A Traffic Jam on Memory Lane

Tea: Mixed Berry Green

Music: Crimson Jazz Trio, "Three of a Perfect Pair"

Time: Night.

I'm sure it's not an original thought. But for years, I've repeated that the price of a good memory is a lot of bad memories. I don't mean that in the transaction sense. I mean that being able to remember lots of things in great detail has its downside.

I have perfect recall of my father pouncing on a giant cutthroat trout that I took out of Fish Creek in Montana, keeping it from flopping back into the water after it landed on the bank and threw the hook. I also can't erase the image of him pale and groggy in Intensive Care, waiting for open-heart surgery that failed to save his life.

I remember with utter clarity my mother waking me up just before midnight on Friday nights, starting when I was eight, so we could watch old horror movies on a tiny black-and-white television that she brought into my room. And I can't forget trying to make it through the school days, in December of my senior year, knowing she had gone into the hospital for the last time.

I don't have a choice. Everything's filed away in my head. But I do have a choice as to what I take out, dust off and revisit.

I can choose to recall being wiped out, overwhelmed and cranky when I arrived in New York for the first time -- or being revived by a huge, rich, comforting plate of oxtails.

I can make myself flinch, recalling the time I accidentally shut one grandmother's hand in our car door -- or think of the times we picked Concord grapes in her back yard.

I can keep ledgers of wrongs done to me, and scan the pages every day, or focus on the good things -- the better than I deserved things -- others said to me, gave to me, did for me.

Things will come up unbidden, as memories do. And it serves no good to pretend that things didn't happen. But I have a choice as to what I let linger.

Another Candle is Lit

Tea: Mandarin Orange

Music: Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"

Time: Night.

Until today, my son's involvement with tea consisted of reading Steep Thoughts over my shoulder.

This morning, he was milling around the kitchen looking for something hot to drink with his biscuits and preserves.

"Want some tea?" I asked.

He thought.

"Got any subtle tea?" he asked, cracking himself up at his own pun.

I refused to bite.

"This is green tea," I said, indicating the Mandarin Green (which you might remember from earlier posts as "candletea," because it makes me think of festive holiday gatherings and never fails to lift my mood). "It's pretty light."

"So it's ... subtle tea?"

"Yes," I said with a sigh. "It's subtle tea. I was about to make some, but you can have my first steeping and I'll take the second."

Even without honey, he likes it. Great. He already takes my socks. Now I have to keep an eye on my tea stash, too.

I've Been a Distant Cousin ...

Tea: White Leaf Song Yang

Music: Jacky Terrasson, "He Goes on a Trip"

Time: Night.

My high school senior daughter got a dictionary tonight. Big deal, right? Yeah, it was.

Each year, through the Kansas Scholars program, the University of Kansas awards certificates and dictionaries to seniors who are in the top ten percent of their graduating classes. The ceremony for her district, which includes five high schools, was tonight. (For the record, I wasn't in the top ten percent of my class. I had the test scores. But homework? Couldn't be bothered.)

Late in the presentation for the last high school, I saw a young man in a blue shirt hurry into the line. I knew it had to be my cousin's son, who I hadn't seen in more than ten years. I was right. He almost didn't make the ceremony, because his soccer team was playing a makeup game (in a cold rain, I might add).

I think my grandparents would have been proud, to have two great-grandchildren at the same academic awards ceremony. I think it would have saddened them, the way I've lost touch with a lot of my relatives.

My cousin lives 15 minutes from me, and I've seen him only a handful of times since I moved here.

I know ... it's inexcusable. But it's correctable.

As I get older, more and more time goes by between blinks. Kids become fledgling adults. Friends find themselves at the threshold of grandparenthood.

And we have the best of intentions -- to keep in touch, to get together, to keep weeks from turning into months from turning into years. But we fall down.

As long as we have breath, though, we can get up again. We have chances to close the gaps -- or, at the least, to build bridges over them. It isn't easy, but it can be done.

Tonight's scary story: Christopher Blayre, "The Book"

Back on the Board

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: David Bowie, "Heroes"

Time: Night

Today, I played Scrabble against my 15-year-old son. Two games, won both. (The king is still the king.) That's only part of the point.

