Other Firsts: A (French Pressed) Affair to Remember

 

“Hi. I’ll take a tall Sumatra bold blend, heavy on the Half and Half, and two Equals.”       

I need to come clean on something. For the past eight weeks,* I’ve been having a sordid, darkly roasted affair with my local Starbucks drive-thru. When we meet each Monday, it uses its sexy Barry White voice to lure me into its latest promotion: a free pound of coffee beans in exchange for trying all eight of its distinct, delicious bold blends—one per week. I’ve just ordered my last cup, the official end of the affair. There’s nothing to do now but take home my pound and admit my caffeine-infused transgressions to my coffee connoisseur husband, GB. 

The barista is waiting at the window.       

“This is my eighth cup!” I announce.       

“Oh!” he exclaims. Because he knows! Big day!       

“What blend would you like?” he asks.       

“Surprise me,” I say with a wink.         

~*~         

“There’s a present for you on the counter…” I call from the kitchen. G drops his laptop bag by the door and walks up the steps from the living room. He spies the pound and exhales with an appreciative “Ahhhh.”       

“I know!” I say, because I DO know! Liquid energy is a big freaking deal!       

“That’s a lot of beans,” he says, his voice trailing off…      

I notice his strange look as he surveys the beans. Then he nods to himself. If he were a comic book character, there’d be a cartoon light bulb over his head.       

Later that night, he spends 30 minutes browsing the interwebz for a pimped out grinder and French press.   

       

 ~*~     

“Wait, stop,” you say. “How does this tie into your blog’s ‘year of firsts’ theme?” I was afraid you’d ask that. This could be potentially damaging. (Deep breath.)

I’ve never had a French pressed cup of coffee.      

I know, I know. For all of my grand posturing and sincere professions of Starbucks love, I’m actually a tea drinker at heart. However, I’m also a sleep-deprived mother with a recently acquired caffeine problem, and like any junkie, I know a good hit when I see one. I don’t care where it comes from or how it was made. Just give me the goods, I’ll hand you the cash, and we’ll both pretend we were never here.   

Oh sure, gasp at me you coffee snobs! Well, try this one on: I’ll bet you put lemon in your black tea because you don’t know any better. Right? Huh? So I guess we all have our caffeine-related skeletons, don’t we?         

~*~         

Possibly my favorite GB photo ever

G demonstrates the proper way to use the grinder and French press while our boys observe in wide-eyed silence. He flips the grinder switch to the “on” position, and the grounds go everywhere—the counter, the floor, the boys’ hair… I look up from typing this blog post long enough to say, “He who makes the mess, cleans the mess, GB.” (It’s always nice when one of my axioms pays off in my favor.)       

His next attempt is successful. He transfers the beans to the press, tops them with steaming water, waits five minutes, and (after much dramatic flourish) presses the water through the filter.       

He pours the goods; I doctor them with cream and sugar. After clinking our mugs together, we take a sip.      

“Wow.” he says. I love the look on his face. Suddenly, he’s a man without worries, a day’s worth of stress magically erased. He looks the way I feel when I peruse the classic fiction section of Barnes and Noble, or I’m thinking about taking a nap.      

“That’s good $#!t!” I say, because I love me some junkie vernacular.      

~*~       

The truth: I can’t tell the difference between French press and the traditional method. I could pretend I can, but I can’t. I could Google “brewing gourmet coffee” and plagiarise some geek’s rant on the importance of finely grinding your premium beans and steeping them in the right temperature and blah, blah, blah…(Snoozetown).       

Instead, I’ll tell you that this is one of my favorite cups of coffee ever because of G’s unabashed contentment and the fact he has had five stress-free minutes today. I like seeing him happy. That’s what counts with me.       

(That, and the Half and Half.)       

* I wrote this post the first week of May but am just publishing it today. So. If you go to Starbucks expecting the Bold a Week promotion, you won’t find it. Instead, you’ll find some other insanely great promotion to lure you too into the affair. (Something like Frappuccino Happy Hour!!! But I’ve said too much…)      

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#4: Maura and Cara Join the Race

Sabrina, Victoria, Darcy, Cara and me, pre-Race for the Cure.

A few months ago, I found myself eavesdropping in the baked goods aisle. I tried not to, honestly—it just kind of happened as I perused the vast selection of new! improved! extra creamy! frostings.  

The first woman was small and curly-haired and bubbly. “You look great, Adele,” she said reassuringly. “You really do.”  

