My most vivid memory of childhood Thanksgiving is my mother getting up at 5 AM to put the turkey in and making a giant bowl of French Canadian stuffing to go with it. It’s kind of like the filling in Tourtieres, and my Nana used to make it. This was before my father was a vegetarian, obviously, and made us be vegetarians, too, as the stuffing was made of ground pork, onions , golden raisins, mashed potatoes, and, the staple of all stuffings in New England: Bell’s Seasoning. When I moved to Illinois I could not find Bell’s at the Jewel in Bloomington, so I had to settle for something generically called “Poultry Seasoning” which was a poor substitute. It has to be Bell’s. I make this stuffing now occasionally, with either ground turkey or “veggie crumbles,” and although I have no memory of what pork tasted like, I suspect that in this stuffing it was really good. I am the last one in the family to continue making this stuffing, since the other cousins in my generation don’t really like it (nor do most of my aunts) and this makes me more determined to keep the tradition alive, since it’s really the only remotely “ethnic” recipe we have.
Thanksgiving at my Nana’s house meant that the five cousins, me being the oldest and my cousin Jason the youngest (we are six years apart) would usually dress up, get our picture taken in front of Nana’s fireplace, and then we would all eat. Afterwards, when we were old enough, were several rounds of cards. We played for chips sometimes and sometimes money, or chips that stood for money (although I don’t think they were ever really cashed in.) My Nana was a big fan of cards and bingo, and would often get together with her “ladies” in her kitchen, where they shouted and cursed and ate ritz crackers with the cheese you squeeze from a can.
The cousins were divided into two neat groups: two girls (Erin and I, two years apart) and two boys (Christian and my brother, also two years apart) until Jason came along, upsetting the balance. Jason was the baby, almost four years younger than Erin, and although I must mention that he grew up to be a talented artist and a wonderful human being with a great sense of humor, we did not always treat him well. Especially Christian, who is so hard to describe I really can only do it through a list of facts: Christian was hit by a car on three separate occasions as a child, and each time he sustained practically no injuries. He was small and skinny but moved faster and had the loudest voice and most rapid-fire speech of any little kid I’ve ever met. Also, he was a blurter—he just said what he thought, always, and it was usually the thing everyone else was too polite to say (he pointed out to my father on many occasions that he was going bald, the irony being that by age 19, Chris himself had lost most of his hair. He also spent most of my eighth birthday party marching around our house announcing that our Nana was wearing a wig.)
On one Thanksgiving, Jason was playing cards with all of us for the first time. He was still little, so he was learning, but he was smart and getting the hang of it. However, he was far from winning, and his pile of chips was dwindling. Just starting to get a little tired and crabby, he pointed out something Chris had done that had seemed unfair (perhaps peeking at someone’s cards or something like that—Chris never could sit still for a minute.) Chris took one look at Jason’s small pile of poker chips and laughed: “At least I’m not poor.” Then the crying started.
Flash forward many years later, and Jason is grown up and has a Master’s Degree and a lucrative new job. Chris is a few years away from enlisting in the Iraq war, still working part time, and not sure what he wants to do with his life. We are playing cards again, and Jason is still losing. As Chris celebrates his victory, Jason has one last parting shot: “Maybe you won, but at least I’m not poor.”
Although I will see neither Chris nor Jason this Thanksgiving, as Chris is in Iraq, working in one of Sadam Hussein’s former palaces, and Jason is spending the holiday with his wife’s family, I will be thinking of them.
Another family tradition I hope endures along with the stuffing: well-timed revenge.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Poisoner
Right now Scott is fighting what might be the flu (I hope it is not) and he is making me very grateful that I have had the H1N1 vaccine. I was lucky to get it; a friend of my mother’s works at a doctor’s office up in Laconia, NH, and, back in October, told me that they had plenty of doses. I took the trip up there and waited in no line whatsoever to get the shot, which took just a few seconds. A weird thing happened that night, though: I woke up at 3 AM (not unusual nowadays) with an incredible chill—I could not stop shaking and my teeth were chattering; I could not get warm. Then I started sweating. This all lasted about a half hour, then it was gone and I was fine. A reaction to the shot? I remember at the time thinking that I had made a horrible mistake, and that somehow I was getting the swine flu because of the vaccine.
