A Beach Towel, a Bottle of Sunscreen, and a Laptop

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photo-1My right shoulder stings to the touch.  I poke it with my finger and a white spot appears, then fades swiftly back to angry red.  I scoot my pool chair another foot under the shade umbrella, holding my laptop on my lap.  I hear my five year old squealing from the edge of the pool, “Mommy, I can touch to the bottom with my eyes open!” and give him a thumbs up.  A group of teenagers have draped themselves across lounge chairs a few feet away, and as I settle back into a cooler spot, I lip synch along to Jason Aldean blasting from their iHome speakers.

Well, I’m just ready to ride this chevy, ride this chevy
Ride this chevy down a little backroad
Slide your pretty little self on over
Get a little closer you can play my radio
Put your pretty pink toes on the dash…

For a few seconds, I’m a cute little country girl riding in her beau’s pick up truck in a field, instead of a middle-aged suburban mom who drives a minivan to lacrosse fields.  I catch a look of humiliation over my behavior from my thirteen year old, who stands dark and lean among his fair-skinned friends, just three days into the summer. I shake my booty to the music a little, smiling at him, before I sit back down.  He glares and turns his back to me, hiding among his friends.  Ah, I love being a mom.

 There’s an empty spot on the table amidst a bag of chips, three empty water bottles, and a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and I plop the laptop down.  I’m out of practice writing and have been staring at a blank Word document for a while. But my harrowing winter is over, the healing sun blankets me on this wide open day, and I plan my return to my readers. 

“Mommy, count for me!  See how long I can hold my breath!”

 Turning away from the screen, I count.

“1…2…3…” and before his head surfaces, I yell, “twenty one!”

 His breathless grin gets wider, as I count faster and faster each time. I’m an honest person, really, but I just want to see that precious, dripping face light up!  I snap a picture of him and text it to my husband, who is at work.  Some things just have to be shared.  And I realize that not sharing my experiences on my blog has made me very sad.

Blogging about my life has been a gift like I never imagined.  The connection I have felt to my readers has been amazing, and I’ve performed as a “Dear Abby” of the multicultural family world for some.  I truly feel a sense of joy when I can share the experiences of my journey to help others navigate their own.  My life has been a bit of an open book, and with the good also came the bad.

In early winter, I felt forced to place a password lock on my blog for two reasons.  First, I feared for the privacy of my family.  I had gotten creepy phone calls and text messages from someone, whom I feared may have found out too much about us on my blog. That was a wake up call for me.  Not only was I putting myself out there, but also my entire family.  Second, I began to work toward a career that is very public in my community.  I had to decide what degree of openness I could allow and still do my job with credibility.  So, for the winter months, I hunkered down, dropped the work on my book and on my blog, and focused on other things. The celebration of our unique, joyful life took a back burner to college classes and the privatizing of our family.

 But, as summer approached, a sense of freedom returned to me. School is out, and shedding the backpacks and winter coats for a pool bag and shorts has liberated me somehow.  I love the sun.  I love the long, relaxed days with my kids (some of the time).  I love sitting on the deck with my husband, listening to the crickets in the backyard (until we have to run inside from the swarms of Georgia mosquitoes that attack at sunset).   Life is good, and I’m darned-well going to allow myself the freedom to do what I love.

Write.

About who I am, and who we are. About sharing ideas with others.  About the pure commonalities of our journeys in life.  And moving cautiously forward, I will continue this blog. 

In an hour or two, when my son comes up for air and asks to go to Ba’s house for play time and some of the aromatic food he can’t get from me,  I’ll be making mental notes again.  When my husband and I take the kids to spend the day with his relatives, chatting over some new Punjabi dishes, I will be making a mental note. And when, during happy hour with our friends, my husband pulls out his iPod and plays songs from the Saajan soundtrack along with Toby Keith’s song, Red Solo Cup, I’ll be making a mental note.

I’ll collect these gifts in time and hold them dear.  And I’ll be ready to share.

 

Taking a Break

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Hi readers!