Adele smoothed the blue silk scarf she’d wrapped around her head. “This gives me away,” she said. Her hand dropped to her little girl’s sleek brown hair. “The chemo isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, Annie. I’m just tired.”  

“Well if you need anything,” Annie said. “Please call. I’m happy to watch your girls. It’s no problem at all, and I mean that.” They hugged then, and Annie waved goodbye.  

Adele watched her go then pushed her cart forward. As she passed us, she smiled warmly at my boys, then knocked a box of jello off the shelf.  

“Oh wait I’ll get it…” I said. I grabbed the box and placed it securely in its spot.  

“Thanks so much,” She said.  

We looked at each other for a moment. I said, “Your scarf is lovely.”  

“Thanks.” She nodded at me and blinked.  

I had that moment to say: “I think you’re so brave. I don’t know how you do it. I hope you beat this thing and laugh in its face.” Instead, I said: “Here, let me get out of your way.”  

I don’t know why I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I’m 100% sure she would have thought I was craaaaazy. I’m also 100% sure she needed to hear it. Social convention: 1. Humanity: 0.  

There are seven women I’m racing for today. Adele is one of them.  

~*~  

“I’m thinking about joining the Race for the Cure this year,” I broadcast to my facebook friends. “Who’s with me?”  

“Sign me up,” Cara said. Cara’s one of the best people I know. We’ve been friends since we were children. I saw her through a massive Michael Damian crush (heh. sorry, Cara.) and let’s face it, those are ties that bind! What a great girl.  

Cara

(Side note: Cara has also agreed to help me carry out another 36×37 mission at the ATP Tennis Tournament this August. It’s going to involve meeting Roger Federer. Or Andy Roddick. Or—dream come true time!—Rafael Nadal. *low whistle, long sigh*)  

~*~  

I have a reason to join the Columbus leg of The Susan G Komen Race for the Cure this year. A dear family friend was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago. She’s like an aunt to me, and my mother would definitely say she’s like a sister to her. She has just finished chemo, and her radiation treatments are about to begin. I’ve seen her only once since she was diagnosed, but I think of her and her family every day. She’s the reason I’m here in front of The Palace Theater with 50,000 of my fellow racers.  

Broad Street at the Race

 The Columbus Race for the Cure is a completely different animal than I expected it to be. I guess I’ve always envisioned a somber atmosphere—not much talking, lots of hugs and tears, the swapping of sad stories—and I’ll admit that’s probably why I’ve never participated before. 

But believe me, this race is no downer. It’s incredibly upbeat. We’re all here to race for people we love. And some of us race for ourselves. There’s a lot of laughter, and the overarching feeling is one of hope and support. It’s the most massive display of strength and determination I’ve ever seen. I’m just shocked by that.  

I’m also shocked by the free food:  

I've never seen so many bananas

The dogs in t-shirts:  

The ONLY time it's OK for dogs to wear clothing...

 The live music at every corner:  

Boxers, if you're wondering

 The entire city block of bikers and Harleys that came out to show support:  

You should have seen these bad@$$ bikes!

 The pirates:  

Three pirates and two saucy wenches

 But most of all, the masses and masses of people teeming through my beloved city:  

The Race on Nationwide Blvd

~*~  

If you think about this event—if you really let yourself think about what it means to pour 50,000 racers through your city, all of whom are there for their own very personal reasons—it will knock you to your knees. I think of the women and men who received their diagnoses—how it must have felt to digest the news, take it home to their families, and begin the battle. I also think of their families and friends—how it must have felt to receive the news and fight alongside their loved ones.  

It makes me angry and sad and hopeful and proud of the human spirit.  

We’re coming for you, cancer, you b@$t@rd. You’re living on borrowed time.  

~*~  

I’m racing in loving memory of: Pam, Josie, Vicki, Heather and Stefanie.  

I’m also racing in celebration of Marjorie and Adele. I think you’re so brave. I don’t know how you do it. I hope you beat this thing and laugh in its face and keep on laughing for years.  

Special thanks to Sabrina, Victoria, Darcy and Cara. It was a pleasure racing with such spectacular women. Next year, I think we should play our cards exactly the way we did this year, because sauntering across the finish line dead last is about the funniest thing I can think of. (For my other readers: It’s a long story, but a good one. Another time, perhaps.)  

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37 

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#4 is Coming: Save the TaTas

It's just so Scarlett Johansson/Lost in Translation

Yes, my desk lamp is wearing a hot pink wig. And on Saturday morning, I will be, too. 

