Enough Rings Already

I bet you're all relieved that I have settled on a Super Bowl Sunday menu.

Roasted chicken pieces, cut veggie tray, a cheeseball shaped like a football instead of a round ball, and chocolate sheet cake.

This is a departure from my usual menu. Usually I shape the cheese like a round ball and the cake like a football. Or at least a football field. I thought I would shake things up this year.
In other news, Bill and I disagree about The Sopranos ending. (I know, we're so timely, aren't we?) Bill insists that I am just being stubborn about this and disagreeing just to disagree. He's wrong. I really don't think that Tony died that night. He did. But not that night.

I sat in bed this morning drinking coffee petting my orange cat. And thought, oh, I guess this means I die today. Then I remembered that I don't live in HBO Land.

Apparently Bill Belichick is capable of showering, combing his hair, and wearing something other than a baggy sweatshirt that he hacked the sleeves off of with the scissors on his desk. Who knew?

Tony is a Jets fan, not a Giants fan, but he doesn't bet based on loyalty, it's about money. If I had some money? I would put it on the Giants.

I'm just sayin.'

I Have a Dream

This is one of my favorite holidays. A good family dinner reminded me why. Stir fried veggies, rice and pork tenderloin. Apple crisp in place of birthday cake for Dr. King. A kind-of argument about Thomas Jefferson, a discussion of a 17 year old girl's right to vote in the primaries, and a recollection of my second favorite Martin Luther King Jr. Day Memory ("You have more than one?" Bill teased me.).

"When Martin Luther King was president..." Frank once started saying.

"Honey, Martin Luther King was never the President," I said.

"Oh," he said, unphased. And then he said whatever it is that he set out to say. I don't know what it was. I was so overwhelmed with happiness that I had raised a son who thought that a black man could be President of the United States, that I could not listen.

And here we are with the 2008 primaries - a woman and a black man who could be a real candidate for President (did you know that the first female candidate for President ran before 1920? Before women had the right to vote?!). This primary overwhelms me. Partly because I dislike both of them, but partly because I recognize how significant this year really is.

The House That Frank Built (with all due respect to Mr. Ruth)

(I hope that you can see that he is mimicking Joba's picture on the car.)

He painted it white, we applied pinstripes made of blue embroidery thread, and then we modge podged his favorite pitcher and some logos. My son probably has the only pine wood derby car made with modge podge.

He wanted to make a garage for his car. He does that every year out of a shoe box. This year instead of a garage, he made a stadium.

This is what I would call a true concept car. If you ask him what shape his car is he'll tell you that it's shaped like a fast ball. Anybody can make a race car. It takes a special kid (and an indulgent mom) to make a Joba Chamberlain Car and Yankee Stadium.

(The car is parked on the field, of course.)

So, seriously, how did I end up in the middle of the Plains with a kid who is obsessed with the Yankees? And who is obsessed with Yankee Stadium? It's going to be torn down next year. My eight year old son, born and raised in Nebraska, is pretty torn up about that decision.

The Sultan of Swat

"Oh, and mom? The baseball game has been changed to 11:00," my son said last night. He's been talking about a pick up baseball game now for about a week. "At the baseball field by Lincoln High. I think my bat is in the closet. I need to find it before tomorrow."

"Who's going to be there?" I ask again.

He tells me a couple of friends names who have invited other friends and he wonders if they will have two full teams and he tells me they are playing 18 innings, so could I please pack him a lunch?

I feel like the Meanest Mom in the World as I gently probe the reality of a bunch of third graders playing baseball in Nebraska in January in 2008.

My son's favorite movie right now is "Sandlot" which is about a group of boys who play baseball together every day. The story line involves a baseball signed by Babe Ruth. ("The Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, The Colossus of Clout..." my son recites.) He is obsessed with baseball and more specifically obsessed with historical baseball. He knows all about Murderers Row and the Black Sox Scandal. ("What does 'Say it Ain't So, Joe,' mean, Mom?")

We joke at dinner about making a time machine to go back in time to get Babe Ruth's autograph on a baseball.

"And if I take the digital camera with us in the Time Machine and take a photograph of Frank and Babe Ruth, will it turn out when we get back to the present time?"

"Oh yes," Bill says with a confident smile.

We all laugh.

I was not laughing this morning as my loving, trusting son reminded me of his baseball game at 11 and made me promise to get back from my run in time to take him. I was not laughing as we drove to the baseball fields. In my head I prayed desperately that his other friends would show up. If not two full teams, then a few boys to play catch with and hit balls to. One boy. Surely one other mom can't break her son's heart and she will drive to the baseball field.

But there was no one when we got to the baseball field.

"Can we wait, mom? Can I wait over by the field?"

"Hon, it's 11 and there's no one here. We can wait a few minutes, but why don't you wait in the car."

He was sad and resigned at 11:05.

"I'm sorry, kiddo."

He shrugged and looked out the window.

"Next summer I think we'll do Little League instead of YMCA baseball. You'll have more practices and games."

He nodded. We went home and he called his friend, who didn't mention the baseball game at all. They made plans to ride bikes. His parents are walking on the bike path and they'll supervise.

Because kids don't just go outside and play anymore. Kids don't make plans to play baseball or meet at the park. Moms and Dads set that up and plan it and supervise it. Even baseball is organized and scheduled and supervised.

If I had a Time Machine I could go back in time and get a Babe Ruth baseball. ("We could give him a $100 and he would laugh and sign the ball and go buy 100 cigars.") You know what I would really do if I could go back in time? I would take my son back in time so that he could actually go play a game of baseball on a Saturday afternoon with other kids. With no grown ups. Except moms to pack lunches. 'Cause they're playing 18 innings.

Guitars and Cadillacs

I can smell reconciliation. When I drove to my hearing this morning I kinda thought that my client was back together with her husband. She dropped the Protection Order two weeks ago. I figured they were just seeing each other. I learned in the hallway outside the courtroom that they are actually living together. That's fine. I don't care. Really and truly I do not care. Just let me know. I do care that I got up early, revised an affidavit a few times, drove all the way to this little town and now I feel like an idiot.

About the little Nebraska town I was in this morning -

1. Casey's has good coffee. They also make donuts and pizza on site and they are yummy. If there is a double chocolate donut in the donut case, then I will buy it, I thought to myself as I got coffee. There was. I still didn't buy it. My self control is impressing me today. We'll see how long that lasts.

2. The farm supply store has coveralls on sale for 30% off. I nearly stopped to get a jacket to match my overalls. They are comfy. And warm.

3. I knew that Dwight Yoakum would be on the end aisle. And there he was with his impossibly long legs and tight jeans with his head tucked under a hat. Oh, Dwight. Something about driving Nebraska highways and stopping at the Casey's makes me want to listen to country music. Sometimes I try country radio, but most of the country music on the radio is crappy. Not like Dwight. "Dwight Sings Buck" is fun - Dwight and his band cover Buck Owens songs - that goofy, sad, honky tonk country music that reminds me of Nebraska highways.

It was not lost on me that the relationship I witnessed today was an awful lot like a honky tonk song. I bought the CD and moaned like a lap steel guitar all the way home.

Happy New Year!

Lamb, green beans and garlic mashed potatoes.

I sure love cooking.