Up on the Roof

Apparently in lieu of leaving the house with my slippers on–a behavior I have somehow, blessedly, managed to curb–I have now begun driving with my possessions rolling around on the roof of the car. It’s happened about three times now, and each time I’m made aware of it by a loud noise that causes both Kate in her carseat and me to look up at the ceiling of the car with “what the hell is that?’ expressions on our faces.

Due in some part to luck and in another part to there being a large sporty-person equipment carrying device (Mark’s) screwed onto the top of the car, I have not yet lost anything. I just pull over and easily retrieve the forgotten toy, sippy cup, bottle of water, what have you.

I swear the next time it happens Kate is just going to roll her eyes and say, “Ma, you did it again.”

Corn Muffin Conspiracy

Simply put, why the f*@#k aren’t corn muffins sold on the West Coast? If you don’t live here I’m not lying about this. It’s true. This is a serious problem, and I’m willing to do what it takes to blow the lid off of this conspiracy.

To give credit where it’s due, this issue was first brought to my attention by my friend Jill. She grew up in Connecticut and she could appreciate herself her a good corn muffin. But in her days living in the Bay Area she noted that they just don’t have them here. Now she has pulled up her roots and she and her family are living back in Providence, RI. Well it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

Now granted, I’m the kind of person who finds out you can’t get something somewhere and it’s suddenly all I want, need, and crave. I know that doesn’t reveal a very appealing part of my temperament but be that as it may. When I was living in France my junior year of college someone casually mentioned that they have all the same candy bars there, but they don’t have Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. Well that’s all it took. I was desperate for them. A candy I’d previously never taken a particular shine to, though within seconds I was lamented how wrong it was that I’d so foolishly overlooked it’s many gastronomical virtues. To this day, Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite candy.

So, you can imagine what happened when Jill mentioned the Corn Muffin Debacle. Actually, it was a few years ago and I’m happy to say I didn’t instantly go mad with the thought of the denial. I guess it was because Jill said she just made them herself whenever she craved them–and that pacified me, for a while at least.

But I just got back from nearly 3 weeks back East. While there I stumbled across some Thomas’ English Muffins that were made with corn meal. They were sublime. The same favorite English muffin goodness, with a slightly sweet and more crunchy corn element. We had them at my sister’s house on Cape Cod and everyone who tried one agreed they were delicious.

Then on the last day of the trip I was in the grocery store and saw another fine product by Thomas’: The Corn Toast-R-Cake. Yum! They were essentially like flattened muffin tops that’d fit nicely in your toaster so you could have your nice warm crunchy butter-topped muffin with your, say, Earl Grey Decaf tea for breakfast. My God, people! What could be better than that?!

Well I was flying cross-country solo with a baby and 12-odd tons of associated crap so I squelched the desire to buy some to take back. Besides, I thought, they’ve got to sell these in CA, right? Thomas’ is a national brand. There would be *no reason* for them to deny these delicacies to us Left Coasters just because we don’t like cold winters.

Well, I’m sure you can see where this is going. I got back and spent the ensuing days scouring the shelves of every Safeway and Albertson’s this side of the Mississippi. Sure they had all the standard English Muffins, but no Corn Toast-R-Cakes. Not even the corn English Muffins.

What gives? Frankly, this was starting to get a little creepy. I was feeling like a character in a John Grisham novel who realizes the nice boss at his fancy law firm is really not looking out for his best interests after all. So I did what any good consumer in the Internet Age would do, and sent an email to Thomas’ asking them nicely where near my zip code I can get their delicious corn products. No doubt they are somewhere here, right? I’m just probably shopping at the wrong stores.

Yesterday I got a letter from George Weston Bakeries Inc., some company that I guess is the parent company to Thomas’. In it they thanked me for my “recent communication” and said:
“We regret to inform you that this product [Thomas' Corn Toast-R-Cakes Muffins] as well as our Corn English Muffins is not distributed on the West Coast.”

Aside from the grammatical issues with that sentence, I was understandably troubled. They went on to say some rigmarole about their two corn muffin products being distributed primarily in the upstate NY and New England markets. They also dangled before me the possibility that their corn English Muffins, a new product, may be distributed outside of the northeast some day. Well I’m not holding my breath.