I just wanted to take a moment and let ya’ll know I am taking a break from blogging for a little while.  I have been under the weather for a while, and need to take a little while longer to get back up to speed.  I have been reading every post and email, and I’m sorry I haven’t been able to respond as quickly as I’d like.  I promise, I will soon!

 

 

 

Our Nearly Naked Christmas Tree

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This poor Christmas tree has stood in our sunroom for over 10 days, just waiting for my attention.  I look at it everyday as I dash in and out of the house in between errands and tell myself, “yes, yes, I will get to hanging up the ornaments”.  Later.

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, my husband excitedly pulled out all of our Christmas boxes from storage and quickly started assembling the artificial tree. I thought he was jumping the gun a bit, because I was elbow deep in cornbread stuffing and broccoli casserole for an early Thanksgiving dinner for our extended family.  But, he loves Christmas, and couldn’t wait to usher the season of good cheer into our house.

I love that he embraces Christmas.  When we met, he had not a clue how important and fun Christmas had been for me as a child.  I explained to him how I cherish the mystery and excitement that filled my life every year as a child, when, after Thanksgiving, my whole world revolved around the impending arrival of Santa down our chimney.  My brothers and I watched Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer and Santa Claus is Coming to Town, in claymation on TV.  I wrote letters to Santa with my Christmas list, always drawing a picture of him at the bottom.  I hoped that if Santa saw how much I liked him, he would bring me extra presents.  On Christmas Eve, I left Santa a plate of homemade sugar cookies and a plate of carrots for his reindeer by the fireplace. When Christmas morning finally came,  and I had ripped off the wrapping paper and bows from all of my presents, I marveled when my dad told me about Rudolph visiting my room while I slept. (I believed that story much longer than I should have).

Christmas excitement is contagious, and my husband caught the bug.  Now, I think it is more important to him than it is to me.  We both enjoy watching the giddiness that Christmas brings to our kids, but I have come to feel like creating the experience is chore.  I buy the gifts for everyone in our extended family, and the pressure to get just the right thing for each person squeezes my nerves.  I am afraid I’ve become a little jaded.

I am grateful for my husband’s continued dedication to carrying on the joy that Christmas can bring to our family.  True to his upbringing, he works hard at being the kind of dad who is a leader of his family, and he keeps us together, even when life gets in the way.

So, today, I will make time to play some Christmas tunes and enlist all of the kids to get together and help hang ornaments on the tree.  That tree looks pitiful.  Seeing it full of ornaments made by the kids over the years will certainly inject some Christmas spirit into me.  The lights,colors, and memories really are still magical for me.

 

A Florida Wedding

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I woke up last Sunday morning in my own bed for the first time in three days.  When my feet hit the carpet, a terrible ache spread through the phalanges, but with each step into the plush carpet, the ache ebbed away.   Looking around at open suitcases, overflowing with dirty laundry, gold and silver pumps, and hastily folded saris and petticoats, I flashed back to two nights ago, to the beat of music, to the mass of bodies in motion on a ballroom dance floor, and to my uncomfortable shoes cast aside under a banquet table.  My family and I had danced the night away at a lively wedding reception.

But, there in the early morning light, not ready to conquer housework, I made my way to the bathtub. The washing and unpacking had to wait.

I had to soak my poor feet.

We’d just driven home from Orlando, Florida, the land of Disney World and palm trees, where we’d attended the wedding of Nirali, my husband’s gorgeous younger cousin, to Mitesh, an adorable young dentist.  Though Nirali is Dharmesh’s cousin, she is so much younger than us that she is really of a different generation.  Her wedding reflected her generation’s style of tradition, which combines the reverent and meaningful, with the festive, to create an event that both she and her husband will undoubtedly cherish,  and those of us around them will relive the over and over.

Today’s Indian weddings among Gujarati young people are a far cry from the 1990s weddings of our friends and family.  I actually nearly cried during the first Indian wedding that I attended as a young adult because I felt so out of my element.  I was the only non-Indian person there.  To my dismay, the men and women sat on different sides of the hall during the ceremony, and since I knew few girls there, I sat uncomfortably through the very, very (extremely) long ceremony, which was full of language and ritual that I did not understand.  However, though I did not understand what the rituals meant, I remember being touched by the show of emotion by the bride and groom’s parents, as their children were ushered into that new phase of life.  I only imagined how bittersweet the parents’ tears must taste.

