Of Birthdays and Love

She wasn't Lianna for long

How. Friggin. Cute.

Today I celebrate 26 years of joy.  What does one say about Katie… Born Lianna Caitlin after a hella long night in 1991, after, in fact, a hella long summer (I strongly advise NOT getting pregnant in December if your summers are hot and humid), a 7 lb. 7.5 oz. bundle of pure joy.  Lianna was my second choice. She would have been Brianna but, you know, that was just too Irish. And for what it's worth, I never even picked out a boys name, so sure was I.  I settled for Caitlin being her middle name just to get my Eire in there. 

With her Uncle Warren

And at two days old, on meeting her Uncle Warren, she was christened Katie forevermore. “We’ll call her Katie,” he said, “we need a Katie in the family.”  (consider yourself very lucky he said Katie, and not Kitty, after our paternal grandmother). Oh. Well ok.  To anyone who is baffled when they hear me call her Katie, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. We have issues with name confusion in my family. It’s tradition. My name isn’t really Tess, but that’s a story for another day. At the risk of sounding cliché, she was actually a good baby. And she spent at least two years attached to my hip. I’m not quite sure the separation is complete even now.  This kid started out so shy, so quiet, so damn adorable. She didn’t  often speak up, speak out, defend herself. I know!  Hard to believe for anyone who knows her now, right??  I have always encouraged her to be herself, to fight for what she believes in, to do what makes her happy. I distinctly remember the conversation about what to do when she grew up. “I don’t care if you flip burgers in McDonalds, if that’s what makes you happy. “ Well, she flipped cheesesteaks and grilled sandwiches and manages a cheese and spice market and private chefs  instead, but dammit, she’s happy. That’s. All. That. Matters.  And I have never been able to, still cannot to this day, resist the quiver chin. That’s the official name of it. The quivering of her chin that warns of heartbreaking tears not far away. She has done it since she was like a year and a half old. And still does. It’s friggin adorable. Why do I do what I do for this kid? Because I would do anything to see that contagious smile, pure joy, again.  (Sorry, Katie, I am dutybound to embarrass you. It’s my maternal right.)

 I’m not sure what happened to that shy kid.  She grew into a beautiful young lady, with a husband (who I grudgingly accept as family, since, you know, we’re kind of stuck with him now, and if he’s man enough to love my kid with all her quirks, well then, that’s enough for me. We won’t discuss the fact that he drives a Ford), a four legged furbaby, a home, and a good life. She’s found her voice, has, somewhere along the way, learned to speak out for what she believes, speak out for the injustices of the world, for equality.  She has learned responsibility and love and compassion. Her heart breaks for those not so fortunate, for people she does not even, and may never, know, and for those she does know.  

Sure, she has a dark sense of humour, a sarcastic streak (I take total credit for that. You’re welcome) but it’s what gets us through some dark times. In our family, there have been many dark times. 

We have had our disagreements, our bad times. There were times when divorce was going on and she hated me mostly, perfectly normal. I accept that, and I forgave her long ago.  There was that time that we didn’t speak for like 3 months, or 36 years, or whatever it was. But this bond runs deeper than that. We have truly become best friends in her old age. Yes I will mention Gilmore Girls because she is my Rory, I am her Lorelei.  I finish her sentences, at times there’s just no point talking because we both know how the conversation is gonna go. We have that thing, that thing where we can have a conversation, back and forth and no one listening has any clue what the hell we just said, but we know that we have just solved a major crisis.  When we order Chinese, it's half the menu, enough to feed a small army. She introduces me to new alternative music, I brought her up with classic rock. We went to the Muse concert, and we will go to see Patti Smith in Central Park. It’s what we do. Overnights in the city, road trips to New England, there is no better traveling partner (SO’s aside, of course).  She gets an itch for a road trip, my response is where to and whose Jeep should we take.  She has a bad week,  I tell her I’ve got cornstarch pudding – it’s one of her comfort foods. Holiday dinners,

Born decades too late...retrogirl.

my kitchen,  she cooks, I assist. And do the desserts. Because chefs don’t bake.  She gets an itch for a tattoo, I fire up Photoshop and ask her what she wants.

