The Mandolin

I've only wanted to play the mandolin for twenty years.

I don't know why I didn't ever pick one up. Maybe it was 14 years of piano lessons, or 10 years of viola lessons, but I didn't even think learning the mandolin was a real option. No one I knew played, how would I even go about learning? I'd pick up a guitar every once in a while thinking I'd try my hand, but it didn't stick; my heart wasn't in it. I'd hear the mandolin on the radio, double tinkling in a solo, or in the background, and think wistfully, "I wish I played the mandolin."

My friend Nancy picked up the ukelele last year, playing solos on her porch on warm summer nights, teaching herself after her children went to bed. It was important, she said, to do this one thing for herself.  "I always wanted to learn how to play the mandolin," I told her.
"Why don't you!?" She said, her enthusiasm radiating, making the whole world seem possible.

Stepping into a local music shop, I saw the mandolins in the back corner. I picked out a matte model and put it on layaway. You'd crow to hear that it was a replica of models from the 1950s--something I didn't know until I picked it out from the crowd and brought it to the register. I wanted to prove to myself I could earn it slowly: paying for the instrument over months, carefully setting aside the money, deliberately anti-instant gratification. I couldn't just walk in and out with a mandolin, I needed to be sure.

I brought a Gretsch mandolin home on a Tuesday night, in a snug case with a learn-it-yourself spiral book. Every night, after the kids are in bed and the evening slows, I pull out my mandolin and teach myself how to play. I practice the chords and learn the fingering, finally understanding how to fret and strum.

My mother dropped by the house on a Friday afternoon. She noticed the mandolin case on the couch. "What's that?" She asked.

"Let me show you," I said, unzipping the case and pulling out the satin wood New Yorker Gretsch, "It's a mandolin. I've always wanted to learn how to play, I don't know why, so one day I decided I would."

Her eyes started shining.

She told me about growing up in Spain, how her uncles, aunts, and cousins played the mandolin. Gathering on cool nights of coastal Galicia, singing traditional folk songs and entertaining their families. They all played, she said, recounting the names and memories of those long ago nights, in kitchens and around the fire. Smoky and salted fish on worn wooden tables. Fog rising outside. The high, clear, old songs echoing from the mandolins.

Maybe the blood wants what it wants, perhaps our DNA passes along tiny codes for music, tradition, and connection, just like it did our dark hair and loud voices. Who can say?

One thing I can say: I play the mandolin.

What Happens on Sunday

You might look next to you in the pew at church and see that your son has made a "laptop" out of a folded piece of paper. It has the Dell logo on the outside, just like your machine. And the website he's pulled up? Why, that's the Jet Set masthead. The QWERTY keyboard isn't perfect, but it's pretty good.

Love

When Lisha and Rich broke up last summer we were all in a tizzy. They couldn't possibly! They're so perfect! We tried to remain calm and outwardly nonchalant. "Oh, you broke up? Huh. Do you want us to set you up with someone else? No? OK. Whatever."

"Oh, Rich is flying up here this weekend? Huh. Oh. What do you think he wants? Well, whatever."

"So, uh, what did Rich say? Oh, sweet, you're back together."

Relax, everyone, play it cool, take a deep breath.

Inside we were going bananas.

A month later he roped us into the surprise proposal. I was supposed to call Lisha and suggest getting gussied up for a night out, and then Rich would show up instead. I called Lisha and she said, "Oh really? You want to go out? And get dressed up? Or is someone else coming to get me?" (She says it just like that, with italics.) I tried to lie my way into it, but she's the most skeptical person I know, and I failed.

It's a good thing he wasn't really depending on me.And who could blame him? Just look at her!


You know how you go to weddings and maybe half of the people are looking at each other in a knowing way that collectively assigns the marriage an expiration date? You feel a little nervous for the couple because you're not sure if they're going to make it? This wedding wasn't one of them. There was no drama, no anxiety, no panic, just love.

(Well, and a little makeup never hurt.)

The joy and laughter filled the rooms as we truly celebrated.


Rich's brother toasts the bride and groom, one of the many dedications to the couple.

Lisha's private blog, the one she wrote to chronicle their relationship, the one that she wasn't going to show Rich for a whole year, was outed by her best friend Mo, who read entries aloud. I don't think it's a wedding unless you can embarrass the bride.

She got her revenge, of course, when she booked the karaoke. What are you kidding? Nothing says party like karaoke!Mo recovers, with support from Ruel and Hyeku, from Josh's rendition of "Rio." Yes, Josh sang "Rio." Burned on my brain.

The girls sang "Build Me Up Buttercup"

There are a suspicious lack of pictures of me singing "Don't Stop Believing."

Rich's mom and two uncles dedicated "Close to You" to the bride, air guitar by the little cousins.


