It's the Fourth of July, which is a big holiday in our town. There's a pancake breakfast, a parade, a picnic with Boy Scouts selling burgers and hot dogs, and block parties all over town during the afternoon. It all has that "community" feeling that is often lacking in an urban environment like ours. This is the sort of thing that our kids will remember when they are adults -- with warm and fuzzy feelings, I hope.
This year, I announce to my awake-but-still-sleepy-eyed family that we are going to the Pancake Breakfast. We had made it to the breakfast a few years ago, but nobody else in my family remembers this, so this is our chance to do it again. I have fond memories of attending at least one pancake breakfast when I was a child, and I think my kids should have this experience, too.
I admit, the food at pancake breakfasts is not known to be particularly memorable, so I am not surprised that it made no lasting impression on them. As a child, pancake breakfast food did make a big impression on me. I remember going in the early morning to the parking lot at Spot Market near the corner of Western Avenue and Crenshaw Avenue. (City leaders later decided to change the name of "Crenshaw" to "Marine" -- but that's another story.) We must have purchased tickets from our family friend, Dr. Yoshida, who was a member of the Lions Club, because I can't think of any other reason why we would have gone. My mother was a generous soul, but frugal when it came to feeding us -- I can only imagine how hard it must have been to pay so much for pancakes! As I went through the line, I thought is was curious that there were so many older white gentleman serving us the food. I had never seen so many old white men in one place at one time. They all seemed super-friendly and loud. Dr. Yoshida was there, too, and we made sure to say "hi" as we passed by his section of the buffet line. He seemed normal. Not overly-friendly, and definitely not so loud.
When I sat down to eat my food, I marveled at the eggs. They were perfectly yellow and uniform throughout. I had never seen scrambled eggs like this in my life! And they tasted ... different. Kind of spongy. I decided this must be how white people made scrambled eggs. I liked them fine, but I liked my mom's better.
It took me decades to figure out what the difference was between my mom's eggs and the fluffy, beaten-by-an-eggbeater pancake breakfast eggs. I made the discovery as I was making breakfast one day. After I had already cracked the pre-sunnyside-up eggs into the pan, I decided to make scrambled instead. I took my long cooking hashi (chopsticks) and whisked them in the pan. Half-set before I mixed them up, the eggs took on a nicely marbled state, yellow and white still visible in the finished product. Just like my mom's.
As we go through the Pancake Breakfast line, I am feeling a bit nostalgic for the type of scrambled eggs the Lions Club cooked up for us when I was a kid. We have forked over about $25 for two adults and two kids, and I am looking forward to the eggs -- partly because I want to tell the kids my story about pancake breakfasts and their grandmother's eggs. Fortunately for them, they are spared the "back when I was a kid ..." ramblings of their mother, because there are no eggs. A couple of pancakes, a strip of bacon or a link of sausage, some fruit ... and no eggs.
Happy Egg-less Fourth of July, everyone!
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
baby bump-ish
It's spring outside! Buoyed by the beautiful weather, I decide to wear a dress instead of jeans. This is pretty momentous, at least in my own mind. I shimmy my way into a dress I bought a couple years ago -- nothing fancy, just something that seemed comfortable and cute at the time. I don't remember it being quite so stretchy ... or so snug. Hmmmm. I adjust a few things and survey myself in the mirror. Actually, the rear view is better than usual. When did all that junk get in my trunk? I rotate to profile and -- yikes! Silhouetted in this Spandex-laden dress, there is no disputing it: I have a baby bump. Well, I sure look like I have a baby bump, but I guess it's just a bump ... or is it?
My mind is racing, counting the days of the month ... could I be "with child?" I have been extremely tired lately. Yes, the bags under my eyes confirm that. And, I've been eating a lot. All day long. And my back has been hurting, and I've been getting these headaches. But I had assumed I was just tired, sore and having headaches. Come to think of it, I have also had this urge to bake cookies and clean the house. Oh my gosh, I think I might be nesting! (Gasp!)
As I pull on a pair of jeans and suck in my baby bump in order to button and zip them up, I think back over a decade to my first pregnancy and try to make a checklist of symptoms. Check, check, check. Oh, wow. I decide to keep this to myself, rather than alarm my husband.