What I want to know is who is behind this? And to be honest with you the conspiracy extends far beyond the George Weston/Thomas’ clan. You can walk into any bakery–large or small–in California and still not find so much as a corn muffin crumb. And how can that be? Tell me there is no small bakery owner who, like Jill and I, hailed from the East Coast and understands the joy of a corn muffin.

And sure, sure, I can make them myself. But at this point, this whole thing is starting to smell very fishy. Someone is up to something and I plan to do everything within my power to get to the bottom of it.

You will hear from me again on this topic, I can assure you. And if anyone reading had any information about this, please please do share what you know. If it ever comes to it, I will not reveal you as my source.

Oy, I need to go take a nap.

Go Fish

My dad and I did lots of fun stuff when I was little. On account of the divorce, the time we spent together tended to be activity-based. So, we’d take day trips to Faneuil Hall in Boston, hit the mini-golf green and follow it up with an Eskimo King ice cream chaser, and poke around seemingly endlessly in dusty crowded hardware stores and even dustier crowdeder flea markets.

What made these forays memorable was not only the destination, but the car-trip conversations. My father always talked to me like I was an adult. I don’t even remember what exactly we talked about (though there was a lot of counting how many states and/or countries we’d each been to–and clarifying the rule that you can’t count a place if you’ve only changed planes there). But whatever I’d spout off about related to school, or current events, or people, I never felt like my ideas weren’t worthy of serious consideration because I was a kid. Even if he disagreed with something I said, we’d wrangle over opposing viewpoints in a pretty egalitarian deferential way.

I can also remember times when my dad seemed to welcome the opportunity to get down to my level–particularly with my school science projects. Of course I’d love to say that this happened a dozen or so times, since I think it’d make a better story, but I think it was truly only two or three times. I’d have some assignment to do something like make a volcano with a lava eruption. This was a chore to me–a waste of a big chunk of my weekend when I could be watching Creature Double Feature or crank calling Phil Kinder.

My dad, on the other hand, could think of nothing more fun to do. First off, these projects required a trip to a hardware store (sheer bliss for him to actually *need* something there). He’d have his brain in overdrive about how to best tackle the project. And whatever crap idea I’d have, he’d try to respect, but couldn’t contain himself to not offer his two cents. And call it a moral compass of some sort, but I just didn’t feel right going into class with something that my dad had done 90% of. Despite feeling comparatively inadequate, I was compelled to stick to my half-baked plans. But I also didn’t want to rain on the guy’s parade, so I’d eventually just convince him to complete his own version of the project, working alongside me.

Of course, this inevitably ended with me firing up a sagging lump of a volcano that let out a weak fart and a teeny wisp of smoke. In Dad’s corner he’d be pushing down on the TNT box to erupt an immense model of Mauna Loa with faux lava pouring forth over a small village he’d whittled out of balsa wood. Okay, so maybe his wasn’t quite that impressive, but the 40 years he had on me did give him a bit of an advantage.

So, today I got my first taste of how this parenting thing can give you an indulgent opportunity to let your inner child loose. After a lovely night spent near Santa Cruz for my friend Kristen’s 40th b-day, we ventured with the kiddies to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. My God, that place ROCKS.

I was practically elbowing kids out of the way to check out the sea otters at their feeding hour. And those huge billowy bright orange jellyfish! They are beautiful and putrid at the same time. Impossible to not be transfixed by. And the gargantuan tank with the sharks and the sea turtles and the big swaying columns of seaweed two stories tall that kinda make you dizzy when you’re standing at the base of them looking up. I could have stayed for days.

Kate was koala-bear-hugged onto me in the Ergo pack, and together we walked around in wide-eyed wonder. Kristen chased her two-year-old through exhibits at what seemed like Mach speed, while Kate and I dreamily lingered over each display. She was mesmerized by it all, including the mass of humanity that was cramming their strollers into any free nook near a tank and taking bad photos with cell phone cameras. Between gawking at fishes, Kate took in the other kids, safety railings, ceiling lights. It was all good.

In that way I have of sometimes getting ahead of myself, I was having so much fun I couldn’t wait for the next time we could go back. Maybe we need to rent that house in Santa Cruz again with the Grippandos and come here one day, I thought. Or maybe Mark’s mom has never been here–or would be willing to come again. The cool thing was that Kate really did seem to dig it, so I wouldn’t even have to make up a fake excuse on her behalf to go back. (Maybe a B&B weekend in Monterey this fall?) This is educational! Kate needs to come here often in order to develop into an intelligent, curious, and well-rounded person!