I used to play against my father, whenever I could -- and our games were epic. Scores of 302-301 weren't unheard-of. We scraped and scrapped and challenged for every point, so fiercely that nobody else would play with us.

He always hoarded the "Q" tile. Consequently, I held every "U" I could get my hands on. When he died, a little over a decade ago, I buried the "Q" with him.

And until today, I had played once since he died. But it was time. We've had a new Scrabble set for several years now (my son, if you'll recall, pulled it out of storage earlier this year) and I'd slowly been working up to the idea of playing again. When my son challenged me this morning, I accepted.

He has some of his grandfather's mannerisms. He fidgets. He takes forever to make a play. Even when he's about to score big, he never pounces. He gives the board one last look-see, to make sure he's not missing one or two extra points by playing something else.

And he doesn't want any help, from anyone. If he's going to win, he wants to earn it.

It was odd in ways, comforting in others, to be hunched over the board and the letters again. I have a feeling it won't be long before we're at it again.

Someday he'll beat me ... if I'm lucky. After all, great rivalries need winners on both sides.

Tonight's scary story: Lettice Galbraith, "The Trainer's Ghost"

Pot Training

Tea: Yunnan Gold

Music: Weezer, "Buddy Holly"

Time: Night

I'd been putting off this talk with my youngest daughter. I don't know why. She's been old enough for a while now.

Her 17-year-old sister has shown no interest in the subject whatsoever. In fact, it repels her. Their brother, almost 16, has tried it. He can take it or leave it. But at 14, the youngest can't get enough. She has whole bags of the stuff.

I guess I finally figured out that I have two choices: Let her work things out on her own, finding her own way by trial and error, or give her some fatherly guidance.

So today ... I taught her how to run the coffee maker.

She chose caramel, one of 12 flavors she got as a gift. I showed her how to put in the filter, measure out the coffee, fill the pot with water and pour it into the machine.

Then she flipped the switch, and the running commentary began.

"How long is this going to take?"

"It's taking too long."

"Is it done yet?"

"How can I tell when it's done?"

(No, she hadn't been hitting the caffeine before that. She just has little patience when she wants something.)

Finally, the pot was done, and she got down her gigantic mug from Alice's Tea Cup in New York. (We've both been there, but she likes to gloat about being first by several months.) This is her mug. She doesn't share. She has the youngest child's ethic -- she might have had to share her living space all her life, but her stuff is sacrosanct.

She filled the mug, got out the milk and then stopped short.

"If I put milk in now, it's going to go all over the place," she said. "You want some of this coffee, Dad?

"You sure? It's your coffee."

"Yeah."

"Can I wait until you're done, wash out your mug and then use it?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she clutched the cup to her chest.

"My mug. Get your own."

I got out another mug, poured some of her coffee into it, and sipped. Could have been stronger. Couldn't have been more pleasurable.

"Thanks for sharing."

"You're welcome."

As Hallmark moments go, it was pretty darn good.

Next week, maybe the week after that, I'll get out my ibrik and show her how to cook up the hard stuff.

Who knows? Maybe I'll even let her use one of my little cups.

A Rasher off the Old Side

Tea: Ginger Peach with Honey

Music: ABBA, "Dancing Queen"

Time: Night.

Church picnic this afternoon. (I made potato salad with not one, but two secret ingredients. Because I stink at keeping ingredients secret, I will tell you that one of them was Honey Bar-Bee-Q Sauce from Anthony' Beehive.

Going through the line (for the second time -- I'm Baptist, you see, so seconds are mandatory and thirds are allowable, as written either in First Impressions or Second Opinions), I found a pan of baked beans, near empty, with a strip of bacon lying atop.

My first thought: "Mmmmmm. Bacon." My second: "I shouldn't take all of it. I should cut the strip in half."

The bacon had other ideas. The whole strip wanted to be on my plate. So, of course, I obliged. Good thing, too. It was maple-smoked bacon -- rich, sweet and covered with the sauce from the baked beans. My arteries forgave, nay, blessed me for the indulgence.

On the way back to the car, I thought I'd score some gloat points with my 15-year-old son.

"I got a whole piece of maple bacon off the top of that pan of baked beans," I said.

"So did I," he said. "I tried to cut it, but it didn't want to cut."

I looked at him, did a doubletake and gave the only fitting response.