When finally reunited with my husband after that ceremony, I clung to him with joy, and begged him not to leave my side for the rest of the event.  He rescued me and had me sit with him at the men’s table to eat after the ceremony, instead of us dining separately with our own gender groups.  The occasion was formal and subdued, with the bride and groom making their way down a long line of family and friends, touching their feet and receiving blessings from them all.

All of this was interesting to me, but not very engaging for me as an outsider.  I was used to Christian wedding ceremonies, where the minister or priest would preach a message of faith that reached out to not only the immediate family involved in the ceremony, but also those there to witness the union.  And I was also used to the fun receptions, with a band and a bar.  The best part.

My how much difference twenty years can make.  Nowadays, among our circle of family and friends, weddings include the important religious ceremonies along with a few changes.

Men and women sit together, the wedding ceremony itself is often much shorter than it used to be, and the vibe is much less formal.  At this weekend’s wedding, Nirali and Mitesh appeared relaxed and happy, and the giddiness between them reminded me of the shiny, new love my husband and I shared during our first years of marriage.  Their laid-back openness toward each other, and toward their family and friends, was contagious.  But even though the mood was more relaxed than I remembered of decades ago Indian weddings, the emotion was the same.  Perhaps because I am now the parent of two children on the verge of adulthood, I could sense the emotion of Nirali and Mitesh’s parents as they had to let go of their babies.  I only hope I can remain that composed at my own childrens’ weddings.

After the priest concluded the ceremony, we guests were treated later that evening to a big party to celebrate the happy couple.  Drinks flowed, delicious food was served, and people danced.  Oh, how they danced.  One of my favorite parts of the reception was when Mitesh showed a video he had created for Nirali, in which he used clips from Tom Cruise’s famous appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show, where Cruise talked about his love for Katie Holmes.  Hilarious!  At the end of the video, people rushed to the dance floor to do the “Gangnam Style” dance.  Later, the newlyweds danced their first dance to the song to the song, “Home,” by Phillip Phillips.  One of my favorites.  Finally, after friends and family had roasted and toasted the couple, everyone, old and young, danced to a mix of popular American and awesome Indian music all night.

And to my delight, my family was not the only mixed culture family in attendance.   I’m pretty certain, though, that we were the largest  family, mixed or not (we usually are).

By the time my five year old tired of dancing and playing with his two year old cousin, he conked out on my shoulder.   I gratefully stopped dancing and sat with him, rested my feet, and watched the partiers have a good time.

Though wedding styles have changed over the years, it seems to me that their significance remains the same.  Indian weddings are still about the meaningful Hindu rituals that join a man and woman, and their two families for life.  But now, it seems to me, weddings are also about sharing the couple’s joy with everyone in their lives, through a rocking party!

The next cousin in line to get married is in her early twenties and won’t be getting married for several years down the road, when she finishes her schooling.  I look forward to being at her wedding someday, but I am glad for the break.  My feet need plenty of time to rest!

 

 

 

The Family We Have Become: A Multi-cultural Thanksgiving Story

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I am so excited to share this story!

I recently got back in touch with a guy on Facebook who I went to high school with in Tennessee.  After graduating, we both went our separate ways and started our lives, and I hadn’t heard much about him for years.  To my excitement, I discovered through Facebook, that he has a beautiful wife, Emily, and three beautiful children. Eager to catch up with them, and learn more about how they navigate the waters of a multi-cultural family, I asked Emily to share a little bit about their Thanksgiving celebration.  Here is the story of the Karawadra Family Thanksgiving.

The Family We Have Become

I am part of a multi-cultural family like many families are in the United States. This is a path my husband and I chose when we got married 14 years ago. My husband Dee is a Gujarati Indian with strong family roots in his heritage and culture. I am a typical American girl from the state of Maine. We couldn’t be from two more totally different worlds.

