My Grandmother's Refrigerator Rolls

Growing up, our house was the gathering spot. My parents hosted so many dinner parties and holiday meals. Our kitchen and dining room were filled with friends and family on any given weekend evening. When I was a kid, I remember falling asleep in my room upstairs while listening to the laughter and conversation below. There was something so comforting about that -- being lulled to sleep by familiar voices. Dinners would stretch long into the evening, and eventually, my friends joined as well. I loved those occasions when we could all be together, and they were a constant throughout my childhood. 

So many delicious things made an appearance at that table, especially during the holidays: my Mother's chocolate mousse, a sparkling champagne beverage with a raspberry floating in the glass, Swedish meatballs with lingonberries and Lutefisk at Christmas (as is the Swedish tradition -- though I admit to only trying the lutefisk once and shunning it from then on. It's definitely an acquired taste, mostly enjoyed by the Swedes.)

On the Thanksgivings that my Grandmother on my Father's side would come to visit from Davenport, Iowa, her rolls always made a special appearance. They were my favorite thing on the table. She was an incredible cook -- I remember her blueberry pies especially. Each Christmas we eagerly awaited the giant box of Christmas cookies she would send. Dozens of different kinds, from Russian teacakes to pecan sandies, divinity, and gingersnaps, and my favorite -- a sugar cookie in the shape of a holly leaf, with mint green icing and 2 red hots at the base for berries. I can't imagine how many hours it would take her to make so many different kinds.

But back to the rolls -- these were special. They had such an unusual shape, like little clamshells. Everything she did was so elegant and delicate, just like her. These were no exception. I've made them for several years now, and I have yet to get the perfect shape as she did. This year, I came closer. They are exactly what I want in a roll -- just a slight crisp on the outside, warm, fluffy, and buttery on the inside. They were my kid's favorite thing on the table this year, and that makes me feel pretty accomplished. I love traditions like these. Just the smell wafts back so many good memories. And the taste can transport me right back to that table in our dining room. 

I had misplaced the recipe this year, but luckily my Sister had the decades-old card on hand and send it to me. I'm including it here to have moving forward so I don't lose it again. My hope is that this one will continue to be passed down. Henry and Addie both did their part this year by helping to mix ingredients and even rolling out a few. 

Grandma Dunn's Refrigerator Rolls

Ingredients:

1 cup boiling water (I tweaked this to be 1/2 cup warm milk and 1/2 cup warm water and it worked perfectly)

1/4 cup sugar

1 1/2 tsp salt

1/4 cup softened butter

1 egg, beaten

1 package yeast (2 1/4 tsp)

3 1/2 - 3 3/4  cups flour (all-purpose or bread flour - I found I needed 3 3/4 cups to keep the dough from being too sticky to roll out)

Dissolve yeast in 1/4 cup of lukewarm water. Add 1 tsp sugar and let it rise to the top of the cup. To the water/milk add sugar, and then the softened butter. Cool to lukewarm. add the dissolved yeast and the beaten egg. Stir in 2 1/2 cups four, and beat until smooth. Beat in remaining flour. Place dough in the refrigerator for a slow rise overnight. Cover the bowl with a plate or loose plastic wrap. 

When ready to roll out and bake the next day, work with 1/2 the dough at a time. Pat out on a floured board to about 1/4 inch thick. Cut out with small round cookie cutters, about 3 inches in diameter. Brush butter over the entire top, and use a knife to make an indentation just off-center. Fold the smaller side over the other half and press down slightly to make a clamshell shape. Place on a cookie sheet covered with parchment. Cover with a tea towel and let rise for 2 to 2 1/2 hours until nearly doubled in size. Bake for 15 minutes at 350 degrees until the tops are golden and just browning. Serve warm.

Quick Red Pozole with Pork

Just over a week ago, before I left for Los Angeles for a work-related trip, it was 83 degrees in Portland. Beautiful and sunny. I was savoring every autumn day that felt like summer. And doing my best to ignore the fact that we actually desperately needed the rain, and how unsettling it is to see the seasons shift so dramatically. I was in LA for about a week, and during that time I missed the horrible smoke from nearby fires that kept everyone inside. No recess, no playgrounds, no bike rides -- everyone was housebound. 

I returned home the night the smoke cleared, and the rain returned. Now it's mid-50s, gray and rainy every day. Autumn came late but so did summer this year. We celebrated the 4th of July in the cold wind and rain and picked pumpkins in the sweaty 80-degree October sun. The new normal.