I’m not sure how I got so lucky, to have this kid in my life, but I do know that she has made my life better and possibly more interesting. I am quite sure I would be lost if she hadn't been here. She is not afraid to tell me when I'm wrong, to appreciate me when I'm right about her being wrong. She has been a challenge, a comfort, confidante, partner in crime, defender. She is, always will be my Katie, beautiful child, beautiful young lady, my best friend. 
Happy birthday to you, my baby, may your day be filled with love, life, laughter and happiness. And Lady Gaga at Citifield,  weather permitting. Perhaps for this one year, any random storm threats of the hurricane season will pass your birthday by.  Love you to the moon and back always <3
PS: this is payback for the HUGE oversized Mothers Day card that you actually FILLED with your tiny writing. I win.

Child of Mine ~ Carole King

Yup, that's my pride and joy right there!

Rit and Pickles

Sliced and ready

So today it’s crappy out.  A good day to do inside stuff.  Katie presented me with a recipe for bread & butter pickles courtesy of her boss. And said, “You HAVE to make these!”  Who am I to say no? We got Kirby cucumbers when we were out  east last weekend. You know, the miniature dwarf cucumbers.  Apparently specially geared  and destined to be pickled.

Cleaned them, sliced them, sliced the onion, threw them in a bowl (I could have used one of the crockery bowls I have downstairs and been thrown back immediately to the 1940’s, but I didn’t) with salt and ice cubes. And found myself idle for the next three hours while they…marinated? 

Marinating...I think?

However, never waste a minute, and all that. I decided to revive a dress that I’d gotten while thrifting, awesome little dress, drearily off white.  With pearl enhancements at the neck.  I  had the dye (Rit Violet. Or purple, maybe it was straight purple) Heated up the water (thought I could do it in the washing machine but, oh, front load. Not so much)  mixed in the dye – this isn’t so much different from baking, I’m thinking!  Wet the dress and threw it in. And stirred for a half hour. Working out pays off right there.  I gotta say, this dreary little dress came out amazing! It’s outside even as I speak, dripping leftover purple on the deck. Don’t worry, I’ll bring it in if the rain starts. 

A little Rit, a brand new dress!

But that detail, tho!

So after doing a little of this, a little of that, three hours later, I drained the cukes. And rinsed them. And drained them again. Had everything else mixed on the stove ready to go. I feel horrible. First time I ever used Mom’s “potato pot” for anything besides potato salad. I’m sure she’d understand. And likely be shocked that I actually am doing this. Boiled and stirred and poured them into jars. Done. Whoa. That was way too easy. I remember my grandmother boiling jars, covering the filled jars with wax to seal them.  Standing at the stove for, like, hours. That’s it?? They’re done?? Hmmm. Maybe I’m thinking of her making blackberry jelly. And I’m just not ready to go THERE yet.

So. These pickles. I’m not enthralled with the whole pickle thing. Kids who insist on drinking the pickle juice, I just don’t get it. However, I actually tasted one. Whoa, holy crap, it actually tastes like a legitimate bread and butter pickle!  Asked the fiancé to taste.  Knowing he is not enthralled with B & B pickles (he likes dill. I knew there was some reason we got along so well). Lo and behold, he actually LIKED them! And proceeded to quality check all 8 jars.

Pickling in process. I think.

Obligatory wide mouth funnel. 

And done!

So thank you, Patty, for sharing the recipe:
Bread And Butter Pickles
2 lbs. Kirby Cucumbers, scrubbed, ends trimmed, sliced crosswise ¼ inch thick
1 medium white onion, sliced ¼ inch thick
1 C. Ice cubes
2 Tblsp. Coarse salt
 2 C Apple cider vinegar
1 ½ C. Sugar
¾ tsp. Mustard seeds
½ tsp celery seeds
½ tsp. whole black peppercorns
¼ tsp. ground turmeric (I had fresh, go me!)