If today was the first time I got to release my inner kid while taking Kate to do something, I can’t wait for the years ahead. Disneyland! Paddle boats! Petting zoos! Hooray!

But for help with any projects involving balsa wood, I’m sending her straight to Mark.

A Unique Consumer Opportunity!

If, like mine, your child is just sitting around looking cute and occasionally demanding food, clean clothes and fresh diapers, why not put him or her to work? Doing what you say? Promoting your blog!

Sandwich boards are unfortunately not practical on children this age, and tattoos are costly. So why not buy a shirt (or onesie or bib, if you prefer) that directs all those who see your little one to read your little blog?

Genius? We think so.

“Read my Mommy’s Blog” shirt ($15)
www.cafepress.com/kmcclusky

“Read my Daddy’s Blog” shirt ($15)
www.cafepress.com/mcclusky

It’s a pleasure doing business with you.

A Blast from the Past

A couple weeks ago I got an email from my friend Mike entitled “You won’t believe who I saw.” For some reason I immediately thought it was our old friend Kelly. Kelly, Mike, and I were at the University of London together for a junior year abroad semester which was somewhat oddly called the Beaver program. Kelly was at Simmons College (I think), Mike at Tufts, and me at Harvard, I mean Kenyon.

Over bad cafeteria food, endless pub pints, and Eurail adventures we formed the kind of friendship you develop when you’re 19 and living even further away from your family than your college got you. Add to that we were in a huge city and another culture where no one knew us or expected us to act or dress or talk or think a certain way. College is liberating, but studying abroad takes it all to another level.

Mike is one of those people who is still in touch with the other kids from his kindergarten class. (He’s also saved the Playbill from every play he’s ever been too.) It amazes me that he’s managed to maintain those friendships, but Mike is such an incredible human to have in your life some of the effort must have come from the other people. Despite all this (maybe I should have taken the hint?), Mike and I fell out of touch after our British educational adventure. Then, a few years later walking down the street in the West Village one evening, we bumped into each other and have been fast friends ever since. He was my partner in crime in my NY years, and the one person who’d make a move back to NYC seem do-able for me. I still regret not having him as a bridesmaid, but at least I have something from that day to beat myself up over.

So every once and a while Mike and I have wondered what ever happened to Kelly. She was so smart and fun and excellent, and as I mentioned, in the 6(?) months that we were in London we became pretty damn good friends. No doubt she was up to something cool. And for Mike, I’m sure he was just confused and frustrated by ever having let a friend slip away.

In fact, like Mike and I, Kelly and I bumped into each other in NYC back when I was living there too. Of all weird coincidences she lived on my block and I saw her walking a huge German Sherpherd one day. And her boyfriend was from Bristol! He grew up a couple houses down from my Uncle Joe. I remember hanging out with her a few times after that and going to hang out with her at her parents house in Massachusetts, but then somehow we drifted apart again.

So Mike sends the “You’ll never guess who I saw” email, and it ended up being some random political spam he sent out to like 300 people, which I didn’t even read. I emailed him about my disappointment that he hadn’t found Kelly. Especially when you have an friend like my 4th grade best friend Sydney Smith, who has a kinda generic name, you think even the powers of Google will never reunite you.

Well by that day’s end, God bless him, Mike had found her. All hail Google, where he (freakish memory that he has) remembered Kelly’s home town amongst other details about her (like her last name). He tracked her down to Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts where she’s worked for a decade now. He even found her email address and had exchanged a few messages catching up with her.

You know you’re getting long in the tooth when you reconnect with someone you haven’t seen in 15 years. And it’s not a childhood friend. At any rate, Kelly just got back from a vacation today and sent me an email after having gotten the run-down on my life from Mike. Hooray! She is well and married and has a sweet 3-year-old son named Cole, and by the looks of the photo she sent Mike, she hasn’t changed a bit. I’ve got to make a plan to see her when I’m on the East Coast next.

Now I just need to get Mike on the scent of Sydney Smith…

Smarty Pants

This baby is getting so smart. She’s learning things daily! I mean, I guess that is what they are supposed to do, but it’s pretty surprising to watch anyway.

So far she’s gotten down all the U.S. Presidents and is working on memorizing the Vice Presidents. Next we’re on to the Periodic Table abbreviations. Well, not really. But she does say bye-bye and wave, and claps her hands, and gives these little tongue-smacking clucks that we think are kisses. And she knows when I’m trying to feed her green beans and there’s a can of those little puff cereal thingies sitting on the table to clamp her mouth down and point to the puffs.