At the end of the night I leaned over to hug my dad. "How did you feel it went?" I asked, ready to get into my car. He looked up with a smile and said, "It was just storybook, wasn't it? Just storybook."

Indeed.






**All photos, except for the crappy ones in the middle taken with my substandard camera, courtesy of my photographer sister Jennifer, who is available for bridals, weddings, portraits, etc., etc.

15 Hours of Sleep Over Four Days

Enough of this no blogging thing, it's time to get back to work. I'm sure you all had lovely Christmases and/or Winter Solstice celebrations, spending time with your loved ones in cozy piles of naps or drowning in nog. Not I, but it was so worth it. I thought I'd give you all a peek into what we were up to at Cent Com.

This is Lisha's wedding cake. She wanted a devil's food with a hazelnut praline filling (what can I say? We're all nuts for filberts.) We discussed ideas for the cake until we came up with something that would be unique and yet fit into the theme of the wedding. I prefer a collaborative method when it comes to cake design. I covered the cake in a white fondant and hand-painted matte blue cherry blossoms all over the tiers, followed by gold branches and pearl dust brushed in the negative space.

We decided on a spun sugar nest for the top of the cake. Dad was tasked with actually spinning the sugar. He's always game for a little kitchen experimentation (none of us had ever actually spun sugar.)

Melt white sugar with a little corn syrup and a touch of vinegar and bring it to hard crack stage. Immediately remove the caramel from the heat and let it cool, but not too much. Using the tines of a fork, or a cut whisk, dip into the caramel and let drip until the stuff is running down the individual tines in a stream. Fling the caramel between two dowels and plenty of newspaper to catch the threads. Marvel at the adorableness, I certainly did.

Could you just die? I nearly did.

We had enough for a good nest and a few back ups, just in case. Dad went back through and pulled out threads that had larger globs with tweezers to keep the threads ethereal. They're even thinner than cellophane noodles (if you are familiar) and almost as thin as thread.

We found a perfect pair of flocked birds with golden tails to sit atop our nest. I sugared white and blue jordan almonds for the nest. Delighted, the mother of the groom wondered if the eggs represented the number of chicks to join their future nest. We whooped (in the most tasteful way) when the eggs added up to ten.



I took a few more sugared almonds and just a handful of tiny white orchids and placed them around the tiers. The effect was breathtaking.

And that's the finished cake. Anne sugared lemons and placed them around the cake (and in the bouquets and on the table tops, but more of that tomorrow.) The catering manager was in a tizzy about the sterling silver mint bowl (snatched from a sideboard when no one was looking) you can spy under the cake. Feign ignorance! Blame anonymous florists who are certainly not your friends!

Dense and thick with a knock-out hazelnut butter cream. Just divine.

More to come...

Mecca and The Wasteland

I was at Target (Mecca) tonight looking at legwarmers.

Wait, there’s more.

My baby sister is getting married in a month. I picked her up for a late night run to the fabric store. We wandered the aisles trying to find the right fabric for her veil with no luck. Not for the first time I voiced my sincere disappointment that we don’t have better fabric stores. You want a taco, we got the taquerias. You want a mean braised short rib, we got the chops. You want mountains, yeah we got that. Fabric stores? Barely passable. I got depressed.

To add insult onto injury, I was informed that La Professora wanted us to go to Kmart. Why? Why would she ask that of us? But what Spanish mama wants, Spanish mama gets. We shook off the 100% mystery content textiles and drove to the overwhelming Kmart wasteland. Sometimes when I go to Kmart the weight of the world falls on my shoulders. The store is stuffed with ramshackle goods lit by a 15 watt bulb. It always feels like Kmart is moving—why else would those boxes be in the middle of the aisle and bins be everywhere? I smell the desperation. We were in search of containers in which my sister could pack her trousseau on her move due south. She gingerly poked at the plastic boxes while I made a face.
“Please,” I whispered, “Can we just go to Target?”

So we turned around and headed for Mecca (which was south.)

The rows of containers neatly arranged on their clean shelves under bright lights animated me. Soon, nothing could stop me; a new pizza cutter? Yes! A new belt? Yes! Make it two? Please! And that’s when I ran smack into the legwarmers.

I fingered a heather grey finely woven set and thought about cjane. “You know she loves the presents,” I said to me.
“Legwarmers?” Sister sniffed.
“Yes, but you see…”
“Does she have some sort of dance competition to prepare for?” She cut me off dryly, in only the way that she can.
“But, they’re for cjane,” I insisted, “Because she can get away with them.”
“Uh-huh,” She is unconvinced.
I put them back on the hangers.
Because sorry, janers, I had to go with my sister.

But you understand.

Take it Like a Baby

I'm the oldest in my family, explains a lot, doesn't it?