In my family we are pretty dramatic about illness, and sometimes for good reason. My brother contracted mono as an infant and was sick for a long time, and I used to get fevers so high that I would hallucinate and have conversations with people who were not there. Admittedly, there was something oddly calming about seeing things, and I remember in one fever dream seeing a marble go around a track on the ceiling, rolling into a hole until another would pop up, like a pinball game.
I also allegedly poisoned my father with mercury when I was a small child. While my mother went to night class, he babysat us (yes, we considered it that, even though he lived with us, mostly because his powers of supervision were sorely lacking) and one time I was playing with a thermometer that suddenly broke. How I did not get poisoned I do not know, but he later ate an orange at that same table and apparently got some mercury on the orange. I don’t remember any of this after that point, but when my mother got home she found him doubled over in pain and called a nurse friend of hers who indicated that it sounded like mercury poisoning. Maybe the mercury is to blame for the high level of idiopathic autoimmune antibodies in my blood (that no doctor has been able to discern why they are there or what they are doing—all they know is that I have them in quantities equal to women with full-blown lupus, but I do not have any known autoimmune disease) but this is just a far-fetched theory.
Maybe all of this is the reason I am terrified of eating food that has gone bad and will throw things out at the slightest provocation, something that both my husband and father find troubling (both have actually had food poisoning and continue to ignore or shrug aside “sell by” or expiration dates.) Whenever I am at my parents’ house I have to check the expiration dates on everything in the fridge and then ask when things were first opened. My father had a jar of pickles in there last summer that expired in 1996 ("They're still good! They're pickles!"). Being pregnant has only made it worse—if I eat the wrong thing, or something not on the ever-growing “do not consume while pregnant” list, I could poison my baby, so I am vigilant. I thought it might get better when the baby is born, but at my breastfeeding class I was handed a list of foods not to consume while breastfeeding. On the up side, I was also handed a free sample of these strips called “milkscreen” that bills itself as a “home test for alcohol in breast milk.” It’s like a breathalyzer for breast milk—you drink a glass of wine, wait an hour, then see if the alcohol has cleared out of your system before you nurse. If only they made those for every potential hazard I might consume, I would be all set.
In my family we are pretty dramatic about illness, and sometimes for good reason. My brother contracted mono as an infant and was sick for a long time, and I used to get fevers so high that I would hallucinate and have conversations with people who were not there. Admittedly, there was something oddly calming about seeing things, and I remember in one fever dream seeing a marble go around a track on the ceiling, rolling into a hole until another would pop up, like a pinball game.
I also allegedly poisoned my father with mercury when I was a small child. While my mother went to night class, he babysat us (yes, we considered it that, even though he lived with us, mostly because his powers of supervision were sorely lacking) and one time I was playing with a thermometer that suddenly broke. How I did not get poisoned I do not know, but he later ate an orange at that same table and apparently got some mercury on the orange. I don’t remember any of this after that point, but when my mother got home she found him doubled over in pain and called a nurse friend of hers who indicated that it sounded like mercury poisoning. Maybe the mercury is to blame for the high level of idiopathic autoimmune antibodies in my blood (that no doctor has been able to discern why they are there or what they are doing—all they know is that I have them in quantities equal to women with full-blown lupus, but I do not have any known autoimmune disease) but this is just a far-fetched theory.
Maybe all of this is the reason I am terrified of eating food that has gone bad and will throw things out at the slightest provocation, something that both my husband and father find troubling (both have actually had food poisoning and continue to ignore or shrug aside “sell by” or expiration dates.) Whenever I am at my parents’ house I have to check the expiration dates on everything in the fridge and then ask when things were first opened. My father had a jar of pickles in there last summer that expired in 1996 ("They're still good! They're pickles!"). Being pregnant has only made it worse—if I eat the wrong thing, or something not on the ever-growing “do not consume while pregnant” list, I could poison my baby, so I am vigilant. I thought it might get better when the baby is born, but at my breastfeeding class I was handed a list of foods not to consume while breastfeeding. On the up side, I was also handed a free sample of these strips called “milkscreen” that bills itself as a “home test for alcohol in breast milk.” It’s like a breathalyzer for breast milk—you drink a glass of wine, wait an hour, then see if the alcohol has cleared out of your system before you nurse. If only they made those for every potential hazard I might consume, I would be all set.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Lactation Education
Because Scott and I live so close to Vermont, and because I am giving birth in January (according to WMUR, the “most likely month for an ice storm”), we chose Brattleboro Memorial Hospital as the place where I will give birth. Well, I chose it, and Scott had no objection. Although it’s a smaller hospital than the one in Keene, it has something that even Dartmouth/Hitchcock in Lebanon, which resembles a large shopping mall, does not: five lactation consultants (most city hospitals have two or three). Vermonters are dead serious about breastfeeding, and I am fully confident at this point that if I were to start nursing my child in the middle of a public street, I would not only be warmly encouraged but would possibly get my picture in the paper, the way that dogs dressed in cute rain outfits or children holding flags eating ice cream do.
