Wednesday Sunday Dinner

When I was a child, my Grandmother would cook a special meal every Sunday and invite her three children, their spouses, and her nine grandchildren. Her house seemed huge, though I now realize it was only two bedrooms/one bathroom with a tiny front yard and an even smaller (off-limits to us because of Bodo, the hunting dog) backyard. We cousins had the run of the front yard, the long driveway where Grandma planted sweet peas every summer, the living room and the guest bedroom, where I would be the teacher when we played school. The kitchen was where the women would hang out and help Grandma. The den is where the men would sit and yell at the football games on television. The meals were simple and predictable (I mostly remember fried chicken and pot roast, mashed potatoes and green salad). I loved going and was sorry when we missed a Sunday (my father was a firefighter who often worked Sundays). I didn't understand until I was older how amazing it was that my Grandmother did this. She had a full time Monday to Friday job with Kraft foods. The morning after having dinner for as many as seventeen people, she would get up and take the train into San Francisco.

Every Wednesday, PJ comes over for dinner. Like my Grandmother's Sunday dinners, this routine means a lot to me and I have a lot of memories to go along with it. I'm not quite Grandma, though. My numbers have sometimes swelled to six. My food is not so predictable, and my guests have had to endure a few fads) and a few disasters. Every once in a while, I'm too tired and we get pizza instead of the planned meal. Best of all, PJ buys us a special meal four times a year (Chinese New Year, Shakespeare's birthday, my birthday, and back to school). When we started doing this, about fifteen years ago, Marin and Cameron were in middle and elementary school. Now they are college graduates who have moved away, but Cameron is back in the Bay Area and joins us once again. Over the years, we have missed a surprisingly small number of these Wednesdays. We sometimes have work obligations, or are sick or on vacation. The day after 9/11, we were too sad and exhausted.

Here's what happens when the same thing is done with such regularity: when I sit down at that table on Wednesday, all of the other Wednesdays are there with me. Marin and Cameron are small again, sneaking Brussels Sprouts back on my plate, PJ is reading us Psalms or a sonnet, Cameron is happy because I made tacos, Cameron is sad because I made a pasta dish, Marin is entertaining us with one of her lists.

I love my quiet, lonely Sundays, and still am in awe of my Grandmother for giving hers up, but I think I understand why she did it because I wouldn't change Wednesdays for the world.

Choo-Choo-Choose Me

I owe apologies to Marin and PJ for all those times I felt that their blogs should be updated more often. Of course, they understand that it came from a place of love. Now that I'm back at work, I wonder how anyone can keep up a blog at all.
It's not just the lack of time, either. I'm too tired to be creative.

But my one day weekend has begun! I spent the first couple of hours catching up with All My Children, and all I can say is that the writer's strike really, really needs to end. The story lines continue, but there are some major lapses of logic, like a character in an insane asylum who has unrestricted access to a phone on the wall (he used it to arrange a murder), and the woman who, knowing she is the target of a sniper, spends time in front of a huge picture window.

My other job for the weekend is to try and pick a candidate for President. This is so strange. I've been voting for Presidents since 1976 and I've never had a real choice before. For better or for worse, the Democrat has been a foregone conclusion by the time California had a choice. Oddly, everyone I know, save one person, is not talking about their choices. All these years, I took it for granted that everyone declared their choices out loud, but that was because we had no choices.

In my liberal Bay Area circle, it seems that it is okay to declare yourself for Obama without being judged. However, a vote for Clinton may mean any of the following: you have fallen prey to the idea of a Clinton dynasty, or you have fallen for an emotional outburst, or strangest of all (from friends born after 1970), you are only voting for her because she's a woman. A vote for Edwards means that you are afraid to back a President who is a woman or who is African-American. It means that you are mainstream and conventional.

I've been spending some time on the three candidates' websites reading about their take on issues. Clinton plans to get everyone out of Iraq, starting immediately, and she has a well thought out plan for Health Care for all. Obama plans to get everyone out of Iraq, starting immediately, and he has a really nice education plan. He's clearly been talking to teachers. There is a nice, hopeful feeling to what he says. Edwards surprised me with his extremely thorough take on pretty much every issue you can think of, and I couldn't find anything I disagreed with. He even had the guts to say that he supports civil unions for homosexuals.

So, what's a liberal Bay Area girl to do? Edwards seems to embody most of what I believe in. But. If I live to my full life expectancy, I've got about 7 more Presidential elections left, and I really have hoped to see a woman and an African-American in the White House in my lifetime. Will there ever be as good a chance as this?

I guess I'm not quite ready to decide yet. I will sit back for a couple more weeks and enjoy this very, very rare occasion of having three candidates that I would be perfectly happy with.

Attend the Tale

No spoilers here. I'm just back from seeing Sweeney Todd, and I surprised myself with how much I liked it. It managed to have quite an emotional punch due to excellent acting by everyone. I found some of the song changes jarring, since I know them so well. I just have one complaint. I think Mr. Burton is deafened by love and should have considered using Marnie Nixon. I also have new respect for Angela Lansbury for somehow staying in tune while playing a character who sounds like she can't sing in tune.

