The Summer of Ice Box Pie

I like projects. One summer I took pictures of people in public talking on cellphones. One summer I sent postcards to everyone in my address book. I wrote a novel. I refinished the floors. Projects. I am more about projects then I am about SMART Goals, but you know, they're similar. Take something you want, break it down, and do that one thing.

So this summer I decided I was making a different ice box pie every week for 10 weeks. The first week I dutifully posted a picture of my Lemon Meringue. There is nothing of my Banana Creme Pie. And I barely got pictures of the Key Lime. I can MAKE pie and EAT pie, but taking pictures and blogging about pie is too much somehow.

Because it is not the Summer of the Ice Box Pie. It is the summer that Lea Tries Really Hard to Not Lose Her Mind. Same thing, I guess.

So, key lime this week. It was delicious. Nice graham cracker crust and creamy lime filling. Homemade whipped cream. Which is just ridiculously easy to make and somehow impressive. (Anyone impressed doesn't know the ease of pouring in whipped cream to the Kitchenaid base and turning that sucker ON.)

A Winning Save

The Little League version of the bullpen is that you are kept in the dugout to practice your pitching and talk to the coach while your team plays defense. So I knew that Frank would be the second pitcher of the night. I felt myself getting anxious. And I was just sitting in the stands. :-)

He pitched two innings and finished the game by striking the last batter out. There were a few hits, but only one run scored off his pitches. After striking out the last batter of the game he had a grin that I have never seen before. His teammates pounded his shoulders. His coach ruffled his hat and said, "That's how to do it!" and Frank just grinned and grinned.

He is (recently) no longer comfortable with hugging his mom in front of his friends. On the way back to the car he leaned into me as we walked.

"So is that a "win" or a "save?" I asked.

Frank began the baseball statistics analysis and discussion about what to do when the game is just 5 innings long.

I remembered the one game that he pitched the previous year. He came in at the last game in the last inning with two runs and bases loaded. He pitched high balls, walking three runners and bringing in three runs until the inning mercifully ended because of the Little League rule that if a team scores five runs then the inning is over.

The discussion last year was whether Frank had an ERA of infinity. I like this statistic better.

Hip Hop Mom

The kids spent two weeks with Eric, and while I saw them during that time for baseball games, or ice cream or stopping by with a pie, they have not been to our house in two weeks. The first thing they noticed were the new stairs in front, and the flowers that bloomed in the back, and the rearranging I did in my bedroom. And the other thing that they noticed was my new obsession with a group called "Girl Talk." It's hip hop mashed with classic rock.

"When did you become a rap fan?" Mary asked with an amused look on her face.

"I can't believe that my mom listens to Lil Wayne!" Anna moaned.

"Well, it's Lil Wayne mashed up with Sinead O'Connor!" I tried to explain.

No one in my life gets why I need to listen to this stuff at full blast. My kids think I am too old and roll their eyes. It gives my husband a headache. The mash ups are genius - "Biggie" rapping over Elton John's "Tiny Dancer." The beat is a steady 4/4 that is the mother's heart beat of a child of rock and roll.

So yeah, in two weeks I became a mash up up fan.

I Started With My Favorite

Lemon Meringue. It was perfect.

Next up is banana creme, I think. It is the Summer of the Icebox Pie. 10 weeks. 10 pies. Stay tuned.

Armadillos Jump When Startled

"I'm going to Oklahoma to visit my parents," I said on Friday.

"Oh! I thought you were from Texas?" my assistant said.

My head spun trying to think how to explain. Well, I am not from Texas, in fact, I have never lived there, but my parents did, so I used to visit them there and now they live in Oklahoma, so I visit them there. But I am not from Texas or Oklahoma.

I have grown to know and like Oklahoma and Texas. I like the sky and the horizon and the cows and oil wells and the expanse of space between towns. I like the slowness with which people talk. I like country music in small doses and torture my kids with country music when we go down there. I like brisket from Texas. I like banana splits from Braum's. I have things that make my trips south familiar and happy for me now, but it is not where I am from and it doesn't feel like going home to drive under the Oklahoma sky and hear the accents start and watch the earth turn red.

Saturday night we sat on the back patio at my parent's house, and I saw an armadillo. I chased him out of the ravine and my kids and I followed him curiously through the playground at the school by my parents' house. His little nails clicked on the asphalt and his ears twitched as he skedaddled away. I wanted him to roll into a ball. Not really, I mean, I worried that we were scaring him too much, but we were harmless and curious, and part of me really did want him to roll into a ball because I wondered what he would look like.

I thought about that armadillo as I went North on Sunday driving home. I thought about my means of protection and how I sometimes run instead of roll into a ball. I thought about how it is sometimes hard to know what is harmful and what is not. And sometimes rolling into a ball will not protect you at all. I learned that North American Armadillos do not roll themselves into balls. They have too much armour to do that. They also have a strong startle reflex. When they startle, they jump straight up! That's why so many of them get hit by cars. The scared armadillos jump right into them.

I did feel at home on my parent's patio even though I have never sat on that patio. My parents are familiar, the tone of our conversation is familiar. Even my name, "Lea Anne," the only time I go by my full name, becomes familiar. We eat and watch movies and I see my parents with my kids and feel comforted. It is my home though it is unfamiliar. I did not feel the urge to jump or roll into a ball all weekend. I needed to go home for the weekend. And that meant that I went to Oklahoma.

You're Special Just the Way You Are

Fred Rogers

A friend shared the above link, which is Fred Rogers testifying at the US Senate about PBS funding. It brought tears to my eyes.

When I was three years old, my mom went to the hospital to give birth to my sister Kate. While she was pregnant she knitted me a sweater. I requested that it have a zipper like the one Mr. Rogers wore. And the story that my mom tells is that I wore the sweater the whole time she was gone and would not take it off. (My Grandma Thomas, who stayed with me, told me that I wouldn't let her brush my hair while my mom was gone. She didn't mention the sweater. That's the way Family Lore goes, I think. People remember what is important to them.)

A writing teacher I know in Omaha is starting a writing/reading group for high school students with the intention of teaching social justice. I questioned him about that possibility and we have spent time discussing where it comes from. How do people have it and some people don't? How do you teach it?

I know that as an adult I still feel influenced by Mr. Rogers. I get the goosebumps to which the Senator refers.