During my swing through Target, I waddle along to the "feminine products" aisle and buy the cheapest pregnancy test available. I need to just take a test and get it over with. If I'm pregnant, I can eat whatever I want! I can wear a Spandex dress and show off my baby bump, while shamelessly eating a Black and Tan sundae at Fenton's! I won't have to worry about my weight for a good eight months! Oh, how liberating it would be!
By the time I get home, the delirium has worn off and I have forgotten about the pregnancy test. I remember it several hours later, and proceed with the test. It is a generic brand that I have never used before, but I figure I don't need the instructions. Peeing on a stick is pretty self-explanatory. Now, for the results. When I was trying to get pregnant, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the results to appear in the little windows on the pee stick. This time, however, the results were almost instantaneous. BAM. There it was. But what did it mean? I realize that since I have never used this brand before, I don't know how to read the test. Now I wished I had paid the extra money for the name-brand pregnancy test that clearly says, "PREGNANT" or "NOT PREGNANT," instead of making you decipher these random lines. I retrieve the box from the trash and find the legend to decode the test.
One line. Negative. Not pregnant.
Just fat.
Next time I go shopping, I think I'll go buy some Spanx.
My mind is racing, counting the days of the month ... could I be "with child?" I have been extremely tired lately. Yes, the bags under my eyes confirm that. And, I've been eating a lot. All day long. And my back has been hurting, and I've been getting these headaches. But I had assumed I was just tired, sore and having headaches. Come to think of it, I have also had this urge to bake cookies and clean the house. Oh my gosh, I think I might be nesting! (Gasp!)
As I pull on a pair of jeans and suck in my baby bump in order to button and zip them up, I think back over a decade to my first pregnancy and try to make a checklist of symptoms. Check, check, check. Oh, wow. I decide to keep this to myself, rather than alarm my husband.
During my swing through Target, I waddle along to the "feminine products" aisle and buy the cheapest pregnancy test available. I need to just take a test and get it over with. If I'm pregnant, I can eat whatever I want! I can wear a Spandex dress and show off my baby bump, while shamelessly eating a Black and Tan sundae at Fenton's! I won't have to worry about my weight for a good eight months! Oh, how liberating it would be!
By the time I get home, the delirium has worn off and I have forgotten about the pregnancy test. I remember it several hours later, and proceed with the test. It is a generic brand that I have never used before, but I figure I don't need the instructions. Peeing on a stick is pretty self-explanatory. Now, for the results. When I was trying to get pregnant, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the results to appear in the little windows on the pee stick. This time, however, the results were almost instantaneous. BAM. There it was. But what did it mean? I realize that since I have never used this brand before, I don't know how to read the test. Now I wished I had paid the extra money for the name-brand pregnancy test that clearly says, "PREGNANT" or "NOT PREGNANT," instead of making you decipher these random lines. I retrieve the box from the trash and find the legend to decode the test.
One line. Negative. Not pregnant.
Just fat.
Next time I go shopping, I think I'll go buy some Spanx.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
happy eating on mother's day
It's Mother's Day! My day to celebrate myself! I woke up to my husband making coffee and trying to figure out how to turn on the oven to make chocolate croissants. His coffee always tastes better than mine, so the coffee-making part was not unusual; apparently, the oven-turning-on part was a bit of a stretch. I helped him out with this, then waited for one of the kids to wake up so they could put the croissants in the oven. After we ate them, my husband and the kids made blueberry pancakes and bacon. Yum. More coffee, more food. I am happy.
I am still working on my pancakes when my daughter pipes up: "Would you like some cheese?"
"Well, I'm pretty full right now. Maybe later," I say with a motherly smile.
"Okay. How about some cheese for lunch? Or maybe some Arizmendi pizza? Because it's Mother's Day!!!"
Cheese is my daughter's favorite food, and she knows I like it, and Arizmendi pizza, too. It is an expression of daughterly sweetness that makes my heart melt ... and spasm with guilt. Apparently, my Pavlovian behavior around food has not gone unnoticed. Am I really that obvious? I fear I have permanently damaged both of my children's relationships with food. For the rest of their lives.