I was excited to get the chance to take the “Breastfeeding Basics” class because all of their other childbirth classes are on Wednesdays at 6:00, when I usually teach. This time, I got to be the student, because Veteran’s Day fell on a Wednesday. I like to think of myself as the kind of student I would want to have: making eye contact with the teacher, asking good questions, fully invested in what I am being taught. I couldn't wait to take on that role again.
Some background on Brattleboro: it’s pretty crunchy, even by Vermont standards. And not exactly hippie-ish, but a lot of transplanted New Yorkers and other city folk who left the city life to start organic farms or art studios or become aromatherapists. I am in no way complaining about this; it means a marked absence of big box stores, a fantastic farmer’s market, decent restaurants, and an unusually active downtown, even in the evening. It means you can bring your dog practically anywhere and you can get good falafel to go. If I want to find a fair trade, organic hemp baby sling suitable for men or women, I can find one in five minutes, right between the human-rights themed bookstore and the Indian grocery. Not too bad for a small, relatively rural area.
The one problem I have with the place is that everyone seems to be an expert in something and they want to share this expertise with you. When I decided last year to start up ice skating again for exercise, I went to the (very nice) Brattleboro rink. No sooner had I tentatively made my way around the rink a few times when I was stopped by one of many skaters who commented on my technique (or lack thereof): “You’re really just walking on the ice. You should be gliding, one foot at a time, like this.” He meant well, but after showing me the right way to do it and critiquing my attempts, he went whirling into the center of the rink, where the other skating whizzes (including what appeared to be a woman in her eighties) were spinning and twirling. I circled around the ring a few times with my halting steps, and then I left.
Breastfeeding class kind of felt like that, because most of the people there were not first-time moms—one woman had her last baby 20 years ago—and they seemed to want to share their experiences rather than learn. I had also been hoping for more celebration and anticipation on the part of my fellow pregnant women, but everyone looked either bored, or stressed, or unhappy. Most everyone was quiet and seemed self-conscious, but I wasn't sure why--for me, it was a comfort to be in a room with other pregnant women for a change. Only one of the younger moms, a pretty redheaded woman due the same week that I am, was smiling and seemed excited to be there.
Most of the class centered around the idea of “latching on,” which is how the baby attaches to the breast. Apparently, if this is done wrong, the baby does not get enough milk and, in the words of the lactation nurse, it can cause “damage” to the breast. She showed us an Australian DVD of the proper procedure, wherein enormous-breasted Australian women with 1980s hairdos and great accents fed their babies with an impressive confidence. It actually took only a few minutes to show us this “nipple tuck” technique, and the rest of the time the nurse made sure we understood the benefits of breastfeeding. We had the chance to apply our knowledge using baby dolls with the kind of open mouths you see on blow up dolls in adult stores, but the only one who truly opted to do this was the transgender partner of the older woman (whom she referred to as "he," so I will here) who had been doing Suduko with the fake baby swaddled on his shoulder up until that point. We all appreciated his participation, as the nurse had been trying to urge us to get involved and try it out.
What I learned: How to do the “nipple tuck technique. And that I am not a good student, but the kind of student I dislike. I don't really want to think about what that means for my teaching, but I will have to at some point. After I master the breastfeeding thing.
I was excited to get the chance to take the “Breastfeeding Basics” class because all of their other childbirth classes are on Wednesdays at 6:00, when I usually teach. This time, I got to be the student, because Veteran’s Day fell on a Wednesday. I like to think of myself as the kind of student I would want to have: making eye contact with the teacher, asking good questions, fully invested in what I am being taught. I couldn't wait to take on that role again.
Some background on Brattleboro: it’s pretty crunchy, even by Vermont standards. And not exactly hippie-ish, but a lot of transplanted New Yorkers and other city folk who left the city life to start organic farms or art studios or become aromatherapists. I am in no way complaining about this; it means a marked absence of big box stores, a fantastic farmer’s market, decent restaurants, and an unusually active downtown, even in the evening. It means you can bring your dog practically anywhere and you can get good falafel to go. If I want to find a fair trade, organic hemp baby sling suitable for men or women, I can find one in five minutes, right between the human-rights themed bookstore and the Indian grocery. Not too bad for a small, relatively rural area.