That’s when my friend Cara and I and 47,000 of our friends will run/walk/roll across Columbus to raise awareness (and donations) for breast cancer research. If you’re in C-bus this weekend, it’s not too late to register. Here’s the latest scoop I have for the 18th Annual Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure on May 15: 

* If you or someone you know still needs to register or pick up a race t-shirt, please visit Macy’s at Easton Town Center today from 10 AM–9 PM or Friday from 10 AM –6 PM. You can also register on Race Day at the Vern Riffe Center (corner of High and State Sts.), from 6:30–8:30 AM.
* Get downtown early! Streets will close at 7:30 AM. (Find out where to park.)
* Come early to check out the Expo and stay late for the Survivor Ceremony! 

7:30 AM: Exposition Area Opens
7:30-10:30 AM: SurvivorPalooza
8:15 AM: Competitive Run (chip-timed runners only)
8:30 AM: 5K Co-Ed Run
8:45 AM: 5K Co-Ed Walk
9:15 AM: One Mile Family Fun Walk 

Check this blog on Sunday for my official Assignment #4 post. (Don’t know what I’m talking about? Read this.) 

See you downtown on Saturday! 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37 

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Side Stories: A Note from a Friend

A Mother's Day Card from O

“Whatever you do, Mama,” H says, “Don’t wook in my backpack. DO NOT DO IT, because there’s absowootwy nuffing in there.” 

We’ve just walked through his preschool doors into the warm sunshine. He’s swinging my hand happily as we stroll to the car. 

“There’s nothing in there?” I ask. “No papers to read?” 

“Nope.” 

“No notes from your teacher?” 

“Huh uh.” 

“Hmmmm. No Mother’s Day Card?” 

He looks at me suspiciously and grits his teeth sideways. “No! Theresnomothersdaycardinthere.” 

“Oh! Hmmmm.” I try to sound wistful. “Well, Ok. Maybe another little boy has made one for me.” 

“Who?” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess we’ll see on Sunday.” 

We hop in the car and begin our drive to daycare. For the first few moments, he sits in quiet contemplation. Finally: “If I weeve my backpack in here while I’m at daycare, do you promise not to wook? Because there’s nuffing in there.” 

“I promise, buddy.” 

“I mean, I guess there are a few Wego guys, but that’s all.” 

I hear a slow unzipping sound in the back seat. When I check the rearview mirror, I see he is rummaging through the bag. 

“Oh! There is somefing in here besides the fing that’s not in here!” 

He holds up a square, white envelope. My name is scrawled in pretty handwriting across the front. “I wonder what that is?” I ask. “Hold on to it, buddy. I’ll look at it when we park the car.” 

We glide into the garage, and I wave to the security guard who cited me a few weeks ago for not coming to a full stop at the stop sign. He smiles and waves back. In my head, I throw curses at that guy. 

Once we’ve parked, H thrusts the note into my hand. I tear the seal and pull the contents out of the envelope. 

It’s a handwritten note from a fellow mom who must have sneaked it into H’s preschool mailbox. She writes that she’s been thinking about something I said last week. Then she follows up with a few kind, supportive thoughts. It’s such a simple yet warm and unexpected gesture. I realize suddenly that I’ve stopped in the middle of the daycare garage to read and re-read the letter. 

“Are you ok, ma’am?” The security guard asks. “You really shouldn’t just stand there.” 

I turn around and scowl at the guy. For real? He’s going to reprimand me for standing in a near-empty garage? I wave him off testily as Henry grabs my hand. 

I cling to the letter, amazed. Such a giant act of kindness wrapped up in such a small parcel! People seldom do this kind of thing anymore, but when they do, you’re almost surprised by how relieved and fortified you are. I want more than anything to call my correspondent and thank her profusely. 

This same sort of thing has happened several times over the past few weeks: kind side conversations, and notes I didn’t expect. Some came from people I knew years ago—whom I always liked so much but had somehow lost track of. They made me think again of laughter-filled afternoons at Centre and OU. They made me long for old friends who were—years ago—just a few doors down the hall. 

“What is it, Mama?” H asks as we walk toward the elevator. His eyes are worried and wide. 

“There are so many good people out there, buddy.” I say. “You included.”

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37

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#3: Mama Just Can’t Say No (and Other Cautionary Tales)

“Maura, I have your son here in my office.”

I have to be honest—I’ve received more phone calls like this lately than I care to admit. “Is everything ok?” I ask. “Is he hurt?”