Sigh (again). I will have to deal with that later. For now, I will just happily eat my way through mother's day.
Is it time for Mocha Frappuccinos yet?
I am still working on my pancakes when my daughter pipes up: "Would you like some cheese?"
"Well, I'm pretty full right now. Maybe later," I say with a motherly smile.
"Okay. How about some cheese for lunch? Or maybe some Arizmendi pizza? Because it's Mother's Day!!!"
Cheese is my daughter's favorite food, and she knows I like it, and Arizmendi pizza, too. It is an expression of daughterly sweetness that makes my heart melt ... and spasm with guilt. Apparently, my Pavlovian behavior around food has not gone unnoticed. Am I really that obvious? I fear I have permanently damaged both of my children's relationships with food. For the rest of their lives.
Sigh (again). I will have to deal with that later. For now, I will just happily eat my way through mother's day.
Is it time for Mocha Frappuccinos yet?
Monday, April 27, 2009
For a moment, I'm June Cleaver
It was time to pick up my son from school after jazz band. My son was waiting with his buddy, Gabe, and I loaded up my little car with bass, amp, guitar and two boys. Just as we were almost ready to go, my son's teacher rode up on his bicycle and started to chat with me. While we were talking, another boy who looked like he knew my son started hovering about. He looked familiar. As Mr. Scherman rode off, the boy peered into the car window ... not saying anything, but still ... hovering. My it-takes-a-village maternal instinct kicked in, and I could not leave him standing there, cold-heartedly driving off as he gazed at us driving off into the distance.
I waved to the boy and asked, "Do you need me to call somebody?"
Boy whose name I didn't know: "No, I don't need to call anybody."
"Are you waiting for somebody?"
"No."
"Do you want a ride?"
"Oh, okay, sure, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said, lugging his baritone sax into the car.
"Is it okay for you to get a ride? Do you need to call somebody?"
"Oh, no, it's fine if I get a ride. I don't need to call anybody. Thank you."
The boy was very polite, and he knew my son, and he looked familiar, and he didn't live too far, so everything seemed fine. It took me a while to realize that I had never met this kid before -- I had mistaken him for his twin brother, who was my son's classmate.
Of course, I didn't realize this until we were half way to his house, and my son blurts out, "Okay, so, like, are you Max or are you Charlie?" Apparently, my son didn't know who he was, either.
"I'm Max ... no, just kidding, I'm Charlie."
Now that we had that settled, we continued on our way only to drive past a boy who looked a lot like Charlie, carrying a large instrument as he walked down the street.
"HEY, MAX! SEE YA LATER!!! Ha ha ha ha ha!" yells Charlie, as we drive past his brother.
"Oh -- that's Max? I might as well stop and ..."
"NO!!! Noooo!!!! Don't stop the car! No, please, please ..." Charlie seemed to physically deflate as I slowed down the car and pulled over to the side.
"... give him a ride home, too." I could see Max running over, going pretty quickly for somebody carrying a big instrument case.
"Would you like a ride home, too?"
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Oyama. Thank you." Max climbed in and my little car was just about at maximum capacity with all the instruments, amps, backpacks and boys.
Fortunately, we were only a short ride away from the twins' house.
I parked the car and got out to help dislodge the boys and their gear from the car. As we are unloading, one of the twins -- not sure which one -- remarks, "I wasn't sure who was driving the car -- I thought you might be Miles's sister. You look young for your age!"
Well, it wasn't the most artfully stated compliment, but I will take a compliment wherever I can get one. "Oh, thank you!" I happily reply. "Thank you for the ride!" the twins call back, smiling widely.
As I drive away, I am still enjoying the compliment, but suddenly I start to feel a sense of de ja vu. Well, not quite de ja vu ... it's more like ... nostalgia. And it takes a while to sink in, but I suddenly realize that I feel like June Cleaver.
I waved to the boy and asked, "Do you need me to call somebody?"
Boy whose name I didn't know: "No, I don't need to call anybody."
"Are you waiting for somebody?"
"No."
"Do you want a ride?"
