tossing it onto the floor. First, fold a lengthwise sheet of paper in half, then lay it flat again. Fold the top two corners to meet the seam you made, then do so again. Next, re-fold the paper in half along the lengthwise seam. Finally, fold each side in half so that the top meets the bottom edge to make wings. Throw and enjoy. Note that putting a paper clip on the nose doesn’t really help, despite what people will tell you.

2. Every public swimming pool contains at least one Band-Aid. You’ll probably find it upon opening your eyes underwater, where it will be floating inches from your nose. When this happens, do not touch it. Just to swim away. Most importantly, forget was released into the pool when that Band-Aid was expelled from its host.

Now for some bad news. You may not like this, but I feel I’ve got to let you know.

3. You’re probably going to go bald. Take a look at your dad, your grandfather, and your great-grandfather. We’re like three cue balls (don’t be fooled by great-granddad — that’s a comb-over). When it happens — and it will — don’t get upset. Lots of cool guys are bald, like Michael Jordan and Patrick Stewart. Instead, go to the drugstore, buy one of those hair clippers, and shave your noggin down to the skin. People will respect your honesty, you’ll have one less thing to worry about when you’re getting ready in the morning, and women* will ask if they can touch your fuzzy cranium (hint: Say “yes”). Just remember to wear a hat in the summer because a sunburn on your dome is no fun.

Now print this out and store it with my last bit of advice. You can thank me in your Harvard graduation speech.

*Or men, if that turns out to be your thing.

Related posts:

1. Father to son, Pt. I

“But…”

“No ‘but.’ Go.”

I looked at my mother through the dirty screen door. She wore bright yellow elbow-length rubber gloves and a look of determination  — “You are NOT coming back in this house.” I turned around and walked into the yard, defeated.

A few hours later, when my mother was again talking to me through the screen, the conversation was quite different.

“I said come in here now! It’s time to eat”

“No! I want to stay outside.”

“David, I am not kidding…”

Such were my childhood summers. I spent a lot of time outside so that my mother was able to get things done unburdened by a whining, needy kid.

Today, I feel guilty if I don’t spend every waking moment on the floor, exploiting every educational opportunity that presents itself. I recently read an article that described this phenomenon as a generational thing, more prevalent among parents in their thirties than previous generations.

Call it The Parenting Guilt of Generation X.

What’s going on, Gen X’ers? Is it the parenting shows on TV? The magazines? The repeated viewings of Reality Bites?

I don’t know when it happened, but at one point someone impressed upon me the notion that my kids’ development and education is all-important, and something that I should ensure at any cost — even my own happiness. “Parenting is about sacrifice,” is the mantra I’ve somehow gotten in my head. But how much?

My mother had no problem letting the kids play on their own, so why can’t I?

Anyway, 30-somethings, tell me I’m not alone. Do you struggle with this as well? Life was so much easier when we were wearing Dr. Martins and black T-shirts, listening to The Smiths, and sulking. Ah, the good old days.

Related posts:

1. Noogie and Sally C Cups
2. Floor d’Oeuvres

Son:

Someday, you’ll be a teenager. You’ll try to get away with things — sneaking out, lying about school work, fake IDs…every trick in the book. Well, guess what, my boy…

I wrote that book.

Your decrepit old dad was 18 for a time, too. So let’s drop the pretense now and avoid a lot of effort and aggravation, okay? Here we go.

There is only one reason teenagers burn incense, and it’s got nothing to do with meditation. And before you even ask, I’ll answer: No, you may not have a fan in your bedroom window.

There is no “squeak-free” path through the house. Do you think we live in a converted summer cottage for the fun of it? This place creaks and groans with every footstep. It’s a giant booby trap, my boy. Good luck sneaking in at 1 a.m.

Some of your friends will tell you that it’s safe to drink vodka, because it has no odor. If you’re willing to put their advice up against dad’s nose, you do that. Let’s see what happens.

When you come home with the minivan and the rear view mirror on the passenger’s door is missing, you’ll tell your parents that you were fiddling with the radio, got distracted and grazed a telephone pole. The truth is, you were playing a game with some of your idiot friends called, “Let’s See Who Can Get Closest To The Telephone Poll Without Hitting It,” and you lost. Trust me, your parents will know you’re lying.

Finally, I’ll give you the same warning your grandpa gave me. If you get arrested, get comfortable, because you’re spending the night in jail.

Don’t get the wrong impression, son. I’m not “out to get you.” I simply want to save us some aggravation. And don’t try to con your grandfather.

He was worse than I was.

Related posts:

1. Father to son, Part II

“Imagine you’ve got a large, cardboard box,” I told him. “The kind they use to ship clothes dryers. Fold back the flaps and place everything you enjoy inside, like your Sony Playstation, your bicycle and electric guitar. Gather abstract things as well, like uninterrupted football games, free time on the weekends and the sense that you actually can do something you want to do, when you want to do it. Toss it all in. Don’t worry, it will fit. That’s why we got the big box.

Next, get some packaging tape and seal it tight. You may hear some whimpering, but don’t stop. That’s just the media room you planned to build in the basement calling out to you. Ignore it.

Place the box and a shovel into the back of your truck and drive deep into the woods. Dig a large hole and toss the box inside. Again, ignore the muffled sobbing. Cover it with dirt and get back into the truck. Put it in gear and drive away. Don’t look back, just go. It’s easier that way, like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

He stared at me, waiting for the punch line. I stared back – unshaven, tired and 20lbs heavier than I was B.C. (Before Children). “When do Iget the box back?” he asked.

“You never get the box back,” I said. “The box is gone now.”

“What do I do for fun?” he asked. What a rookie question. “Fun?” I said. “Son, fun is dead to you now. Well, fun as you know it. Now you’ll enjoy ‘Standard Issue Fun.’”

He blinked with a stricken look on his face. I recognized that look. When I was in college, I lived with a theater major. His senior year, he put on a production of his own – an avant-garde interpretation of The Tibeten Book of the Dead. Soon after the show began, I could almost hear the actors thinking, “This seemed like a good idea a few weeks ago…”

My friend’s face now bore that look.

“Standard Issue Fun is given to all parents. You package may contain, but is not limited to:

• Dancing and skipping in music class.
• Buying a bib that says “I wuv Daddy.”
• Discussing poo, pee, vomit and fatigue at great length, with anyone who will listen.
• Deciding which Sesame Street diaper is your favorite (Mine was Elmo with undersea goggles).
• Eating at restaurants with crayons and paper on the tables.
• Being asked to leave restaurants with crayons and paper on the tables.
• Receiving notification of your lifetime ban from restaurants with crayons and paper on the tables.
• Your weekend hosting the preschool pet.
• Clipping coupons.
• Writing snarky blog posts to maintain your own sanity.

“So, why do I want to do this?” he asked, obviously horrified. “What’s the upside?”

“This,” I said. I opened my wallet and unfolded a small square of white construction paper. On one side is a large, blue oval with a smiling face and wild hair, holding hands with a smaller, smiling oval. Above them is random scribbling, as if a child were trying to write words. Quoted beneath the scribbles, it reads: “I love my daddy because he hugs me and we laugh. My daddy likes soda and sandwiches. My daddy makes me smile.”

It’s the kind of thing that millions of parents of millions of preschoolers all across the world have on their refrigerators.

Standard issue.

No related posts.