Cockapoos and Tigers and Giraffes. Oh My!

It occurs to me that I'm writing an awful lot about animals, mostly of the food variety. So, of course, I'll add more!

My friend, Patrick, whose blog, The Reverberate Hills (link on the left), is both beautifully written and really funny, kindly linked to me yesterday, promising his readers cockapoo pictures. So, here goes:

That's Madeline on the left and Marcel on the right. I'm crazy about them in a way that is really embarrassing to me. I had not owned a dog since childhood, and after an entire year of researching dog breeds, I settled on cockapoos because they are friendly, long-lived, and good walkers. I pictured that I would have a loyal dog by my side. I did not picture that I would feel so maternal, and I definitely did not picture that my adoration would be amusing to everyone I know. But there you have it. Even I can't always be sensible.

Speaking of sensible, the SF Zoo tiger case is absolutely fascinating to me. Not the tragedy itself, but the reaction to it. I just listened to 90 minutes about it on The Ronn Owens Show and, well, let's put it this way--the lawyer for the young men had better settle out of court. The callers were unanimously sympathetic to the zoo and the tiger. Personally, I think there's plenty of blame to go around, but public opinion is very much against people old enough to know better who possibly visited the zoo with the purpose of taunting a caged animal, possibly with slingshots.

In November, I took our school's ecology club on an overnight trip to the zoo. We had a wonderful time, and I hope those trips can continue after the improvements are made. It does kind of give me the creeps to remember our night walk with very, very dim overhead lights and no flashlights.

As for giraffes, my Winter Break was full of excellent, memorable moments. One was M's annual Christmas cookie exchange, where she makes dozens and dozens of sugar cookies and pastry bags full of icings in beautiful colors. She invites friends and family over and we get to eat, meet, and decorate cookies. I'm not sure how long this party has been going on, but I know it's at least a decade and something I always look forward to. This year, my son Cameron was able to join us, and charmed us all with his beautiful giraffe cookies. I, on the other hand, am incapable of making a giraffe cookie or any animal cookie in anything but its natural colors. Too sensible. I'm glad that my children and friends are not like me.

Excuse me while I return to talking baby talk to my fluffy dogs.

Dilemma of the Ten Dollar Chicken

An organic, free-range local chicken costs at least $10 and is smaller than a supermarket chicken, which can cost as little as $4. I have to go far, spend transportation money and spend extra time to buy the local chicken; I live a 5 minute drive from at least four places where I can buy the supermarket chicken. In addition to this, you really can't be sure exactly what you're getting when you buy the organic chicken. The ideal would be that a chicken labeled "free range" would be wandering around, having a decent life until it is killed humanely as possible. The reality is that you would have to visit the farm to find out. Many "free range" chickens are free to roam but don't because their food is brought to them in their cages. Chickens aren't too bright, but they're smart enough to go to where the food is.

The reality is that the "decision" about which type of chicken to buy is only a decision for people of some means. My household of one can now afford a once a week $10 chicken. My household of five years ago (three people with lower income) probably couldn't have afforded this chicken.

I'm kind of cheap and I love a good sale. Yet I love buying the expensive chicken. A $10 chicken is an important chicken. It needs to be valued, cooked carefully, served to company. Additionally, all of the leftovers need to be used. It seems right that something that lived, had some thoughts and a warm, beating heart should be valued. I get a meal or two out of the chicken before I make it into soup stock, which then gives me at least five more meals. This forces me to eat more fruits and vegetables and more whole grains, so my diet is improved. The truly free-range chicken tastes better. I've read that it tastes more chickeny and I thought that was a silly description until I tasted one myself, and sure enough, it's more chickeny. I'm really torn here. For the reasons listed, I kind of like the idea of the chicken being so expensive. But I also would like more people to be able to enjoy the same (including me 5 years ago). And, right now, it takes me about two and a half hours to buy one of the good chickens. That's a lot of time for anyone.

Right now, I'm hoping that local eating catches on. The price will go up. Local farmers will notice this and start raising more chickens. The price will go back down, but the chickens will be available to all of us in local Farmers' Markets. And maybe, just maybe, the price will go down even more and local eating will not have to be a choice of too few.

Sarah, You're Stumped

Yesterday I viewed multiple commercials for upcoming reality shows. In My Favorite Brady, some middle aged former child star, past his prime, which happened when he was about twelve, married to a much, much younger model, past her prime, which happened when she was about twenty, contemplates the possibility of fatherhood. His bride seems to be worried that she has a choice between her beloved breasts and motherhood. In Rock of Love 2, a very, very former rock star searches for love amongst not-so-young ladies who appear to be in need of some lessons in manners. Worst of all, there was Celebrity Rehab, which seems to be exactly what the title says. No doubt the Baldwin that I spied in the ad will be joined by others in justifying doing something so private so publicly. "My being here, sharing this way, will help the regular, less pretty people to seek the help that they need." These shows are all coming up on VH1, the network that used to play videos that were meant for people past 20, but now is the sleaziest network on the air. So, why, you may ask, was I watching such a sleazy network? Well, I was watching a reality show. I was watching America's Next Top Model. This is the reality show that I'm most embarrassed to admit I enjoy.