“No, no. He’s just refusing to take a nap. It’s disrupting the other kids. We’ve tried reasoning with him and ignoring him and putting him in time out. Nothing’s working. What do you suggest?”

What I think but don’t say: “Have you tried bribing him? Or taking away his toys? Or smoothing his hair and rocking him to sleep?” But I’m too ashamed of my “works like a charm” Bad Mom tactics. Instead, I say, “I’m so sorry! Daycare has been such a huge transition for him. We’ll talk to him again tonight. Meanwhile I’d welcome your advice…”

“Do you practice discipline in your home?”

I think about O, my sweet, snuggly 3-yr-old mama’s boy and am instantly defensive. In a family of huggers, he hugs the longest and the hardest. He holds my hand as he falls asleep and smiles when I wake him in the morning. O is just a lovable, jolly kid who happened to inherit his mother’s exaggerated stubborn streak. In our house, discipline usually turns into one massive standoff, with me saying “No!” and him saying “Yes!” until we no longer remember what we’re doing.

“Barriers are important. Kids need structure. They want it, and they thrive on it. Don’t be afraid to be the boss.”

I thank her and we say goodbye. After a minute or so of burying my face in my hands, I take a deep breath and get back to work.

~*~

The truth is, I say “no” constantly. No jumping on the bed. Eat your grapes, or no dessert. Keep your feet off your brother. Stop moving around on your chair. No! Non! Nicht! Não! Enough!

I’m not a nag by nature, and I’m not a bossy person, so this constant setting and enforcing of rules goes against my general grain. I do it because I have to. Because I know I need to. Because, like every other mom, I’ve read all the experts, and I’ll do anything it takes to keep my kids from dragging my name through their therapy sessions 25 years from now.

Even so, EVERYONE needs a day off once in a while. That’s precisely why today was so outstanding. For the first time, I decided to just scrap all the parenting rules and follow nothing but maternal instinct.

~*~

I hear two sets of little boy feet coming down the stairs. Two smiley kiddos appear with stick-uppy hair.

“Hi Mama!” H says gleefully.

“Hiya, pumpkin. What day is it, buddy?”

“The Day Mama Can’t Say No!”

“That’s right! Hey O, what does that mean?”

“We’re the bosses!”

“The what?”

“THE BOSSES!”

“And what do the bosses want for breakfast?”

“Chocolate chip muffins!”

Well. Chocolate chip muffins it is.

~*~

Here’s what else the bosses did today:

• Chose their clothes and got dressed by themselves (something they do every day—just not so eagerly)
• Brushed their teeth without argument (even if they did select the Thomas the Tank Engine toothpaste for toddlers, rather than that nasty “Sparkleberry!” flavored crap)
• Made tantrum-free movie selections at Blockbuster
• Talked me into racing the Target shopping cart down an empty aisle or two
• Ordered bacon—five pieces each—and ate quietly all through lunch
• Laughed their little blond heads off through two Phineas and Ferb episodes, then announced they were ready for a nap
• Had a massive Star Wars lightsaber battle with Uncle S without antagonizing one another
• Enjoyed a very bubbly bubble bath
• Went to sleep at 9:00, exhausted and happy

~*~

It’s clear to me. When I loosen the reins on these guys, when I guide them rather than lord over them, when I tell them I trust them—and they actually believe me—then eight times out of 10 they’ll make good choices. They’ll stop railing against me in their little boy way. I guess in my heart I’ve always known this about them.

I make mistakes with my boys every day, and I count those mistakes as I fall asleep each night. But in the end, I can’t help but think: If they know I love them fiercely and obstinately and blindly and devotedly and proudly and without a hint of desire to change them, then they’ll believe in themselves, and they’ll want to do what’s right.

I wonder what the experts would say about that.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @mauranelle1 (NEW!) @36×37

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#3 is Coming: “It Was Against the Law…”

I have big, BIG plans tomorrow. I don’t want to completely give away my next 36×37 assignment, but I can at least offer a hint by way of this clip from Wes Anderson’s most excellent The Royal Tenenbaums…

Click here to watch the video. (Note: You might have to endure a quick web ad but it’s totally worth it.)

And, just because this post needs some visual interest, here’s a pic! (Side note: I heart you, Gene Hackman.)

I’ll post the results of the assignment on Monday or Tuesday, so be sure to check back…

(Updated 7:21 PM ET 5/1/10: I just tested the video link from my iPhone. Instead of the intended clip, Spike served up pics of the “Babe of the Day.” So, if you’re into that kind of thing, happy Derby Day, I guess!)

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