The one problem I have with the place is that everyone seems to be an expert in something and they want to share this expertise with you. When I decided last year to start up ice skating again for exercise, I went to the (very nice) Brattleboro rink. No sooner had I tentatively made my way around the rink a few times when I was stopped by one of many skaters who commented on my technique (or lack thereof): “You’re really just walking on the ice. You should be gliding, one foot at a time, like this.” He meant well, but after showing me the right way to do it and critiquing my attempts, he went whirling into the center of the rink, where the other skating whizzes (including what appeared to be a woman in her eighties) were spinning and twirling. I circled around the ring a few times with my halting steps, and then I left.
Breastfeeding class kind of felt like that, because most of the people there were not first-time moms—one woman had her last baby 20 years ago—and they seemed to want to share their experiences rather than learn. I had also been hoping for more celebration and anticipation on the part of my fellow pregnant women, but everyone looked either bored, or stressed, or unhappy. Most everyone was quiet and seemed self-conscious, but I wasn't sure why--for me, it was a comfort to be in a room with other pregnant women for a change. Only one of the younger moms, a pretty redheaded woman due the same week that I am, was smiling and seemed excited to be there.
Most of the class centered around the idea of “latching on,” which is how the baby attaches to the breast. Apparently, if this is done wrong, the baby does not get enough milk and, in the words of the lactation nurse, it can cause “damage” to the breast. She showed us an Australian DVD of the proper procedure, wherein enormous-breasted Australian women with 1980s hairdos and great accents fed their babies with an impressive confidence. It actually took only a few minutes to show us this “nipple tuck” technique, and the rest of the time the nurse made sure we understood the benefits of breastfeeding. We had the chance to apply our knowledge using baby dolls with the kind of open mouths you see on blow up dolls in adult stores, but the only one who truly opted to do this was the transgender partner of the older woman (whom she referred to as "he," so I will here) who had been doing Suduko with the fake baby swaddled on his shoulder up until that point. We all appreciated his participation, as the nurse had been trying to urge us to get involved and try it out.
What I learned: How to do the “nipple tuck technique. And that I am not a good student, but the kind of student I dislike. I don't really want to think about what that means for my teaching, but I will have to at some point. After I master the breastfeeding thing.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tony and Ann's
My father has been a bit of a health nut for as long as I can remember. There’s a new term for this in scientific circles: “orthorexia,” which means compulsion to eat only healthy foods. He is also easily swayed by trends, which makes it worse. When I was little, he went on a Weight Watchers kick and during that time, instead of butter, we had to eat their version of margarine, which was chalk white, tasted vaguely of vegetable shortening and cream cheese, and didn’t melt. Instead of bacon, we had to eat something called Sizzle Lean, defatted spam-like strips of some combination of meat and chemicals. Instead of candy, we had dietetic pudding sweetened with saccharine, with an aftertaste that lasted even after you brushed your teeth.
Yet even he made an exception for Tony and Ann’s pizza. This pizza is so hard to describe, but every single person I know from the Greater Lowell, Massachusetts area loved it, even those who were known to be picky eaters. For instance, you could count on one hand the foods my aunt and cousin will eat, but they still love Tony and Ann’s. The place is legendary—whole websites went up in lament when they closed five years ago, and it was even paid tribute in background scenes on the Simpsons. Many people, my family included, bought a bunch of pizzas and froze them, savoring their very last bites of the greasy cheese and sweet sauce.
Part of the problem is that any description I offer of this pizza is going to make it sound disgusting, in the way that people who describe the deliciousness of steamed clams only make others not want to eat them. Language is inadequate, but I will try: The first thing you will see when opening up a box of Tony and Ann’s pizza is a pool of grease on the top. Now, I do not like grease as a rule (I don’t eat fast food, ever) but bear with me. Under the grease is an amorphous mass of cheese with some red spice sprinkled on top. The cheese melts like no other cheese I have seen, and it has a spicy undertone that I just can’t place. The crust is thin and usually soggy. Then the best part: the sauce. I don’t know what is in it, and no one does. It’s really sweet and spicy, and even for those who dislike really sweet sauce (which I normally do) it’s addictive. It may have some kind of sausage in it. I don’t even care. My father, who is a vegetarian and asks forty million questions at restaurants about what is in the food, doesn’t even care and would eat Tony and Ann’s even if he heard a rumor it was made with baby seal blubber.