These days I get to see the world from down under. I watch Proximo take the kind of violent love and abuse that only happens among siblings (and stupid teenagers.) From the moment that El Guille jumps into his crib in the morning to wake him up, to the moment El Guille jumps in his crib at night to ‘play,’ Proximo takes it, well, like a baby. In just one day I witnessed that baby get kicked, rolled on, smacked in the car, nearly suffocated with blankets, pinched, hit with a toy, and peed on.

I’M SORRY MOM because I know I did things just as bad to my siblings—except for the P stuff, I’m pretty sure that’s a snips and snails thing.

So thanks, Mom, for having me today all those years ago (even if you don’t read my blog because you can’t be bothered and therefore don’t get to read the apologetic gratitude.)

Oh, and thanks for howling with laughter tonight when I told you that Proximo was his brother’s target practice for the third time in seven days.

(Boys.)

What do I want for my birthday? For my kids not to P on each other.

Too much to ask?

Spoonful

Growing up with my father was a real treat. Even though he had to sneak in contraband goods when my mom wasn’t looking, dad always managed to have some kind of tasty concoction up his sleeve or in a cupboard (or, as some of us found out, hidden on the top shelf of his walk-in closet, but don't ask me how I know that.) My mom’s ideas of ‘cool snacks’ in a sack lunch were carrot slices. Woo. Party down Bronx.

My mother would chastise dad about his ice cream intake and he’d say, “I’m just grabbing a spoonful.” That’s true, dad would get a spoonful. Somehow, perhaps with the ability to suspend physics, dad would take a tablespoon and scoop, turn, scoop, adjust, and there, perched on that small spoon, was an enormous helping of ice cream. How big? What a normal person might fit in a bowl fit onto the spoon. He’d walk out of the kitchen pleased with himself for only having a ‘spoonful’ of ice cream.

We all inherited this ridiculous method of portion control. Every summer day I, and probably my siblings, sneak to the freezer to scoop, turn, scoop, and adjust until there is an Everest of ice cream on our best silver. Try it sometime. Be forewarned, scooping until you get the correct balance is only the first step. The second is consuming the ice cream without making a drippy mess. Who needs a cone?

So the next time you come to my house and you happen to spy half a dozen spoons lying on this surface or that, you'll know, I just had a ‘spoonful’ of ice cream.

St. Patrick's?

I saw this on a shirt today at the grocery store.

It's about time somebody started pushing back on that Irish mob! I don't have a drop of Derry, Blarney, or Brian Boru in me. The half of me that isn't Spanish is mostly Welsh.

Doesn't anybody else feel silly pretending they're Irish, even if it's just for a day?

I put on a kelly green shirt to go run errands and just had to take it off. Too obvious. So I made a scary decision and wore

NO GREEN.

I'll have you know I walked around Target, The Good Earth, and BYU Creamery (try the German Chocolate!) and not one person pinched me. I was beginning to think that this whole thing is just a left over trauma from school and not a genuine threat whatsoever.

I got home and the neighbor kids were out. To tell you the truth, I'd totally forgotten that I was green-less. One of the boys came up to me and engaged me in conversation, mostly about his Obi-Wan Kenobi Light Saber. Then he dropped the bomb,

"Hey, you aren't wearing any green."

So the light saber was just a cover--never trust a five year old!

I decided in the face of that kind of logic, I'd better just give up.

"It's true," I said holding out my arm, "Go ahead, pinch me."

(He's only five, come on, he probably doesn't even know about the pinch and twist yet!)

He looked at me and said, "That's not how it works."

"Oh, how does it work?"

"Well, I can't pinch you,"

What? He concedes so easily? Then he gestured at El Guille,

"But he can."

"How is that?"

"I'm not your brother, or your kid, so I can't pinch you, but your son can."

Wow, so, if there's anything worse than St. Patrick's Day, it's politically correct St. Patrick's Day.

Whatever, I'm Welsh anyway.

“¡Que Horror!” La Professora said on Saturday. We took El Guille to the children’s B.Y. Christmas party. It’s not as fun as you remember. They switched out the spice doughnuts for regular ol’ glazed (but not the good kind.) They had punch, not scalding hot cider. I missed the glow-y feeling you get from downing a full eight ounces of a practically boiling beverage. /End food review.
I used to love getting my box of Cracker Jack after seeing Santa and then parading past the beauty queens of yester-year (Hey Michelle King!) to the upstairs screening room to watch cartoons. Road Runner and Daffy—larger than life size; sticky sugar fingers covered in paint from the craft.
This year there were booths and games where you had to wait in line, which we did. Guille scored a one inch bouncy ball at the fish-for-a-prize, totally worth the wait, believe me. We skipped the mile-long Santa line. I'm pretty sure Guille would have refused to sit on ANY lap other than mine (a trait that I am ok with, for now.) After he turned down knocking over cans with bean bag missiles, we went to find the doughnuts and found something extra.