What other mundane thing does she do that I can boast about? Oh, when you take the tray off her high chair she starts grabbing at the strap buckle since she knows that comes off next. And when you unbuckle her carseat she holds her arms up to get picked up. And once I think I asked her to hand me something and she kinda did.

I just want to remember some day when she is doing advanced calculus homework that I can’t help her with, that there was a time when these little things she was learning were big accomplishments.

The Church of the Farmers’ Market

Last Sunday we went to the kick-off of a new year-round farmers’ market that’s a four block walk from our house. The place was packed with the cute white nuclear families that comprise our neighborhood. And can you blame them? I can think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning.

Going to a farmers’ market is like tripping on ecstasy for me. It makes me so damn happy. I love it.

First, you’ve got other people in an outdoor setting, and usually on a sunny day. This sets the baseline for bliss. Other humans for me to interact with, warm weather, and not feeling cooped up in the house.

Then you’ve got all the crap to look at: fruit, veggies, soaps, jams, musicians, fresh fish, smoked fish, organic meat, thai food, baked goods, orchids–you name it. Feast your eyes! And having Kate in the Ergo pack kicking her chubby legs with glee and reaching and pointing to it all is the manifestation of what I’d do myself if it wasn’t so socially unacceptable for someone my age. Kate leans out from her roost on my (or Mark’s) chest and frenetically points to piles of broccoli, other babies, blenders churning up smoothies. She greets it all (human and inanimate) with the occaisional ardent “ba-bye,” her version of “aloha.” It works for the coming and going.

Nearly every vendor has samples to share. (Did they get this idea from Costco, or did Costco get it from them?) Strawberries, wedges of nectarines–last week they were even passing out paper cups of pureed organic baby food. And the kettle corn vendor has samples too! Damn that stuff is good. I made my way through a huge sleeve of kettle corn so obsessively and hypnotically once that Mark had to wrench it from my hands while speaking slowly and calmly to me.

And the tasting thing is perfect for a guy like Mark. I take a taste of whatever and love it and just want to buy some then and there. But Mark takes a taste and holds his emotions at bay. “Yeah, it’s good, but I want to try some other ones.” He moves along to the next peach vendor to compare notes. “Nope. These won’t really be ready until next week.” Like a puppy dog I follow along behind him while licking my fingers? “Really? Seems good to me now.” What amazes me is his ability to remember not only what stall had the best peaches and where it was, but he also remembers the varietal. (Who knew there were so many?) I’m just too drunk on the whole sunny scene to make my brain work that hard.

So it’s Sunday morning. Kate is taking her nap and Mark is riding his bike. When she wakes up and he gets back we’ll slap on some sunscreen, grab an empty canvas bag, and make our way over to the action. Some people choose church. For me, it’s the farmers’ market.

California Re-Entry

Last night Kate and I returned from our nearly 3-week East Coast Tour. We didn’t have baseball-style t-shirts made to commemorate the event, but if we did the backs would read:

Bristol, RI
Harwich Port, MA
Westfield, MA
Chappaqua, NY

What’s great about going away for so long is that you don’t worry about not having time to do all the things you want to do. The down side is that gives you the “we’ve got plenty of time for that” attitude, which ultimately leaves you realizing that you didn’t do as many of the things that you wanted to do because you thought you had so much more time to do them.

For instance, we only got to the beach twice. For shame! (Some of this had to do with poor weather. For all the time I spend longing for East Coast summers, I forget that it rains there a lot, and there are also a lot of overcast days. RI really should consider having a rainy season as we do here. It sucks during it, but it gets it all over with in one fell swoop.) And we didn’t spend anywhere near enough time with friends like Ellen, John, and Story. Kate never had a play date with Danny’s daughter, Jekka. I’d wanted to call my mother’s Polish friend Sophie to introduce her to Kate, and that never happened. And I wanted to maybe visit my mother’s other friend Linda, but no.