Friends, I come not to bury reality shows, but to praise them. My shameful secret is that I love reality shows. It's not that much of a secret since everyone who is likely to read this already knows this all too well. I don't love them all. In fact, because I do love some, I really hate others because they stain the genre. I have been trying to figure out why I love some, hate others, and can't be bothered with many.

I really hate all shows in which washed up celebrities want to get on television at any cost. I hate shows that make people seem so much more hideous than they probably are in real life (I Love New York), especially those that justify their existence by acting as if they are helping people (Wife Swap, Cheaters).

There are shows that I never watched in the first place because I was afraid I might like them and knew that I really shouldn't, like Kid Nation and Biggest Loser.

There are shows that I loved the first season of. Those shows I have watched, using my biology background to make observations to myself and anyone unlucky enough to innocently ask me if I watched the show. In the first season of The Bachelor, I watched women compete for one man, and they actually behaved in very interesting ways to get his attention, trying to make themselves the most attractive to him while realizing that they had to still be part of the herd. In the first season of Big Brother, I also watched, fascinated, as people decided how much of their personal lives to air in these very crowded conditions, where, in order to win money, they had to be liked by their housemates and by the American public. Americans, as a group, don't really like or trust people who are too private, but don't like people who are too out there. In the case of these shows, by season 2, the "real people" have decided what character they will play, and there is very little reality left (I'm going to be the virgin, I'm going to have the drinking problem, I'm the bitch). They lose my interest.

Why do I love others? For one thing, some are very well done. In the case of my favorite, Amazing Race, I have literally been on the edge of my seat, cheering for my favorites to get to the check-in point first. I'm smart enough to know that editing and music are responsible for much of my reaction. The best ones are also actually real. In fictional television, which I also love, you know that the shy girl with glasses is going to eventually be noticed by that good looking playboy, who will realize how shallow his life has been up to now, and that the character who coughs in the first episode is going to be dead of tuberculosis by the last episode (there's a lot of Masterpiece Theater watching in my past). I'll never forget how bad I felt at the end of one season of Amazing Race, when the pair that won was not the pair that was supposed to win. They had no obstacles to overcome, they weren't particularly kind to others, they didn't really appreciate the cultures they were rushing through. I like reality shows like some people like sports. There are no sure outcomes in the best ones.

I have memories of nice moments shared with loved ones over reality shows. D and I have shared meals while watching episodes of Project Runway, discussing the good and bad of clothing we would never buy, as if we were critics at Fashion Week (a week I didn't even know existed before I started watching Project Runway). When Marin came home from Russia, I told her that I knew she'd love Project Runway. She didn't seem interested, and then a couple of days later, she disappeared for a few hours, and when she finally emerged to eat, it turned out that she was downstairs watching a Project Runway marathon and loving it. I love watching American Idol with PJ, even though I'm sure he would never watch it on his own (thank you, PJ, for indulging me). I only watched Dancing with the Stars because he enjoyed it so much (and made excellent points about how the judges were actually giving good advice most of the time), and I enjoyed talking about my favorite dancers with my mother. Cameron dislikes most reality shows, but he and I both enjoy Top Chef and we used to both watch Amazing Race together.

This brings me back to America's Next Top Model, and another thing that most of my favorite shows have in common. America's Next Top Model is not a great reality show. I don't watch it during its regular season. I hate seeing young girls fighting with each other over little things. But I love the last twenty minutes. It is there that the girls have to face their photo shoot pictures and that the truly bizarre panel of judges (more than three of them!) gives them good advice. It is here that the girls, who spent their teen lives being told that they should model only because they are skinny, join with young people who have been told they can sing, and artistic people who think they can design or cook, in learning that these jobs actually involve skills. And here are the moments that I love because I, too, do something that everyone thinks is easy or fun. I'm a schoolteacher, and I have to spend my days hearing either condescending remarks about how little I make (people, go to any school district's website and find the teachers' salary chart in the employment section before you say that again), unthinking remarks about my hours (you try being "on stage" for about five hours a day, followed by meetings, parent conferences, tutoring or clubs, duty at dances or sporting events, and then go home for assessment time), or most insulting of all, listening to people who think they'd like to try teaching because they have a lot of knowledge to share or because they'd like to "give back." Modeling is not easy, even if you are tall, skinny and pretty. Singing to an audience is not easy, even if you can carry a tune (which, strangely, many AI finalists can't do). And my job is a profession that takes a lot of work to do it well.

All that being said, I know that there's a lot to make fun of in reality television. This brings me to the origin of today's entry title. If you haven't seen Operation Kitten Calendar, please do so. The more actual reality shows you watch, the funnier it is. Be sure you check out all the episodes (each 5 minutes long), including the obligatory reunion show.