I wasn’t the biggest Blind Melon fan when they were around, but I didn’t have a problem with them. It was a tragedy when their lead singer Shannon Hoon died of an overdose, as I think the band still had years of good work ahead of them.
A little treasure of a song they recorded for the “Schoolhouse Rock! Rocks!” tribute album was “Three is a Magic Number,” which has been played in my home since the day we brought our daughter home from the hospital. There are lots of ear hooks in this song, but for me, it’s the drums that get stuck in my head.
If you were to ask me what was the best part of being a stay-at-home dad, I would easily say it’s spending time with my kid. There will never be a moment in my life that I will regret all of the time I got to have with her.
But number two on that list would be cooking for my family. It is an act that is more rewarding that I ever imigined.
When I was in college my roommate/best friend bought me a wok for a birthday gift. (We would watch PBS cooking show on Sunday mornings, Simply Ming was my favorite, and he picked up on my desire to try my hand at cooking Chinese food.) I found a Martin Yan cookbook at a secondhand bookstore, and tried my hand at it. I wasn’t very good, but I was having fun. And it was college, so trying anything new was kind’a cool.
I also got very luck because my girlfriend who became my wife is a trained chef, and when we moved in together, I got a very friendly education on how to be competent in the kitchen.
Time moved on, and the wife found herself on a different career path which she excels at, and then that Pandemic thing, and I accepted the position of Stay-at-Home Dad. Besides the enormous amount of cleaning and moral support I give, I also had to take on the responsibility of cooking for the family.
Now, I’m still not the best cook in the world, nor am I even the best cook in my family. Yes, there is the feeling of satisfaction of being able to delivery food to my wife and kid that makes them happy; that’s very rewarding. Another aspect that I have come to appreciate is now feeling competent and confident in the kitchen. Being able to eyeball measurements, and recognize when different techniques are needed. Knowing how much fat, salt, and acid are needed to balance out a dish. These are skills I have attended through repetition and practice, but using them daily has brought a new medium of creativity into my life that I didn’t know I needed.
Gumbo pasta. I want to make that. I know I could look up a recipe online, but I also know that I could wing it, and it would be pretty good. And I know the wife and kid would love it.
Not sure what I did, but I was walking home from Trader Joe’s on Tuesday, and all of a sudden I got this sharp pain in my left ankle. At first the ache was so bad that I thought I was going to have to sit down, but slowly it started to subside. The issue is that everyday since, I continue to have an ache down there. I’ve tried bending and turning my ankle in several different way to see if there is a specific position that causes the pain, but I haven’t figured it out yet. It’s not so bad that I can’t walk, but it has made me nervous to return to the gym and run on the treadmill. It’s just odd.
I read this article in The Athletic, about how Kobe Bryant used to sit quietly for 15 minutes at the start of each day to center himself. I am on a bit of a self-improvement kick right now, so I thought, what the hell, let’s see if this will work. I am aware that it may take several day if not weeks for there to be any noticeable improvement in my centering, but there has been one change. I no longer doom-scroll in the morning, and I have to admit, that has put me in a much better mood.
Today at my kid’s school is an art show, and I am very proud to say that my daughter has two pieces on display. I’m about to head out and look at her and her classmates work, which I am looking forward to. The kid has always been a creative type and she has and is still fill sketchbooks of little drawings. When I asked about the work she made for she, I was curious as to my her inspiration was. Her answer; “I don’t know. I just like making stuff.”
I am bad with time. I was supposed to spend an hour on writing this little blog post, but I am now entering my second hour of work on this. Mind you, fifty-five minutes of that first hour was looking stuff up online. Things from Texas history (due to the article above) and general curisoty of stuff, like “what are the best lights to buy for an art display in your living room?” I knew I needed to get my writing done, so I could clean up and go run my errands… But I could stop farting around. I don’t think this qualifies as procraternation… just a general laziness and… well… farting around.
There are many thing I do for my family, but the one I have found myself doing the most this week was being the calm guy in the room. Which isn’t my natural state, as I am loud, talk too much, and can be a rather obnocious drama queen/king from time to time. But being in a family means that sometimes you have to take on different roles to get things accomplished. I think in the olden days, this would have been called “being the strong one.” What it really means is that I can’t freakout until everyone else is doing freaking out. There’s nothing major going wrong; just getting the taxes done, and the kid dealing with school.
Douglas Stuart’s “A Private View” reminds me of the short stories that The New Yorker used to publish back in the 50’s and 60’s. (This is meant as a compliment, FYI…) Those stories of old were all set in fabulously wonderful Manhattan, the characters had fascinating jobs in the arts, the stories took place in some social event or interaction, and everybody had lots of baggage. There was a strange comfortability in those old short stories, yet I would never call them predictable, as they seemed to project a New Yorker contemporary literary ideal. In this light, reading “A Private View” was the equivalent of reading on a rainy day in a warm sweater drinking a cup of coffee.
This was a story that did lull me in. Perhaps I should admit that I am a sucker for stories about mothers and sons. The more troubled the better, and for that reason, I wasn’t paying strict attention to the story, and just let it easily roll and unfold before me. Also, with characters that were from Texas, it was almost too much up my alley.
With all of that, I still have to say that I appreciated that this was a story that wasn’t afraid to take it’s time, flesh out the characters, and sprinkle the little clues on the edges of the frame. I also enjoyed Stuart’s use of the art show and the sculptures of the stations of the cross, and his descriptions of the contemporary figures that were worked in. It played wonderful with the theme of the story, and also provided a very fertile Gen-X visual vocabulary of childhood characters that still seem to flourish in the imaginations of people of a certain age.
But what struck me as the most honest and true aspect of the story was the relationship between mother and son, and the satellite of the sister as well. It was palatable how uncomfortable all these relationships were with each other, and also understandable why each of the siblings made the choices that they did. One couldn’t stand to be disappointed anymore, and the other couldn’t let go. Perhaps the son was closer in personality to his mother, or perhaps the sister made her decision to let go, and the son had to hold on.
I am keeping this review vague as I don’t want to give away anything in this story, but clearly I feel you should read it. Especially read it as Stuart does an excellent job with the climax, and the dénouement. Though heartbreaking, I found protagonist decision at the end of the story melancholy in its acknowledgement of the truth. A truth was needed, for this hero had been on this journey for some time, and it was time for him to move on.