With the first fire of the season going in the fireplace, and the rain pouring outside, it seemed like the right time to make soup. And since we've been lamenting the absence of stellar Mexican food up here, I thought I'd spin up an easy version of a red chili and pork stew that I've made before. A quick and easy version of Pozole. It was so easy and good that I wanted to be sure to document it so I have it here to refer to later. It was a hit with the kids. Lucky for us, they love any kind of Mexican food. We're slowly making the rounds of all the taco trucks around here that have been recommended. Still haven't found our go-to, but we'll keep trying for posterity. Can a decent mission-style burrito be found outside of the Bay Area in PDX? If I find one, I'll let you know. 

So here you go -- my first recipe here in several years. I think it's a good one. 

Quick Red Pozole with Pork

2 small white or red onions, diced

2 large cloves garlic, minced

2 poblano peppers, diced (remove seeds)

1/2 cup cilantro (or more to taste) chop stems separately from leaves

2 Tbsp chili powder

Salt & pepper

2 Tbsp neutral oil 

2 cans hominy (16oz each)

10-12oz chopped pork (you can buy pork strips and either cut or chop to bite sized pieces) 

2 cups beef broth

2 cups water

2 limes

Sliced radishes for serving

Chopped avocado for serving

Chopped green cabbage for serving. 

Tortilla chips for serving

Pepitas (roasted pumpkin seeds) for serving

Sour cream for serving

Dice onions, garlic, cilantro (keeping chopped stems and leaves separate), and poblano peppers. 

Heat 1 tablespoon oil in a large dutch oven or pot over medium-high until it shimmers. Pat and dry the pork, cut or chop it into bite-sized pieces, and season all over with salt and pepper. Add the pork and cook without stirring until the pork has browned on one side. This should take 3-4 minutes. At this point, give it a stir and cook a minute or 2 more until the pork is cooked through. Then, transfer the pork to a plate. 

Heat 1 Tbsp oil in a dutch oven or large pot over medium heat. Once hot, add all but 1/4 cup of the diced onions, garlic, peppers, and cilantro stems to the pot. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally until everything starts to soften and brown slightly, 5-7 minutes. If the veggies start to brown too quickly, turn down the heat a bit. Next, add the 2 tablespoons chili powder, and cook until coated and fragrant, about 1-2 minutes more. 

Add all of the hominy to the pot with the veggies and spices, along with 2 cups beef broth and 2 cups water. Bring everything to a simmer, scraping the browned bits from the bottom of the pot while stirring. Reduce heat to med-low and simmer for 10 minutes, until the stew thickens a bit. 

While the stew is simmering, wash and thinly slice the radishes, cut the limes into wedges and chop your avocado.

Once 10 minutes of simmering is up, add the pork to the pot with the broth and veggies. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve hot over chopped slices of green cabbage in bowls. Top with radish, avocado, remaining diced onions, pepitas, and crumbled tortilla chips. Add a bit of sour cream, a lot of lime, and cilantro on top. 

A HILL of Jelly

Last night, an hour after her bedtime, I found my Daughter standing in the hallway, a big smile on her face.

Me: "What are you doing out of bed?"

Her: "Mama, can I tell you something?"

Me: "Shoot."

Her: "I wanted to tell you that I came up with a recipe. It's this: a piece of toast with jelly spread on it, and then a big HILL of jelly on top of that -- like a mountain of jelly. And then you put sprinkles on top. And then specks of cream cheese."

Me: "That is quite a recipe. I'm so impressed that you thought that up. We actually have all of those things, so why don't we make it for breakfast one day this week?"

Satisfied with that answer, she went back to bed with no protest.

And really, why not? Who am I to say no to sprinkles as a breakfast garnish?

 Recipe review to come.

Circling Back

Recently, I started taking an acting class. My first in about twenty years. There's an exercise we do that involves improvisation with a partner. You stand across from each other in front of the class, and you say what you notice about the other person -- your impressions of them. You look for changes in emotion, you notice them, state them out loud and see what the reaction is. They do the same. Back and forth. Two impressions of me that left me a bit discombobulated included "PTA Mom" and "Mother Earth." Gotta admit, that stung a bit. I had no idea I gave off such a "Mom" vibe.

It's not the first time my role as a mother has been used by others to give me a sort of shape and definition in their mind. It's just a fact in what's still a relatively new season of life for me. A fact that I am still getting used to while it's immediately apparent to others. This is what's most notable on the surface now --I am the mother of two incredible, spirited, and loving kids. 