"Dude," I said, and we bumped knuckles.

Every Picture Tells a Story

Tea: Lemon

Music: AC/DC, "It's a Long Way to the Top (if You Wanna Rock 'N' Roll)"

Time: Night.

Tonight, I took my son to a picture party for his high school strings group's trip to Australia.

There was food. There were, of course, pictures. There were videos (and, as usual, the homemade one was better than the one provided by the tour company).

And there was one moment that linked generations in my family.

My late father spent some time in Australia during World War II, on R and R from the brutal island-hopping battles of the Pacific Campaign. (His Marine unit fought at Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester.)

He crossed the Pacific by ship, wondering if a torpedo would send his ship to the bottom and him into the water with the sharks. My son crossed in a jumbo jet, sleepless only because his seatmate ("some random adult from England") was snoring.

But one shot tonight -- a picture of Luna Park in Melbourne -- brought their trips together.

My father went there, escorting a young Australian woman whose sweetheart was off fighting. (It was an honorable arrangement, and my father an honorable man.) My son didn't go in, but his group stood outside the gate in the same place where his grandfather stood more than sixty years ago.

I wish they could have talked about Australia ... but I'll tell my son what I can of my father's time there. And I'll pray that he never needs R and R from a shooting war.

Reunions, Perchance Goodbyes

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Johnny Cash, "In My Life"

Time: Night.

The bags are packed, the trunk loaded. Tomorrow morning, we'll set out for southwest Kansas (picking up two of the kids along the way in Salina, where we'll snag a bag of sliders at the Cozy Inn.)

There are two family reunions planned, both on my mother-in-law's side of the family, along with a visit to my late father-in-law's parents. Both of them are now in their 80s, and in failing health.

My wife's grandmother, meanwhile, is in a nursing home -- fairly hale in body, but in an amiable fog.

I have already said goodbye to my own grandparents and both parents -- but any death is all deaths, as my friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes is wont to say, and impending farewells evoke memories of past ones.

That said, this is not an extended series of pre-wakes. As long as there is life, it is to be lived and celebrated. Besides, tomorrow's not promised to any of us. Grim thought, perhaps, but also an incentive.

It Came from a Land Down Under (and Nobody Chundered)

Tea: Irish Breakfast

Music: Men at Work, "I Can See It In Your Eyes"

Time: Night

(Yeah, the obvious song was just a bit too obvious, y'know?)

My son, who returned home from Australia tonight, managed to smuggle in a packet of Vegemite in his pocket. (I'm really not so sure that's illegal, but I didn't want to dampen his chuffitude at pulling off the deed.)

I've never had Vegemite before. That's reason enough to try it in my book. So three of us gamely spread some of the stuff on bread and took our bites.

"Bleah," said one. "INteresting," said another. "I'm not having any," said a third.

Me, I didn't mind the stuff. Salty as anything, but not bad. The big strike against it, I suppose, is that it's now under the Kraft umbrella. When it comes to food, I'm not a gigantic fan of multinationals (although Mezzo Mix and Lift are among the allowable hypocrisies. Exceptions must be made.).

My son snickered through the whole process.

"I can't believe you like that stuff," he told me. "I can't stand it."

I wouldn't make a habit of eating it -- but it's one more item off the list of things to try before I die.

Anyone want to smuggle me in a durian?

Delays, Delays ...

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: King Crimson, "One More Red Nightmare"

Time: Night

My son was to have returned tonight from Australia, where he went on a ten-day tour with his high school's strolling strings group.

Instead, his flight's been canceled and he's spending the night in Los Angeles. All going well, he'll be here tomorrow evening.

The delay is frustrating -- but it's always good to have a loved one safe on this side of an ocean.

Heartfelt (and Heart Consumed)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: The Beatles, "In My Life"

Time: Night.

Father's Day is still more than a week away, but my son will be in Australia on the 15th. So tonight, we staged an impromptu early celebration.

It all started while we were cleaning the gutters in anticipation of tonight's predicted thunderstorm. Somehow, the topic of organ meats came up.

The women in the family, who were away at a carnival, do not want such delicacies. We XY types beg to differ.

My son has had tripe and mountain oysters. Before tonight, he had not had beef heart (although he's consumed a few of the turkey variety during various holiday seasons). We started talking about heart and kidneys, and how tonight would be an ideal time to try one or the other.