Seventeen years ago we met and have been together ever since, living in Memphis TN. Did I know what I was getting into then? Absolutely not! However this journey has taught me lessons beyond what my sheltered world ever could have. With this meshing of two different cultures came our family.

Part of being in our family means that a holiday will never be spent alone. Whether it is an Indian holiday or an American holiday, this family celebrates it with the same passion. Our three daughters thoroughly enjoy celebrating holidays. They embrace the Indian culture and enjoy all aspects from dancing to food.  Thanksgiving is one of those holidays. We typically celebrate thanksgiving with Dee’s side of the family. Lots of them live in Memphis which makes getting together easy. Our Thanksgiving looks a little different from a typical “American” thanksgiving. The food that is prepared is a diverse offering of the traditional American themed menu of turkey and stuffing, to foods full of Indian masala spices. The menu is catered to all who are attending from the vegans, vegetarians and the meat lovers.

Next to the traditional turkey and stuffing sits a tandoori turkey and curried vegetables. This is the thanksgiving that my children have come to know and love. Although it may look different the celebration is the same. The true spirit of thanksgiving takes place each year at the Karawadra thanksgiving table. Gathered around the table enjoying the food and great company are friends and family. Everyone contributing to the menu with the dish they do the best.  The time is used to unify the family and to be thankful. We are not just thankful for the food and great company, we are thankful for the relationships that have been built around this table over the years.

Although it may be silent, there is a true gratitude paid to one another on this day each year. Whether it’s between a sister and a brother or a niece to her uncle the appreciation and love for one another radiates from their faces. I am thankful for having experienced this first hand, and I am more thankful that my children have been able to live it. This day is not about the turkey, but about family, friends and a true appreciation for life. Out of holidays like this our family was made.

 

 

 

 

Happy Diwali and Saal Mubarak

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Happy Late Diwali and Saal Mubarak to all of my Indian friends and family!

Yesterday was Diwali, and it came and went without much fanfare for us.  My mother-in-law is out of town at the moment, and without her, we are sort of lost in observing the holiday.  It is true, that though my husband and I try to keep Indian culture a part of our kids’ lives, we fail miserably at times.  My mother-in-law is our tie Indian culture in so many ways, and just as I rely on her to supply us with roti and paneer throughout the week, I also rely on her to continue to hold our hands through Indian traditions.  Her absence has left a hole here that I realize now, my husband and I need to work harder to fill.

When I first became immersed in my husband’s family traditions, I have to admit, I had never even heard of Diwali.  Here I was, this young southern girl in an area where churches dotted nearly every street corner, faced with a new and mysterious holiday tradition that I truly did not understand.  Indian family and friends explained to me that it is a celebration of lights, a time for prayer, and a time for family to gather together.  Then, they dumbed it down for me even more into two words.

Indian Christmas

So much for the education of the ethnocentric American chick.

I was pleased to read today that President Obama recognized Diwali this year, by extending his well wishes to those who celebrate the holiday around the world.  I know many Americans are still feeling the sting of last week’s election results, but whether or not you supported Obama with your vote, I think it is important to realize the importance of his gesture.  Indians are becoming an increasing presence in the United States and, just as Jewish holidays and Christian holidays have been the main focus throughout the history of the country, perhaps a new awareness of Indian traditions are on the horizon.  As the mom of five kids who are marginally enculturated in half of their family’s traditions, and as a person who is embarrassed by her ignorance of them, I welcome that awareness.  Who knows, Diwali may become as mainstream as Christmas and Hannukah.  (I wonder if stores will have big pre-Diwali doorbuster sales.  Maybe that’s going a little too far).