Lately, I've been thinking about the concept of identity. What it is about who we are that stays constant while so many other aspects change. All the different iterations of ourselves that we grow into and out of throughout our life. What it is that keeps us tethered to the things that make us who we are at the deepest level.

At times, I've felt as though I've lost myself. It tends to happen when I've stepped into a new phase of life. Motherhood, obviously. Becoming a wife and partner. Smaller changes have an effect as well; moving to a new place, starting a job, and creating new friendships. All of these push me in a new direction and help shape me. And they can sometimes lead to other key pieces going dormant. Sooner or later, I find those parts again and begin to feel a sort of homecoming as I rediscover the deepest parts of myself in all of these roles; folding the past and present together around the innate core of who I am. There's a relief in that. And I realize it's a circular process as you evolve and grow. 

Becoming a mother changes so many things. It permeates nearly every aspect of your life, and at times overwhelms, consumes, and swallows it whole. It's easy to lose yourself in that, and it's even easier for others to view you solely in that role. That's reinforced by our culture which hammers it in as the defining characteristic of women. 

It's only recently that I've been able to clearly identify and articulate the loss of individuality that accompanies the privilege of motherhood. I notice (and feel deeply) the way I am often pigeonholed and occasionally dismissed now -- as simply "a mom." I've felt the disconnect between others' perceptions of me and my own knowledge and innate sense of who I am. I've felt guilty for being bothered by that -- by the idea or implication that my individuality has disappeared or ceased to matter. As if I don't exist outside of that with my own thoughts; ideas, goals, and dreams. As if that's the only thing that defines me. At times I've resented it. 

It's a kind of loss -- but in the service of something so much bigger. And I wouldn't change it.

I am a mother. But first and foremost, I am still myself. There are multitudes within me that shift and change as ever more are added while some are shed, and some lie dormant. Each change adds an ability to look at things from a different perspective. And some things don't change --there are core values that remain consistent and make me, "me," and that has always been the case.

I'm reminding myself that all of these things can be true at once. And I'm reminding myself that no one who really knows me would look at or define me in a singular way. Least of all me. And that's what matters. Most of who we are remains unseen by the world at large. That's how it is, and that's ok. 

Besides, I'm a much better actor now than I was at twenty. It's exhilarating to unearth a part of myself I haven't looked at in so long and to see how it's been shaped and changed by all of these experiences. It's taken awhile, but slowly, slowly, I'm circling back to myself.

On Repeat

 A few things I keep returning to as of late, and that have done wonders to lift my mood:

1. Andrew Bird's album "My Finest Work Yet"

We saw him play a few weeks ago in Portland, and it was a truly magical experience. I think it made it into my top 5 concerts to date. I appreciate going to see live music even more after its absence for the last couple of years. This isn't his most recent album, which is also great, but due to all the chaos of 2019 (it came out in March of that year), I hadn't delved into this one when it came out the way I would have liked to. My friend Dave recently pointed out that Andrew Bird is the whistling talent in the last Muppet Movie (which my kids are very into lately). He's literally a virtuoso whistler on top of all of his many musical talents. Impressive. 

2. FX's The Bear

I loved this show. One of the best things I've seen in a while. The cast, the script, the story, the pace, the soundtrack, it's all stellar. Episode 7 really blew me away, so much so that we watched it twice. I'm so glad it was renewed for season 2. For anyone who's ever worked in a restaurant, the stress, anxiety, personalities, and humor depicted in the show will immediately hit home. It's a quick watch too, at eight episodes of around 20 minutes each. 

3. Any body of water

I pulled the trigger and finally bought myself a paddle board. No regrets and I plan to take full advantage of it with what little summer weather we get over the next couple of months. A few friends here have boards as well, and we're planning to take them out at Rooster Rock in the Columbia River Gorge next weekend, and Trillium Lake on Mt. Hood after that. So far I've been able to hit Emigrant Lake in Ashland, where we also spent lots of time splashing in Lithia Creek, and this past weekend out to the Oregon Coast. Always left wondering why I don't live directly on the water -- such a boost to the overall quality of life.  