With only one functional car, though, that meant a one-mile (each way) walk to the nearest market that sells organ meats on a regular basis. I've been dealing with a tweaky ankle, as you all know from my recent whining, but it's been feeling better.

The final piece fell into place when he said, "I'm buying."

So, long story short, we found both heart and kidney at the market. We flipped a coin and came home with the former. (Got away cheap, too -- heart is just 99 cents a pound.) On the way back, we talked about the ethic of nose-to-tail eating -- the idea that one can and should make use of every edible cut -- and about the fun of adventurous consumption.

There are all sorts of ways to cook heart. (One suggestion -- to stuff each chamber with a different ingredient -- sounded delicious but would have taken more time than we had.) We decided to do it the way my late father -- who died when my son was five -- liked it. While he picked mulberries from the tree in the back yard, I put potatoes on to boil (for mash) and started slicing the heart into thin strips.

(First, though, I peeled off the tallow and rendered it in a skillet, for use in pan-frying the meat. Transfat, schmansfat ... we wanted flavor.)

I dredged the slices in flour, seasoned with kosher salt, freshly cracked pepper and garlic powder. Then I fried them in the skillet (cast iron, of course). The drippings formed a base for gravy, which went over the mashed potatoes.

And yea, verily, it was good -- and not just from a food standpoint. It was a way for my son to learn more about a grandfather he knew for only a short time, and for me to remember my father.

Sometimes, ghosts at a table make for an uncomfortable dinner. In this case, though, the third diner -- in spirit -- was more than welcome.

It's up to her, New York, New York

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Mott the Hoople, "All the Young Dudes"

Time: Night.

Another one of my clan is about to experience New York.

The soon-to-be-senior daughter's high school chorus leaves at some ungodly hour (translation: before noon) tomorrow.

She'll be back on her 17th birthday. While she's there, she'll sing at the top of the Empire State Building, visit Times Square and see a couple of Broadway shows ("Legally Blonde" and something else chickish, the title of which escapes me at present. Could be worse. She could be seeing "The Sca-REEWWWWWWW-uh TAY-puh Letters." Don't ask. It's a long story.)

She'll come home, as I did, with her world both expanded and shrunk. I'm interested to see if she falls in love with the city, too. I hope she does.

She'll

Tea: Ti Kuan Yin Oolong (morning)/Fruit Medley (night)

Music: Carols, carols everywhere.

Time: Night.

Yet another tea-infused post.

The day began at 5:30, helping one child after another with end of the semester papers. (No, I didn't write them. I proofread. That's it.)

That's where the Ti Kuan Yin came in. (Kuan Yin is the Chinese goddess of mercy, hence the alternative name for the tea: "Iron Goddess of Mercy.") That's not my theology, but a cup of wakefulness -- aromatic with flowers and grass -- that early in the morning is indeed a grace and a mercy.

Friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes recommended the Fruit Medley for my son, who is nursing a nasty cough. She had me steep it with cloves, add honey, put in a cinnamon stick and have him sip it through the night.

Sounded good, so I made the second steeping for myself. Medicine has never tasted so good -- not that I was coughing, mind you. But an ounce of prevention ...

Measure of a Man

Tea: Assam Ginger (morning)/ Yerba Maté (turning of the day)/ Matcha (early afternoon)

Music: Cassandra Wilson, "Tupelo Honey"

Time: Pretty much all day

My father once said (or, more accurately, said about once a year) that, "The beauty of a man is tenderness."

This straight man has opened and closed his day seeing that kind of beauty.

There was Paolo, holding his young daughter with effortless (and obvious) affection in a Brooklyn tea shop. His eight-year-old son elbowed him to get his attention, and Paolo gave him that attention without a hint of irritation. The man radiated quiet love for his family.

And tonight, on the subway ride back from Manhattan, there was Brian, with his new wife and their children. He is headed to Iraq in January -- scarcely enough time to settle into this new shared life before putting his own on the line. It was apparent that he wasn't going to waste a minute between now and then.

And they shamed me. For every missed chance to be tender, for every needlessly harsh word, for every good word left unspoken.

But each day is a new chance. God help me not to miss them.