Tony and Ann’s opened in the 1950s and was just a little square take-out building for years until they put some benches and tables out front for people to eat outside in good weather. We often just ate the pizza in the car, piles of napkins mandatory. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, all of my family, have gone there for generations. I am quite sure my mother ate Tony and Ann’s pizza when she was pregnant with me. When it closed, it was as though a crucial tie to the past had been lost. The whole city mourned. Competitors claimed their pizzas were "just like Tony and Ann's" but nothing could take its place.
And then we found out that it was reopening. Tony has since died, but Ann is still living, and her children are taking over the business. It is opening in a new spot, but most Tony and Ann fans I know would go anywhere, any distance, for this pizza. During my baby shower several weeks ago, my aunt shared a story about actually driving past Ann’s house and almost stopping in to ask about it (I ought to mention here that she is a normal person and not a stalker). Then she went over to the new site of the restaurant and even looked in the dumpster to see signs of activity. Nothing. But on the way home from the shower, she drove by and saw a sign saying “Opening soon.” She called right away.
If it is open in time, Joanne will serve Tony and Ann’s pizza on Thanksgiving instead of turkey. I can see the boxes now, all piled up, and I can smell the cheese and sauce, and I can hear everyone fighting for the first piece. I can’t wait to treat my baby, who can now experience tasting flavors, to this pizza. It’s going to be a great Thanksgiving.
Yet even he made an exception for Tony and Ann’s pizza. This pizza is so hard to describe, but every single person I know from the Greater Lowell, Massachusetts area loved it, even those who were known to be picky eaters. For instance, you could count on one hand the foods my aunt and cousin will eat, but they still love Tony and Ann’s. The place is legendary—whole websites went up in lament when they closed five years ago, and it was even paid tribute in background scenes on the Simpsons. Many people, my family included, bought a bunch of pizzas and froze them, savoring their very last bites of the greasy cheese and sweet sauce.
Part of the problem is that any description I offer of this pizza is going to make it sound disgusting, in the way that people who describe the deliciousness of steamed clams only make others not want to eat them. Language is inadequate, but I will try: The first thing you will see when opening up a box of Tony and Ann’s pizza is a pool of grease on the top. Now, I do not like grease as a rule (I don’t eat fast food, ever) but bear with me. Under the grease is an amorphous mass of cheese with some red spice sprinkled on top. The cheese melts like no other cheese I have seen, and it has a spicy undertone that I just can’t place. The crust is thin and usually soggy. Then the best part: the sauce. I don’t know what is in it, and no one does. It’s really sweet and spicy, and even for those who dislike really sweet sauce (which I normally do) it’s addictive. It may have some kind of sausage in it. I don’t even care. My father, who is a vegetarian and asks forty million questions at restaurants about what is in the food, doesn’t even care and would eat Tony and Ann’s even if he heard a rumor it was made with baby seal blubber.
Tony and Ann’s opened in the 1950s and was just a little square take-out building for years until they put some benches and tables out front for people to eat outside in good weather. We often just ate the pizza in the car, piles of napkins mandatory. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, all of my family, have gone there for generations. I am quite sure my mother ate Tony and Ann’s pizza when she was pregnant with me. When it closed, it was as though a crucial tie to the past had been lost. The whole city mourned. Competitors claimed their pizzas were "just like Tony and Ann's" but nothing could take its place.
And then we found out that it was reopening. Tony has since died, but Ann is still living, and her children are taking over the business. It is opening in a new spot, but most Tony and Ann fans I know would go anywhere, any distance, for this pizza. During my baby shower several weeks ago, my aunt shared a story about actually driving past Ann’s house and almost stopping in to ask about it (I ought to mention here that she is a normal person and not a stalker). Then she went over to the new site of the restaurant and even looked in the dumpster to see signs of activity. Nothing. But on the way home from the shower, she drove by and saw a sign saying “Opening soon.” She called right away.
If it is open in time, Joanne will serve Tony and Ann’s pizza on Thanksgiving instead of turkey. I can see the boxes now, all piled up, and I can smell the cheese and sauce, and I can hear everyone fighting for the first piece. I can’t wait to treat my baby, who can now experience tasting flavors, to this pizza. It’s going to be a great Thanksgiving.
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