As Thanksgiving nears and the Christmas season begins, I will be gearing up for giving my family the kind of holiday season that I grew up with.  It begins with a huge Thanksgiving turkey and more side dishes than any family can finish in one day, followed by weeks of the kids writing and amending letters to Santa, asking for everything they see on TV commercials, and finally culminates with Christmas morning, when our entire family gathers together with coffee in hand, to watch the kids tear into their gifts.   Family time means the most to me during the holidays.  I think that the timing of Diwali is perfect, because if my husband and I try harder, we can include it into our lives (even when my mother-in-law decides to desert us for sunny Florida), and turn the entirety of fall and winter into a celebration of our family.  Our kids will either grow up fleeing from us come every October or November because they are scarred by memories of the craziness of our large family gatherings, or they will keep coming back to us every year, cherishing the moments that we’ve all shared during our Indian sweets and sugar plum fueled extended holidays.

We’ll just have to make sure that the lit Diwali candles don’t burn down the Christmas tree.

 

Photo by Ravikiran Rao

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ravikiranr/58094474/

 

 

Political Voice, Cultural Tolerance

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In less than 24 hours, the polls will open around the U.S. for the 2012 presidential election.   Will it be Barack Obama for another four years, or will Mitt Romney be our next president?  I, along with millions of other Americans, will be standing on pins and needles in line at the poll tomorrow, hoping to influence the answer to that looming question.

Just recently, CNN published current poll results on the candidate’s position among voters.  As it stands right now, they are in a dead heat.  The suspense is killing me.

CNN National Poll: Dead heat between Obama and Romney

http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2012/11/04/cnn-national-poll-dead-heat-between-obama-and-romney/?hpt=hp_inthenews

I have educated myself on the issues that have been addressed during this campaign, and have watched the vice presidential and presidential debates with much emotion.  Just ask my husband and kids what it was like to watch them with me. I was less than lady-like, using tasteless gestures and language toward the TV, when the “candidate-who-will-not-receive-my-vote” spoke, and nearly got ejected from the room by my own dear family.   You might say I’m a little too emotionally involved in the whole thing, perhaps.

My husband and I come from very different walks of life.  I was born in this country and have never lived anywhere else.  A sheltered American, yes.  When I turned 18, I was so complacent about my right to vote, that I well…didn’t do it.  I am ashamed to say, that my life was comfortable, and I didn’t see the need.  My husband, on the other hand, was born and raised in a country where Indians had no voice in the path of their country.  My husband complacent?  No.

Of course, over the years, I’ve learned from personal experience how domestic and foreign policy affect my life in this country, and as a citizen of the world, and I’ve changed my tune.  I have learned from my husband and his parents what life can be like in a place where rights are apportioned only to a chosen few.  I don’t want that for myself, and I certainly don’t want that for my children.

Freedom to choose is fundamental in the U.S. and I applaud those around me who express their support of either side.  You have the right to support anyone you want, to express it, to live it.  And so do I.

So, this is why I was so angry when our party sign was swiped from our yard last week.  It was not inflammatory, it was not offensive.  It simply stated the two names on the presidential ticket that we support. It simply showed my kids that they can have a voice that half of their family did not always have.

I came soon to find out, that all other signs of the same kind, were also stolen from the neighboring homes, on the same night.  Yet, one lone sign still stood in the yard of a neighbor down the street…in support of the opposing ticket.

Hmmm.  Interesting.

Not saying these people took it, but…just saying.

Now readers, I would like to know how you feel about this. I know many of my readers are citizens of other countries.  I also know that the U.S. does not have the love and affection of many other countries.  I get that.  I don’t want to turn this blog into a political forum.  I honestly do not have the energy for that.  But, I would like to hear from people in regard to the lessons we want to teach our children, especially those in cross cultural families.

As the mother of mixed culture, mixed race kids, I try to teach tolerance in my family.  I have hoped that others would do the same.  But, the actions of the supporters of one party, in this particular instance, have shot down my hopes.  If we can’t respect others’ rights to have a political voice, then how can we respect others’ rights to cultural and social acceptance? How can we allow others to live as they choose?

Food for thought.

 

Lemons, Anyone?

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Two nights ago, on October 31, our neighborhood was invaded by hoards of little people.  At least I think they were people.  There were short princesses, minute Spidermen, itty bitty vampires, and more than a few  vertically-challenged ninja warriors, all of whom swarmed the streets with flashlights and glow necklaces, yelling and laughing.  They sounded like people, and I even recognized a few, through blond curly wigs and white face paint.