I’m sad to report that I also only had Del’s Lemonade once. Tragic. For those of you who have never truly lived–i.e. never had a Del’s–it’s a delicious slushy lemonade that’s native to RI and sold at carts and some actual bricks and mortar Del’s establishments throughout the greatest little smallest state in the union. To be honest, if I’d never had one, and someone served me a Del’s on a cold winter day in South Dakota, I might not think it was The World’s Best Beverage, as I do. But there is something about having one on a hot humid day, combined with the fact that you can only get them at home, and of course the nostalgia/childhood taste memory factor, that make me a rabid Del’s fan. God they are good! We served them at our wedding, in fact–in martini glasses before the ceremony, not the traditional waxed cup.

Which leads me on this stream of consciousness to extol the supremely perfect wedding present my beloved friend John gave us when we were home–a framed Del’s cup. Not just framed though–it’s under this museum quality glass to preserve it, and it’s on maroon velvet. The frame is a thick dark wood, ornately carved. It’s fucking brilliant, and as much as I love owning it, I love that I’m lucky enough to have a friend cool enough to think of giving this to me as a wedding present.

At any rate, I’m happy to be home with Mark and to have our sweet nuclear family together again. But I feel the need to have some great why-I-love-living-in-California experiences quickly to help ease my re-entry into my usual world here. It’s just so damn charming and familiar and comfortable in RI. And the houses are all so old and cool, and the trees are big and shady and there is Dunkin Donuts at every turn and good spinach pies and Sam’s Pizza and funny childhood friends who I still like in their adult form, and of course my family. So you put all that in one hand, and then in the other hand you have our life here and our friends here and Mark’s rad job and the no crappy winter thing, but the expensive housing… It just seems like both ends of the scales weigh in pretty close sometimes.

But anyway, the long visit did give me a good dose of it all. And for all that I’ve complained that I didn’t get to do, I did do and see a lot. The Forta July Parade rocked our world, per usual. This year we were happy to have the Eberdave clan, now featuring Baby Henry, for their second year. And Dana (our wedding photographer) and her great hubby Joe joined in the fun. Words can’t describe how fantastic the parade is, nor how soul stirring it is to be part of the mayhem at the Connery’s. Kate was a trooper and wasn’t freaked out by the excessive people, noise, etc. And this year we boasted four high school bands that stopped marching, turned towards Casa Connery, and played a command performance for us. Four bands! Until you have a huge marching band with horns, drums, cymbals, and polyester-clad teens blast you with song, you won’t know how immensely thrilling it is. God it’s fun.

Post parade day Mark, Kate and I headed to Cape Cod where my sister Marie’s family has a house. We had one night there solo, in which Mark cooked excellent steak on the grill, and then Marie and cousin Nancy came to join in the fun. The beach there is like the Caribbean–blue and clear. It’s not super warm, but it’s no nut-shrinking Pacific Ocean. Ah summer.

After Mark left (sniff!) to return to CA and work, Kate and I went to Westfield to visit my dear dear Aunt Jenny, Mom’s sister, for a night. She is an act of nature. She’s almost 80, and works taking care of old people, if you can imagine such a thing. (To meet her, you wouldn’t be surprised one bit.) She had 18 relatives over for dinner when we were there. The woman makes a ham that could bring a grown man to tears, and she is scurrying around taking care of grandchildren, ironing her grown son’s shirts, and talking smack about the dozens of women who call her daily to chat. Don’t ever ask this woman to sit down and relax. She says she’ll die if she stops, and she’s happy going, so there’s nothing to do but stand back in amazement. At any rate, it was great catching up with her and having her meet Kate, with whom she was smitten.

Kate and I also spent a night in Chappaqua, NY visiting my friend Lauren who was at her parents for the month, but has been living in Hong Kong for nearly 5 years. So happy we decided to make this detour. Despite a hellish drive home to RI after it, our visit was deeply happy-making. Her children are dreamy and her mom is really interesting to talk to at the kitchen table. They live in this super-cool Frank Lloyd Wright community. If we’d stayed another night I would have had my bags sent for and moved in. Again, Kate made a splash. The neighbor came over one day and said she was told she had to see this baby “who is like a model.” Ha!

And for the record, Kate really was an angel for the whole trip. It is such a treat introducing her to people and sitting back and agreeing with the compliments about her cuteness and smartness and sweetness. I keep feeling like she and I have these bonding experiences and they just keep accumulating. I guess it’s that whole “I love you more to-day than yes-ter-day, bah dat da da daaah” thing.

