I am not a summer person. I love the IDEA of summer. Waking to birds chirping. Days at the beach. Ballgames. S’mores. Barbecues. Peach, strawberry and watermelon festivals. Hell, any festival at all! They’re all awesome. Dining outdoors at an umbrella table. Fruity, overpriced summer drinks.  

But the reality of summer? Not so much. Shirt clinging to your back as you race to work each day. Only four days at the beach, two of which rained. Summer nights on the deck, the soft whir of mosquitoes buzzing your head as they launch a strategic assault on your person. A sultry evening breeze– thick with honeysuckle and the string of obscenities my husband mutters as the charcoals refuse to light.

Grilling at our house is an adventure, testing not only skill, but endurance. Do you really have what it takes? The blinding, acrid smoke– once the coals finally catch. The drinking involved to get you that far. The orange glow of flames licking at the sirloin that would have been dinner– had it not fallen onto the coals. The scorched veggies that you attempted to grill after seeing it on a cooking show. Because… how hard could that be? The charred but loving offerings served up after admitting defeat once again. The loving family dialogue at the kitchen table– (because it’s too effing hot to eat outside after an hour spent lurched over a grill). “Mom, it’s overdone. Underdone. Insert complaint here.” The carcinogenic risks involved in eating the tortured results. The bloodshot eyes.   

The upside? Long after dinner is over . . . the burnt offerings digested (maybe) the grill is now an inferno. Those coals are runnin’ hot. We could grill a twenty pound turkey now. I could grill a week’s worth of dinners now. Which can only mean . . . it’s time for s’mores. One more sacrifice to the alter of the barbecue. Marshmallows on fire. To celebrate the end of another glorious summer.  

Recently, hubs and I celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary. When people learn of such a milestone, you are typically hit with the usual questions. How do you make it work? What’s the secret? Or in the case of our kids, the question was ‘what the hell do you still have to talk about?” So, in honor of our achievement, here are a couple tips we’ve picked up along the way– okay, mostly this is just me.

Tip 1) Never serve him pancakes aka Leaden Discs of Death (LDoD). Okay, so for the first few years of marriage, each of you plays nice. Truly, it’s the best course of action. Even if you don’t like it. Even if you think something is  stupid. Early on, feelings tend to get hurt. You can step on toes. So, it’s best to play along. But once the first child comes along (or the five year anniversary), all that goes out the window. You’re allowed to finally say (nicely) that something sucks and you don’t want to take part anymore.

For instance – hubs hates my pancakes (along with most of my other cooking, but that’s a different story). I discovered this early on a Sunday morning when I was making them for darling daughters. Oldest likes hers with strawberries and whipped cream. I’m down with that. However, Youngest thought strawberries were mushy and gross. She likes her pancakes with chocolate chips in them. Or, more accurately, she likes a little pancake with her chocolate chips. So, I– being the fabulous mother I am, would oblige as often as possible.

Hubs on the other hand, decided that particular peaceful, golden Saturday morning was the ideal time to inform me he didn’t like pancakes. Not the plain ones. Not the delicious banana ones I’d made several times (sorry Weight Watchers). Not chocolate chip. Not blueberry and definitely not strawberry. While Youngest was mowing through her chocolate dripped orgy and Oldest was inhaling her strawberry heaven, Hubs’ first words were “are you trying to kill me?” Followed by the renaming of my pancakes to LDoD. Followed by, “that looks like mouse turds”. Only he didn’t say turds– which would have been bad enough. Youngest glances up, big, innocent blue eyes widened in shock and says “this doesn’t taste like mouse shit”. 

Two things learned that day? 1) Youngest wasn’t as gifted as we were lead to believe. Because really– who knows what mouse shit tastes like, right? 2) That was the day Hubs had decided, at least for the Leaden Discs of Death, he’d had enough. Perfectly fair. I get it. Which leads me to tip 2:

 Tip 2) You ARE allowed to go to bed angry. In fact, I encourage it. Especially when you’re right. No good comes from settling an argument before you go to bed. Let’s face it– you’re still pissed. So, why not go with it? I’ve spent many a night lying in bed, basking in the glory of my righteous indignation, while Hubs is sprawled on the couch, dead to the world, remote in his hand, the glow of west coast baseball still flashing on our television screen at 2 am.

In the morning, when cooler heads prevail, one of you will apologize– I’m always hopeful it will be hubs, but sometimes it has to be me. I will have sacrificed a night’s sleep; he will have slept like a corpse, but we usually emerge from the event a little nicer to each other. Stronger. Happier. And to celebrate this newfound understanding? I make my man a steaming plate of pancakes.

Why is it that some of the things we most want, we can never have?

A fall night I could be having meatloaf

In my case, it’s meatloaf. I’m the person in your party who orders the meatloaf when she finds it on the menu. One of the reasons for this is that I really like meatloaf. But the other reason is more tragic. It’s because my family does not allow me to make it anymore. Yes, friends– I’m on probation. For the tenth year.

My crime? Serving a meatloaf my girls claimed was inedible using harsh words like ‘disgusting’ or ‘eeeew’. I suffered silently through questions like ‘why does it ooze like that?’ Or ‘is it supposed to look like that, mom?’ Innocent as they sound . . . those questions drove a stake through my meatloaf confidence. Not even the Five Bucks For Five Bites rule (see previous post) worked when I served meatloaf. Yet, the bigger question is how can my recipe be so wrong? When everyone makes it differently? How has my recipe come to be so persecuted? 

So, now . . . a decade later, I am left with only the bitterness of loss. The ache of unfulfilled dreams. Reduced to ordering meatloaf in every diner, drive-in and dive I enter. My only consolation? The hope of future generations. Once my girls have kids? Just wait until I get to cook for the grandchildren…  Boohahahahaha.