4. The best recipe in the New York Times Cooking collection

These brisket and cheese chimichangas are to die for, and so easy to make. My butcher gave me a tip that instead of brisket, you can use top round -- which not only tastes indistinguishable, it's also a lot cheaper. While I'm not doing a lot of recipe adaptation these days, I did figure out a good one here using the Instant Pot -- add the meat, onion, spices + 1 cup of water, and cook on high pressure for 90 minutes. Then add the cheese and salsa and sauté until it cooks down. Once cooled, assemble. Really easy and it makes a ton of leftovers that you can freeze and reheat easily. Highly recommend you give these a try.

5. A good summer read

Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason. I had a hard time putting this down once I'd started. It was humorous, poignant, and bittersweet. The tone reminded me a bit of Phoebe Waller-Bridge's show Fleabag -- a personal favorite. The novel is a clever and very human depiction of what it's like to live with mental illness and maintain relationships with loved ones throughout. Found myself wanting to return to it, again and again, to pay attention to the non-linear structure and foreshadowing the author had so carefully crafted. 

What to do now - Repost

 Sharing a post from Joanna Goddard's blog Cup of Jo, which encapsulates much of what I'm feeling today.

Yesterday, a lone gunman killed at least 19 children and two teachers at a predominantly Latino elementary school in Uvalde, Texas. On May 16th, a man opened fire at a Taiwanese church in Southern California, killing one person and wounding five. On May 14th, a gunman fatally shot 10 people, almost all of them Black, inside a grocery store in Buffalo, New York. On April 12th, a gunman shot 10 people in a subway station in Brooklyn’s Sunset Park, a mostly Chinese and Hispanic neighborhood.

“Who wants to be in a country where you can’t process one massacre before another one happens? You can’t even grieve here,” tweeted activist William C. Anderson.

The numbers are staggering, as in you hear them and actually stagger: Firearms are the #1 leading cause of death for American children and teens. The Uvalde shooting was the 212th mass shooting of 2022 in the U.S. The Uvalde shooting was the 27th school shooting in the U.S. this year.

In a country where this happens, what is one supposed to say? To write? To tell our still-alive children? It feels pat to say we are sorry, we are donating X amount, we are outraged. Instead, I want to punch the wall. I want to run down the street screaming. THIS IS NOT NORMAL. THIS IS NOT OKAY. This is not another post that we write and then wait for the next time. What the actual fuck a million times over, and which way is up and which way is down, and where are those 19 children and two teachers now, and are they at peace?

I keep thinking about the parents whose lives are now a hellscape, starting yesterday and for the rest of their lives. As someone who has survived desperate depressions, I find the scariest thing to be the threat of getting sucked again into that black hole. And all those family members, as of last night, are entering that alternate existence, that plane of despair, the deepest circle of hell; and even just witnessing and understanding that that is happening for them it is more than one can bear.

My younger son is in elementary school, like the kids in Uvalde. He’s the kind of third grader (like every third grader?) who is always wiggly. He either runs or dances down the street. He sleeps sideways in bed, head firmly off pillow. He likes jumping over the back of the sofa; he drums his fingers on the dinner table; he asks us to watch how fast he can run. I think of the Uvalde children: were they wiggling in their chairs five minutes before the shooter walked in? Were their feet kicking along to a song they were softly humming? Were they thinking about lunch? Were they writing with No. 2 pencils? Were they stacking blocks? Were they laughing? They were breathing, I know that. They were breathing and almost definitely wiggling.

After dropping my dancey little boy off at school this morning, fear in my throat, I came back and looked around the house and thought of the parents returning home alone last night. They would fumble with their keys and open the door. They would step over small sneakers, sneakers that probably had Velcro because tying shoes was still hard. They would see crayon drawings taped on the wall. Honey yogurts in the fridge. A wobbly stack of board games. A colorful toothbrush still damp from the morning. The little bed with tousled sheets from last night and the half-full water glass on the bedside table and the fifth book the child had asked to read but it was clearly too late and they were being silly and sneaky and they needed to get sleep for the school day so they could learn and grow and laugh and play.

The gunman in Uvalde had a handgun, an AR-15 assault weapon and high capacity magazines, reports CBS News. After the rampage, among the carnage, parents had to line up to identify their dead, disfigured children. The child might be unrecognizable to everyone else — a bullet from an AR-15 creates a hole the size of an orange — but a parent would know. By their body, their hands, their look, their energy, their slouch, the way a parent knows. Maybe a scar, a birthmark. They could always look at their feet. I would know my child’s foot from a million others. I know the way his toes slant. I’ve clipped my eight-year-old’s nails every few weeks since the summer morning I pushed him out of my body and fed him from my breasts. More than 200 times, I’ve hunched over those little feet and cleaned and cut those little nails. Sometimes he would fuss, sometimes we would chat, sometimes he would watch TV and absentmindedly pat my back.