For all the visits and lunches and dinners and gatherings one of the nicest things about our trip was the little routine we had at my Dad’s house. Kate would wake up early and I get her and go downstairs where my Dad was already awake with the dog and doing the crossword. Kate would greet Grandpa and Katie the Dog with a hearty “bye-bye”, then when Joan woke up we’d all go into the kitchen and Kate would sit in her booster seat and the four of us (or five when you count the dog) would each eat different breakfasts. The adults would take turns trying to convince Kate there was food beyond Cheerios she should eat, and Katie the Dog would happily eat any baby food that fell to the floor.

Sometimes with travel it’s about the museums that you went to and the sights that you saw, and sometimes it’s about the little things like finding that great place for breakfast that you go to every morning.

Familiarity Breeds Content

I’ve never been one for change, and after a few days in Rhode Island I’m starting to realize why. It turns out my people seek shelter in familiarity too.

Perhaps it’s just another way for New Englanders to boast about how long their families go back (stepping off the Mayflower onto Plymouth Rock has ungodly social cachet here), but these folks seem unable to enjoy the present without harkening back to the past.

One of the best examples of it is weather. In California you may have an unusually hot day in, say, February, and people take it for just that–unusual. In these parts, on a March day when there’s a 6-inch snowfall, the topic of chitchat at the grocery store is, “Last time we had this much snow on March 23rd was 1948.” People cling to these stats (be they real or constructed from creative memories) like boys and baseball trivia. And the stats also serve as a jumping off point for tale telling about whatever else (interesting or mundane) happened back then. “I remember I was working at the Pastime Theater. Movies were ten cents then, and when they went up to 11 cents I thought I’d never be able to see another movie again.” I wish I had ten cents for every time I heard that story…

So Thursday Ellen Connery came to Bristol to help her dad get ready for The Fourth. Kate and I walked over for a visit and from the second Ellen caught sight of me we were thrown in a time machine back to 1982. “Hey! Check this out,” she called from were she was crouching under their raised deck. “You ever seen an albino earwig?” Sure enough the thing was stark white. I love that Ellen didn’t need to be all precious about her first time meeting Kate. Much better that we reverted to a youthful bug-inspection mode.

Inside the house, Mr. Connery was also prepping for the festivities. I was proud to see the picture of John and I mugging for a self portrait on the fridge, along with photos and newspaper clips showing the Connery’s packed front porch on July 4th, and some heart-wrenching shots that include the late Mrs. C. There’s a smell memory that hits me when I go into that kitchen too. Everything is as it should be–with the exception of a new stove, which I’m willing to allow for–and I’m happy as a clam to be back home on the brink on my favorite holiday.

The Connerys have taken celebrating The Fourth to a stratospheric level. There’s a baseline you need to achieve as a Bristolian, and it’s much higher for folks who live on the parade route, as they do. But the Connerys bash is a party to be reckoned with. Family friends, former Bristolians in town visiting, relatives, and every friend the three Connery kids have ever had are welcomed (now with their kids, too). And I’ll tell you it’s like crack. Come to the Connerys for The Fourth once and try to go anywhere else that day. It can’t be done.

Since they were in prep mode, it made me wonder how they cook for the crowd they get. Do they have any way of knowing how many people are coming? “Nope. We never really know,” Jack (Mr. C) said. I’m terrible about assessing crowd sizes, so I guessed that they have around 80 folks. “No, no–much more than that.” He grabbed a calendar and flipped back some pages. “Last year: Temp was 87 degrees, parade lasted 3 hours and 20 minutes, and we had approximately 125 people,” he read. “Well, I think our numbers were low since it rained the year before and maybe people were afraid that was going to happen again.” I asked Mark last night how many people he thinks are there most years and his guess was 200.

But back to the topic of food. As tradition has it, Ellen does the house prep and John does the cooking. As Mr. Connery has gotten older and Mrs. C is gone, the kids have graciously jumped in to take over the work. Jack pulled out a yellowed and tattered 3×5 card–the chourico and peppers recipe (just one of the many food offerings that day). “How much do you make if you don’t know how many people are coming?” I asked. “Well, let’s see,” he said squinting down at the card. “Last year we made five pounds. Year before that, four–with the rain and all. But I see here we’ve made as much as 11 pounds some years.” I looked over his shoulder. Sure enough the card had each year and the amounts cooked neatly pencilled in on it. Amazing.

Not sure how far back it went, but now of course I want to go there and check that out. It would be kind of fun to know how many pounds they made on my first Fourth, so I can tell Kate some day how it compared to her first one.