"Oh, okay, sure, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said, lugging his baritone sax into the car.
"Is it okay for you to get a ride? Do you need to call somebody?"
"Oh, no, it's fine if I get a ride. I don't need to call anybody. Thank you."
The boy was very polite, and he knew my son, and he looked familiar, and he didn't live too far, so everything seemed fine. It took me a while to realize that I had never met this kid before -- I had mistaken him for his twin brother, who was my son's classmate.
Of course, I didn't realize this until we were half way to his house, and my son blurts out, "Okay, so, like, are you Max or are you Charlie?" Apparently, my son didn't know who he was, either.
"I'm Max ... no, just kidding, I'm Charlie."
Now that we had that settled, we continued on our way only to drive past a boy who looked a lot like Charlie, carrying a large instrument as he walked down the street.
"HEY, MAX! SEE YA LATER!!! Ha ha ha ha ha!" yells Charlie, as we drive past his brother.
"Oh -- that's Max? I might as well stop and ..."
"NO!!! Noooo!!!! Don't stop the car! No, please, please ..." Charlie seemed to physically deflate as I slowed down the car and pulled over to the side.
"... give him a ride home, too." I could see Max running over, going pretty quickly for somebody carrying a big instrument case.
"Would you like a ride home, too?"
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Oyama. Thank you." Max climbed in and my little car was just about at maximum capacity with all the instruments, amps, backpacks and boys.
Fortunately, we were only a short ride away from the twins' house.
I parked the car and got out to help dislodge the boys and their gear from the car. As we are unloading, one of the twins -- not sure which one -- remarks, "I wasn't sure who was driving the car -- I thought you might be Miles's sister. You look young for your age!"
Well, it wasn't the most artfully stated compliment, but I will take a compliment wherever I can get one. "Oh, thank you!" I happily reply. "Thank you for the ride!" the twins call back, smiling widely.
As I drive away, I am still enjoying the compliment, but suddenly I start to feel a sense of de ja vu. Well, not quite de ja vu ... it's more like ... nostalgia. And it takes a while to sink in, but I suddenly realize that I feel like June Cleaver.
I've been Haskellized. And, actually, I think I like it! Maybe I'll go put on some pearls and bake some cookies now.
[Note: I wrote this last year but apparently never clicked "publish post"; I saw one of the twins today during my library duty. I can't tell you which one, but he was very polite.]
Saturday, February 14, 2009
like father, like son
For Valentine's Day, I just had to share this story of father-son bonding. I'll call the dad "Big Daddy." The story goes that Big Daddy's sixth grade son recently started showing an interest in girls. Big Daddy is extremely happy about this, in the way that moms get excited when their daughters start showing an interest in shopping.
One day, the boy wanders into the media room to find his father watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Instead of changing the channel or shooing his son out of the room, Big Daddy tells his son to come on over and watch the show.
Son: "What is this?"
Big Daddy: "It's a fashion show."
His son sits down and his eyes become transfixed on the television set.
Big Daddy is enjoying this special time with his son -- their first Victoria's Secret Fashion Show viewing together. Scantily clad women with really big wings parade before them. Father and son, spending some quality time together.
After a few minutes, the son says to his dad: "I can't believe anybody would actually buy those wings."
Some things just cannot be rushed. In due time, Big Daddy, in due time.
One day, the boy wanders into the media room to find his father watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Instead of changing the channel or shooing his son out of the room, Big Daddy tells his son to come on over and watch the show.
Son: "What is this?"
Big Daddy: "It's a fashion show."
His son sits down and his eyes become transfixed on the television set.
Big Daddy is enjoying this special time with his son -- their first Victoria's Secret Fashion Show viewing together. Scantily clad women with really big wings parade before them. Father and son, spending some quality time together.
After a few minutes, the son says to his dad: "I can't believe anybody would actually buy those wings."
Some things just cannot be rushed. In due time, Big Daddy, in due time.
NOTE: My husband requested that I clarify that "Big Daddy" in this story is not him. If it were my husband, I would have called him Big Poppa, not Big Daddy.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
big buttons
My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.
When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.
The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.
Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.
When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.
The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.
Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.
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