I would know. Those parents knew.

“I once read something an educator wrote: they said any time they found themselves getting frustrated at their students, they would just look down at the kids’ hands. The littleness of those hands reminded the educator how much life was left for each child to experience. Today, I think of the littleness of children’s bodies, and how those bodies contain such boundless love and brilliance. To imagine living in a world that will not protect that preciousness — an untenable future for us all,” writes Thao Thai on Instagram.

So what? What do we do? In the 23 years since the school shooting in Columbine, Colorado, Congress hasn’t passed a single, major gun safety law. Instead, the only notable change since the Sandy Hook school shooting a decade ago, writes Zara Rahim, is that “kids are now formally trained to hide, barricade doors, fight, or run for their lives. that was the solution. to literally put the responsibility on them to figure it out and wish them luck.”

Wish them luck. Wish us all luck.

California Dreaming

There's one thing I can say for the combination of having kids, moving to a new state, turning forty, going through a global pandemic, and general world turmoil -- it sure makes you appreciate and lean on your tribe. There were lots of reasons that spurred our decision to leave the Bay Area -- chief among them was the desire to be closer to family, and that's been great, but I didn't fully appreciate how hard it would be to be so distanced from my friend group.

It's not easy to make friends later in life, especially if you work from home in a new city where you don't know many people. Truth is, I've had the same close group of friends for the past couple of decades. And a few of them have even been my friends since elementary school. I love all these people dearly – it is such a gift to continue to have them in my life. At this point, we all have so much context and history for who we are, and where we are in our lives. It’s a rare thing to have and I’m lucky to have it with them. We’ve watched each other grow and mature and we're bonded for life. You don’t make new old friends, you know? I've really missed seeing them all on a regular basis and having this reliable circle that's such a comfortable fit.

The height of the pandemic was so isolating for so many. I'm no exception to that. It's been harder than I expected to break out of that introverted pattern that was a result of just being home with immediate family all the time. I've had to really force myself to get out, get back to some semblance of normalcy, and make the effort to engage and find those long-dormant extroverted qualities to assist in building new connections and friendships. In order to do that, I've given myself the incentive of regular visits to see friends in the Bay, and it's been a life-saver. I feel like we all appreciate each other so much more now. Everyone is eager to support each other, to make time and space. I know I'll never take those friendships for granted again.

And of course, it's fun to revisit all my old spots. I was able to go down this weekend. The weather alone tempted me to move back. This visit was unique, as we were able to stay in the apartment building in Berkeley that I lived in for six years. It was a wild sensation - at one point I woke up in the middle of the night and wondered if my current life had been a dream.

My old apartment building in Berkeley

We packed a lot into a few days -- dinner at Pizzaiolo (of course,) brunch at Bette's on Forth Street, multiple walks down to Cole Coffee and La Farine for breakfast, and a drive to Sacramento to meet my BFFs new baby and cook a meal for them (this was the highlight.) The cherry on top was a trip out to Hog Island Oyster Company in Pt. Reyes, a place we've frequented over the years. A popular spot, it's totally unrivaled in its stunning location. While I wasn't able to join in the oysters (allergic, sadly) I am enthusiastic about the ritual of it all. I will happily hang out with you while you down a dozen oysters, even if I can't partake.

A few pictures.

I'm looking forward to a Mother/Daughter trip next time when my daughter is fully vaccinated. She hasn't been back since we moved away, and she's looking forward to seeing where she was born, along with the Golden Gate Bridge. The Eiffel Tower also made it onto her San Francisco wishlist, but I told her Sutro Tower would have to suffice for now.

4.7.22

I started this blog many years ago when I was in my twenties. At the time, I was in a major rut. I'd been working in non-profit theater since I'd graduated from college. It was fun for awhile -- I loved the access to all the shows and the creative process, but after a few years it stopped being challenging. It also paid next to nothing. I remember oftentimes waking up in a cold sweat with a panic attack, not knowing how I could continue to afford to live in the Bay Area and feeling like I was at a dead end professionally. I went to college to study theater, and like most dumb kids who do that, I didn't have a backup plan (my minor was actually Shakespeare Studies, so that gives you some real insight into my mindset.) To their credit, my parents did push me to consider one, but I was nothing if not extremely stubborn. I wanted to act, and that's what I was going to do. 