Oh! The lights! The spangles! Tween girl performance groups! Did I mention the spangles? Oh, well then, let’s not forget the corsets, or the 8 year olds in silver spandex. “¡Que Horror!” La Professora said. I looked at the strange sight of very young girls performing with thrusting hips in unison and gulped. All around the room I could see mothers thrilled with their make-up encrusted girls. I wondered, really, is it necessary to wear that much base? It’s the Wilk Ballroom, not 42nd Street. They were Very Serious about their musical holiday yuletide spreading—committed performers, one and all.

El Guille couldn’t look at the stage. He insisted on sitting facing the opposite direction. “That’s ok,” I whispered to him, “I know you don’t approve of the objectification of women, let alone little girls, either. I’m with you, 100%.”

“¡Que Horror!” La Professora said, “What are we preparing those girls for? The pole? I can’t look anymore. ¡Que Horror!”

I laughed, a lot, because just the other day I told her the Chris Rock bit where he says his goal as a father is to prevent his girls from ending up on the stripper pole. I’m so glad nana can still learn and apply new bits of pop-culture into her vocab. You need to hear her accent saying, "The pole?" Seriously, I don't know of a person in my life who is less apt to use "pole" in that context while in conversation (well, one other person--inside joke alert--'what in the H....R...')

“¡Que Horror!” she said, for the fifteenth time, and not the last.

*******************************************

Sunday, at dinner, I found out that my sister likes to invent entire careers for herself at parties. A couple of months ago she told everyone that she was an estimator. “Oh?” people would say, “How does that work.”
“Well, I just tell my clients that the cost will be between seven and ten million-ish. After all, I’m not an actuator, I’m an estimator.”

What surprised me is that people don’t challenge her. If I was at a party with her and she told me that she was an estimator, there would have been a lot more questions. She was a psychologist last month, “But mostly for corporate clients.” She also speaks three languages, "English, Spanish, and Math."
"Math?"
"Yeah, you know, Pythagorean, a-squared, that whole thing."

A couple days ago she was a librarian. “Oh,” said the nice girl with whom Lisha was conversing, “Do you like to read?”
“Actually, no, I don’t. I find that there is so much great educational television out there, it’s really unnecessary to read anymore.”
“That can’t be very good job security…”
“Well, I view this more as an entry level position, you know, to climb the corporate ladder.”
“Ahhh.”

I said, “Lish, the Corporate LIBRARY ladder?”
Lisha, “I know. I’m really surprised more people don’t call me out on this stuff.”

Azúcar vs. Nana

Several years ago I heard a horror story about a friend who went to the doctor for her ultrasound and because the baby wouldn't move, they couldn't tell the gender. Now some people love the surprise of not knowing what the baby will be. I am not one of those people. I need to mentally, physically, and clothing-ly prepare for the new person. In the ongoing theme of my life, I am too controlling to not know the gender.

The urban legend of The Baby Who Wouldn't Move haunted my dreams until I formed a battle plan. 1 hour before my Guille ultrasound I drank a whole can of Diet Coke. In the ensuing 56 minutes I ate both a caramel Twix and a pack of chewy Spree. There was NO WAY that this kid wasn't going to be moving. When the tech applied the COLD gel to my belly and starting moving around the wand that kid was hopping! "Wow," said the tech, "Now that's an active baby!" I copped to the drugging of my unborn child. Instead of calling CPS, the tech laughed. When I told my mom (aka Nana Azúcar, La Profesora) she was horrified. How dare I do that to her one and only grandchild? A coke and sugar? What am I? The Worst Mother Ever?

The best thing about La Profesora is that she forgets everything. Ok, ok, it used to be infuriating, especially since she can't remember the names of even my oldest friends, people I've known for 25 years. I wore a brooch to her house the other day and she mused out loud, "Huh, I used to have a brooch that looked just like that." I replied, "I know. It was yours until you were scrambling around for another Christmas present and wrapped up a brooch you already owned and then gifted it to me."
So even though she gets distressed, positively aghast, at my actions quite frequently, she also never remembers them long enough to do any lasting damage (except for those pesky 'when you were a kid' stories that she clearly remembers enough to actually relate them when she speaks at BYU Devotional.)

Yesterday, on the car ride over to the midwives, I reminded J and Nana that I purposefully spiked El Guille’s amniotic fluid. It was worth it to see her get totally and completely horrified again. I didn’t spike this year for several reasons: 1.) I’m limiting my sugar so that I don’t get gestational diabetes, 2.) I wondered if consuming caffeine would raise my blood pressure and I am trying to watch that as well. I did buy the Diet Coke, but didn’t follow-through.

The tech applied the warmed gel (aaahhhh) and pressed the wand onto my belly. Segundo was just kind of hanging out. He wasn’t moving a lot and his legs were crossed at the ankles. “SEE,” I said, “I should have had the coke.” “Yes, you should have! Why didn’t you?” cried La Profesora.

I win.