1.       In a large bowl, combine cucumbers, onion, ice cubes, and salt. Toss to combine. Let stand for 3 hours. Drain. Rinse well, and drain again.

2.       In a medium saucepan, combine vinegar, sugar, mustard seeds, celery seeds, peppercorns and turmeric. Bring to a boil. Add cucumber mixture, and return to a boil, stirring occasionally. (no hint about how long to boil and stir, however I did for a bit, until they turned from fresh cucumber green to, you know, that pickled looking color.)

3.       Ladle pickles into clean jars. Let stand until cool. Cover and store, refrigerated, for up to one month.

That being said, Katie, clean out your fridge and make room, your pickles are ready!

Skeletons

Thirty-something would be a hell of a time to find out you’re not who you thought you were.  It would change everything….yet it would change nothing. I guess that’s just how life rolls out for some people, for one girl…

Who grew up believing she was part of a family, wholly part of a family of certain descent, who was proud of whom she was, of the heritage, the history. And then one day for a brief few seconds, the bottom fell out of that world and she learned that it was not at all true, but only half true.  Nothing  changed…aside from losing half a family, a couple of siblings, which in the end was no great loss. There was no room for that particular negativity or unacceptance in this life. But the loss of half her history, well that was a nagging little detail. It hit hardest when it came to doctor visits. Is there any of this in your family, any of that….well, crap. She doesn’t even know now.  Nothing major here, just something that will effect generations forevermore. Move along.  People joke about the skeletons in the closet. God knows she has some, and has learned to get along with them. But this.  How does one dance with this one?   Just a small town girl…..especially when it turns out the whole town probably knew. Maybe that’s why they call them bedroom communities…she muses. 

 As time goes on, small things haunt her. The jokes about “the milkman”, the absolute conviction when she was 13 that she was adopted, HAD to be adopted, she wasn’t like the rest of them, the rebellious nature she couldn’t seem to let go of, the godfather she never knew, the unanswered questions. “There was a falling out”…what does that even mean to a child who’s looking for answers? The truth always comes out in the end, no matter who tries to hide it, or how. There is always some little tell, some little glitch that brings it on. Like when some people know the truth and it causes them to go a little bit insane with vengeance, threatening to spill it. Like when some people know the truth and go a little bit insane because the truth is not the lies they’ve been living. Oh what a tangled web we weave….better to tell the truth than to try to create an alternate reality of lies upon lies, bury oneself in them, suffocate under the weight. I suppose there was no really good time for that girl to find out the truth, not when she was living the lie so well, despite not knowing it was a lie. But maybe it’s just one more step to being stronger, being more proud of who she was.  Maybe after so long it really didn’t matter anymore.  Maybe her life was her truth, and having lived it a certain way, maybe  nothing else mattered, but to be proud of who she’d become, independent of anyone or anything else.

A Beautiful Lie~Thirty Seconds To Mars

Lie awake in bed at night
And think about your life
Do you want to be different?
Try to let go of the truth
The battles of your youth
'Cause this is just a game

It's a beautiful lie
It's a perfect denial
Such a beautiful lie to believe in
So beautiful, beautiful it makes me

It's time to forget about the past
To wash away what happened last
Hide behind an empty face
Don't ask too much, just say
'Cause this is just a game

It's a beautiful lie
It's a perfect denial
Such a beautiful lie to believe in
So beautiful, beautiful it makes me

Lie...
Beautiful...

Everyone's looking at me
I'm running around in circles, baby
A quiet desperation's building higher
I've got to remember this is just a game

So beautiful, beautiful...

It's a beautiful lie
(Beautiful, beautiful)
It's a beautiful lie
(Beautiful, beautiful)
It's a beautiful lie
(Beautiful, beautiful)

It's a beautiful lie
It's a perfect denial
Such a beautiful lie to believe in
So beautiful, beautiful it makes me