Narrator Voice: She did not end up doing that. 

So I was in a studio apartment I could barely afford, working in theater administration with little room for advancement, acting from time to time on the side when I could, and I was fresh off a breakup. I was feeling stuck. I needed something else to do. A creative outlet that also served as a distraction. Like many others in 2009, I hopped on the trend and decided I too should start a blog. Not that I thought anyone would read it. It was mostly just for me, but making it public made me a bit more thoughtful about the editing. Though sometimes I shared too much, and sometimes I felt the need to tie each post up with a neat little bow that didn't actually belong. But when I look back, I can see that there's also a lot that I kept for myself, which still feels right.

As a person who is now firmly planted in middle age, it's a strange experience to look back at this time capsule of my life as a young adult, as it always is when you find something you'd written so long ago. A lot of it makes me cringe. And a lot of it makes me smile. I feel a lot of empathy for that girl who was trying so hard to make something (anything) fit together. I wish I could have told her to relax and enjoy the moment she was in. There was so much about it to love -- looking back now I can see that it was actually a ton of fun. Outside of work I had nearly unlimited time to spend with a close group of friends, explore the Bay Area and devote time to cooking. No real major responsibilities outside of myself. Oh! And it was also during the Obama administration. Those were the days, eh? It felt like an eternity at the time, but it also went by in the blink of an eye. And now, reading back, that girl feels like another person, entirely. But at the same time, she's still me. 

This all sounds pretty cliche, but it's true. 

One thing I did like about blogging was the actual writing. It gave me a chance to process; reflect, feel gratitude for the people in my life, and the experiences I got to have. It gave me an opportunity for self-discovery as well. Sharing it helped me to feel less alone in the process. 

And here I am again. Many years older, and in another creative rut. I know this happens to so many women after they have kids. Your life revolves around kids and house and job. Rinse and repeat. And while there's so much of that that is wonderful and fulfilling, it doesn't feel particularly creative most of the time. I'm in need of another outlet, and feeling a bit overwhelmed in trying to figure out how to fit it in on top of everything else. For the first time in twelve years, I'm thinking about dipping my toe into theater again. Maybe starting with a once a week acting class. Also toying with the idea of piano lessons, which I haven't done since college. But even a couple evenings away during the week can feel like a lot with small kids at home.

So I thought I'd try writing again. Feeling the urge to connect and share. Been awhile since I've felt that way, so I'm going to try and roll with it and see if it helps fill that creative bucket just a tad. I'm trying to remember that I don't have to do it all at once. Small steps get you there eventually, right?

Next time I may even come with a recipe. 

Good Bones

Lately I find myself living in a constant state of paralysis. Overwhelmed, like everyone else, with a constant barrage of terrible news, and an inability to do much at all about any of it. Looking away feels both simultaneously necessary and darkly privileged, and guilt arrises with every small task -- ordering takeout, taking the kids to the playground with friends, watching a movie or taking the dogs for a walk. My mind wanders elsewhere throughout all of it back to images of war and desperation that will be permanently seared into my brain. I decide to set boundaries around checking the news, turning on NPR or looking at Twitter. And then I break them and regret it. 

I try to sift through it all to look for the stories of hope and inspiration. Looking for the helpers, as they say. And I feel guilty even for that privilege -- to be able to chose to turn my attention elsewhere. Away from an absolutely pointless war, from the barbaric laws passing in our country to restrict the rights of others, from the bottomless greed of powerful men, and the destruction of our planet.

I wonder what kind of future my children will have. What they will be left with. And then I look at them and feel so grateful. And I think of this poem by Maggie Smith:

Good Bones

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

    I go to work. I attend another video meeting. Revise plans and complete reviews. I wonder if anyone else feels normal right now. If anyone else can focus and hold their concentration. Every call starts the same way: "How are you holding up?" Everyone laughs half-heartedly and shrugs, "Oh, you know." All of our greetings have changed. And then we all compartmentalize, and go back to work. Continuing to do more with less, in every aspect. Marching forward like ants in a line. 

    And I need to plan a 5th birthday party. I try not to think about all the birthdays we've celebrated during the pandemic. All the things missed out on. I'll order balloons, the purple ones. I'll make the cupcakes, the  chocolate ones. And I'll try to make it beautiful. I'll check in with friends. Try to make amends with those I've lost touch with and miss. Try to bring something bright into the world. 

Music helps. This song has been on repeat since I discovered it a couple weeks ago: