Archive: March 2007

Today is Pi Day! Did anyone celebrate this with a kooky math teacher in their day? Well, JG is that math teacher. He left for work today wearing his “I Heart Pi” t-shirt and carrying geeky cookies and coffeecake for his geometry students. When nerds unite, their wives bake crazy stuff, or at least this one does.

Figuring out my March Madness brackets is number one on my to-do list when I get home. The deadline is looming, but since I don’t know anything about NCAA basketball, I hope it doesn’t take me that long. I usually go for UConn all the way, but they didn’t make the tournament this year – boo! – so that “strategy” is shot. I will have to revert to decision-making factors like which team’s colors I prefer, whether I know someone who attends that school (and if I like that person), and if I think one mascot would clearly win over another in a rumble. At least I have a system, right?

People talk about being chocoholics or workaholics and I want to know – where are they getting this chocohol? Or workahol? I understand that this strange suffix, “-holic,” comes from alcoholic, but in that initial case, the suffix is just “-ic.” Maybe it’s just not as snappy to say that someone is a “workic.” Doesn’t this usage downplay how serious alcoholism really is? Sure, you might really really really like shopping, but come on, now. If the Wiktionary definition is any indication, this bizarre -holism is getting out of hand. Skateaholic? Kayakaholic? Show me some kayakahol and we’ll talk.

Much to JG’s chagrin, last night’s birthday-weekend dinner didn’t turn out to be a total surprise.

See, a few days earlier, I mentioned that Saturday would be kind of a sad day for me; I just didn’t want to JG to be all freaked out if I was crying for no apparent reason. He hugged me and said, “Sorry, dear. Is there anything I can do?”

I didn’t expect an opportunity like this. I had an internal ethical battle … for about a second. “What if you told me where we were going for dinner?”

“Fine,” he groaned. “We’re going to The Melting Pot.”

“Yes!” I crowed with victory and then backpedaled a bit. “I didn’t tell you about Saturday just to make you tell me…”

“Sure…”

For real! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Anyway. We had never been to The Melting Pot before, but after hearing rave reviews from our friends, I asked JG if we could go there for an anniversary sometime in the future. As a birthday surprise, it was pretty hard to beat. For those who may live in one of the fifteen states without one of these restaurants, the idea behind The Melting Pot is that you get a multi-course meal of fondue:

• Appetizer: bread, vegetables, and apples dipped in cheese fondue
• Salad: okay, this course isn’t fondue
• Entrée: selection of raw meat cooked in a vegetable-broth-base
• Dessert: strawberries, cheesecake, and pound cake to dip in chocolate fondue

We mixed and matched the different types of fondue for a combination of a lager-based cheddar dip; a burgundy wine coq au vin cooking broth with lobster tail, ahi tuna, pot stickers, and shrimp; and a mixture of white and dark chocolate fondue. I have to say - oh, my goodness. Yum.

Our fantastic waiter whipped up the fondue courses in front of us, so it was entertaining as well as amazingly tasty. I was expecting a Cheez Whiz-type cheese fondue, but I was pleasantly surprised to have a garlicky, lager-tinged sauce. The apples seemed odd to me at first, but I enjoyed the hot and cold contrast. An added bonus was that the fruit and vegetables helped to minimize the fact that we were consuming the majority of a bowl of melted cheese.

After we ate our salads, our waiter set out platters of raw meat and vegetables, a double-boiler of cooking broth, and something like eight sauces for dipping. He gave us a quick tutorial on meat doneness and separating raw meat from the cooked stuff (which JG loved since he is Mr. Food Safety) and we went for it. There is something oddly satisfying about spearing pieces of meat, dunking them into a vat of bubbling liquid, and dipping them into melted butter, teriyaki sauce, or a spicy wasabi. The lobster was to die for and, just like our waiter said, the curry sauce really could go on anything. Seeing each other through the steam wafting up from the fondue pot, JG and I happily polished off the entrée, but we were careful to leave some room for dessert.

Are there many things much tastier than strawberries dipped in chocolate? Or chunks of cheesecake? Or marshmallows? We were already very full from the first three courses, but dessert pushed us over the edge onto a level of fullness that was on the verge of a food coma. It’s how I imagine bears might feel when they’re just about ready to hibernate for the winter. Mm …

Even though the element of surprise didn’t exactly work out, the dinner was a fantastic success. I had a bright raspberry martini, I dressed up and felt sassy, and JG and I had a wonderful night out together with amazing food. It was one of those rare occasions when I could not have thought of anything that would have made for a better time.

(Thanks, JG!)

I’m curled up in bed, wearing sweats and bundled in layers of blankets. My book light casts a moonbeam onto the pages before me. The before-bed reading that usually slows my brain and rests my thoughts is not doing its work tonight. Reading is not the answer right now. A memory reserved for a birthday and an anniversary swims up to the surface.

- - -

I was on a train headed up to my parents’ house. I usually took the Amtrak train up the Northeast Extension, through Philadelphia and New York City, for almost all of my holidays back home. Normally, I looked forward to the train ride because it was relaxing. After the conductor tossed my luggage on the overhead rack, I’d sleep until we crossed the border into Connecticut. Involuntarily, I would snap awake to watch the marinas, the craggy beaches, and the small skylines of Hartford and New Haven through my window. I knew I should sit on the right-hand side for the best view. But this time was different.

A few days earlier, I had received a phone call from a friend from high school. Sit down, she told me.

I sat.

“I had to call you. Kip is dead. He committed suicide last night.”

No. Oh, no.

I called JG instinctively, my voice tight inside my throat. He biked over to find me speechless, stiff in his arms. There was no processing or talking it out. I curled into myself, physically and otherwise. Knowing that one of my best friends, a polar opposite and complementary figure, was no longer alive was too much. I could barely breathe without crying.

That is how I ended up on a train up to Connecticut with no major holiday to speak of. I was relieved to find a seat by myself, but at the Philadelphia stop, a young man boarded the car and asked if the seat was taken. I shook my head. I didn’t feel like talking, but the man struck up conversation, asking me where I was headed.

“New London,” I said, swallowing hard. “I have to go to a funeral.”

His face fell. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I hope everything goes well.”

“Thank you.”

My train friend paused, then struck up conversation on a different note. He told me about how he was headed back to Boston, after an interview in Philadelphia. He told me about graduate school and waved a book in his hand for emphasis. He told me about how he was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend and that, for Valentine’s Day, he gave her a bouquet of balloon-animal roses because he couldn’t afford real ones. I nodded along, quietly.

Our train rolled into Penn Station in New York and the man jumped up. “I hear there’s a Krispy Kreme stand here, so I’m going to grab one. Save my seat?”

“Okay.”

Five minutes later, he returned, bag of donuts in hand. “Do you like glazed?”

I was dumbfounded. He bought me a donut?

He waved away my dropped jaw. “They were having a special. Do you like glazed?”

“Yeah,” I said, “they’re my favorite. Thanks for this.”

He hunkered back down. “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for a saved seat.”

I ate slowly and wondered - are donuts therapeutic? Do they ease tension and lighten burdens? Or was it simply because this donut was a gift from a stranger from Boston?

As the train rolled out of Penn Station, my train friend reached into his brief case and asked, “Did I mention that I wrote a book?” He pulled out a slim children’s book with a picture of a locomotive on the cover. It was a re-telling of The Little Engine That Could and I leafed through it with pleasure. He had brought the book along as a sample for his interview and it was very charming, indeed. After I returned the book to him, I fell into a deep sleep, lulled by the steady beat of the train on the tracks. In my exhaustion, I missed out on my ritual of watching the boat docks and rocky seashores flow by the window.

When we arrived at my stop, my train friend helped me with my luggage and said, “I really do hope everything goes well for you. It was nice talking with you today.”

I was so grateful to him that I could only whisper my thanks.

At the service that night, I cried quietly. Hundreds of people had come to show their support, so I was one of many standing in a room that was not nearly large enough to hold the love we had for Kip. Afterward, I waited in a long line to greet his family: parents who had seen Kip and me singing in chorus concerts since the sixth grade, giving presentations, and graduating; and a younger brother who had long ago measured his growing progress next to me. As I hugged them, new tears sprang into my eyes. What can a person say? I am so, so sorry. I miss him, too. I know that I can’t miss him more than you do and it hurts me so much to know that you are hurting more than I am. I am so, so sorry.

When I got to him, Kip’s dad put me at arm’s length. Eyes sparkling, he said, “You were one of Kip’s best friends. We’re so glad to see you.” He hugged me closely and I could feel him crying into his beard.

- - -

Oh, my train friend. If not for you, I would have been concentrating on containing my grief with the fragile strands of control I had left, too afraid to speak from the threat of crying. But you drew me out, distracted me with tales of locomotives and balloon flowers, offered me well wishes in the end, and somehow made me strong enough to handle was ahead. Could you tell that I was broken? Was it apparent that every inhale pained me? Whatever the case, I was thankful for your kindness. I still am.

Tomorrow is a dark anniversary for me and I have already stained the cuffs of my hoodie with tears. JG is sleeping beside me, but I’ll wake him up for a bit. I need a hug.

Sunday Scribblings #94: Fellow Travelers

Yesterday was a fantastic birthday. I got a call from a friend from church that ended with me hearing a tinny cell-phone version of “Happy Birthday” sung by thirty-odd church people. It was so cute! And thanks for all of the sweet wishes!

I devoured a mountain of yummy mussels and JG did a great job with presents this year. Nerd that I am, I had asked for a book light for Valentine’s Day and here it was! In all of its LED glory! Add in a good book about digital photography and Pinky and the Brain DVDs and you’ve got a winning birthday combination. The DVDs were more of a gift of self-sacrifice because JG does not exactly enjoy the comic genius that is encapsulated in Pinky and the Brain, so I appreciate that one very much.

In the aftermath of the birthday hoopla, I realized something. I may not be excited about my actual birthday, but do you know what I really love? Belated birthday wishes and things!

I think it all started in college. My mom would dutifully ship me a care package, my grandma would mail a check, and my sister would send an e-card to be followed up by a gift card to Starbucks or somewhere. Between all of this mailing, almost nothing arrived on time. I’d get the packages in dribs and drabs for the week after my birthday and I loved it. It wasn’t a birthday anymore – no, no! Happy birthweek! Happy birthmonth!

This year was no exception. Today’s mail brought in cards from my sister and JG’s grandma. My sister called me today to let me know that things were on the way and she added, “But I know you like birthday gifts to be late. I planned it that way.”

Yeah, right. But I’ll take it!