Herded by parents through the streets, these little people rang doorbells at every lit up house, and with little people voices, demanded candy.

“Trick or Treat!”

Open bags reached out, lollipops and Hershey bars ploppity plopped inside, and little feet scurried away to the next house.

Halloween night was here!

The anticipation leading up to Halloween night in our household created an excruciating excitement from the time the kids opened their eyes.  Before driving off to school, we decorated shirts, rummaged through closets for a tweed jacket and bow tie, and came up with a game plan for hair gel, face paint, and sharp teeth.

One of my kids had the clever idea to dress up as a proverbial phrase.  His shirt said “Life” and he carried a bag of lemons around, handing them out to strangers.  When they accepted the lemons, he told them to make lemonade.  “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Brilliant.

All of the costume accoutrements sat on the table through the day, while the kids suffered through that terrible, boring thing called school, then homework, and then through a swift dinner.   Finally, dusk set in and my husband and I set out in the streets with the kids, melding into the approaching mob.

The porch lights at most of the houses glowed brightly, signaling permission to trick-or-treaters to come on up.  But, when we came upon the few darkened homes, the kids moaned disappointment. That was going to cut into their candy spoils, and they asked, why on Earth someone would not give out candy on Halloween.  What was wrong with them?

“Maybe the parents are out trick-or-treating with their kids.” My husband reasoned.

“But, why don’t they have their Ba and Dada and Grandma stay to give out candy?” one of the kids inquired.

“Because, everybody doesn’t have a Ba and Dada and Grandma to do it.” My husband replied.

We had left my mom and my husband’s parents behind to give out the candy, so our house wouldn’t be one of those festivity-killing houses.  All three grandparents loved seeing the grandchildren in their costumes, but none of them could walk long distances.  So, their job was to hold down the fort and ration the candy to our visitors.  Dada was especially astute at preparing a nice variety of chocolates and sugary candies, so that each child would get something they enjoyed.  When we left, he was at the door, and Ba and Grandma sat in the kitchen talking.  I spied one of the moms sneaking a hand into a candy bowl, probably searching for something chocolate.

So, my husband and I both had the luxury of sharing in the creepy, scary, and exhausting fun on the trick-or-treating trail this year.  That’s something we could never do if it weren’t for all three of our wonderful parents.

“Mom, You’re Embarrassing Me!”

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I love to embarrass my kids.  One of my greatest joys is to see the look on their faces when I do something silly in front of their friends.  I’ll say things like “YOLO,”an acronym for ‘you only live once’ used by the teens. I greet their friends with “Yo, Dawg,” and I dance.  Oh yes, I dance. To their rap, to their pop, to whatever is playing at the time.   They look at me like I’m an alien, and if we are in public, hide, pretending that they don’t know me.  But, yet I continue, not only because it is fun, but for another, more profound reason.

They can be who they want to be, regardless of what others think of them.

In the beginning, Indian social decorum bewildered me.  I would be in a room full of Indian people, and not know how to relate. Especially with the older generation, this is how it would go down.

“How are you, Sheryl?”

“Good, thanks.  I’ve been working a lot lately, and the kids are starting school, so I’m busy, and we are looking for a house…”

The other person’s eyes would glaze over, and I would know to stop talking.  “How are you,” was basically a rhetorical question, I learned quickly.  Compared to my white family’s dynamic, where we all spilled our guts out in the first few minutes of meeting up with family or friends.  It would go like this.

“Hey Sheryl, how ya’ doin’?”

“Good!  I’ve been working a lot lately and the kids are starting school, so I’m really busy, and we are looking for a house.”  I would stop to take a breath, and the other person would jump in.

“I hear ya.  You know we’ve been doing the same thing, too.  Boy, it’s hard, isn’t it?  Did you know I talked to so-and-so the other day and she said…” and off would fly the conversation.

So, unfortunately, I learned to change who I was when around Indians, keeping the real me hidden.  If they weren’t going to accept me into their “club,” then I would stay under the radar and not make any waves.  And my kids have learned a bit of the social code as well, but in a good way.  They are accepted and loved, for sure.  No doubt in my mind.  But, there is certainly the understanding that there is a way to behave around Indian family, and another way to behave around others.

When we visit our Indian extended family, the kids understand the structure to the visit.  Family members welcome us with genuine warmth. There is always a meal prepared for us, the women of the house always serve it, and we sit down together to eat, and make small talk.  Afterward, the men retire to the living room to relax, while the women clean up. My kids are always polite, and sweet to aunts and uncles and cousins, because Ba, Dada, my husband and I have encouraged them to be more calm and subdued than at home.  When we get together with non-Indians, however, things are very different. We mill around, serve ourselves, and chat boisterously and openly, telling jokes and sometimes ranting.

Neither way is right.  Neither way is wrong.  They are just different.

The other day, one of the twins was watching TV with a friend.  I walked into the room, and started doing the dance from the YouTube video, “Gangam Style.”  I skipped around a little, singing the song, and the boys cracked up.  My son told me, “Go away, Mom!” and hid behind the sofa in embarrassment.

Later, he came to me and said, “My friend told me you’re pretty cool, ya know. You’re not like other parents.  You let loose.”

I realized at that moment, how important it has become to make people feel at ease around me, especially children.  I want them to know that they can be whoever they want to be around me, no matter how silly they look.  Now, I would never go into my husband’s uncle’s house and start skipping around like a fool.  They would call the men in white coats to come take me away.  There is a time and a place for everything. But, it feels good to be able to have fun, and be silly around people at other times, because that is who I am.

And I really hope that my kids will learn from me that it is okay to be different, it is okay to express yourself, and it is okay to be yourself.

Until then, I think they will probably keep hiding from me.

 

 

 

The Way to a Man’s Heart is Through His Stomach

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The sky this morning was a steely gray.  Outside the dining room picture window, I watched the trees in my in-laws’ yard whip around violently, signaling the arrival of an unseasonably early winter storm into our region.  But, I was beginning to sweat.  Safely inside the house, we all breathed in the hot, oily air wafting from the kitchen into every room, as we help my mother-in-law prepare to work.

Today was chevro making day.

Now, when I say my husband and I prepared to help her, I exaggerate.  We moved chairs, we helped carry buckets.  But she and my father-in-law were actually the ones working their magic with the production of the most popular Indian snack food in our household.  Chevro, with its spicy and salty and crunchy deliciousness, is often a quick breakfast, a salty after-school snack, and a Friday night treat for our friends.  It is a food fit for the gods.

Chevro is a cereal-like concoction, full of peanuts, four types of crunchy lentils, crispy flattened rice, fried curry leaves, all coated in a perfect combination of spicy and salty, with a hint of sweetness.  My husband’s desire for chevro borders on addiction, and I have become hooked, too.  But there was a time long ago, when I cringed when a new batch would show up on my kitchen counter, sometimes delivered by my in-laws when I was out running errands.

The way to my husband’s heart was certainly through his stomach.  And I wanted that heart for myself.  I rolled up my sleeves, and took on the challenge to win him over.

It was on!

Not an Indian cook, I worked hard to fuse foods I knew with comfort flavors he loved.  Jalapenos in lasagna, masala on baked chicken, and tabasco sauce on eggs.  When his mom would cook and bring over her food, we both hovered around him, giving him our best sales pitch to win him over to our own presentation.  Irritated and torn, he often mounded onto his plate gobs of biryani next to spaghetti, and chewed with discomfort, as we pushed more helpings on him.

But, alas, years flew by, more babies came, and I found myself exhausted and stressed, with little drive to win.  My husband worked long hours, building his business, then came home to no rest, to help me with the kids.  At one point, he and I had to band together, to conquer the mountain of work involved with raising four children under the age of five.  At that time, we had three boys and one girl, who captured our hearts.  And I reveled in the love I had for them.  The love for a child is the closest feeling to God that I have experienced.

The dark circles under his eyes, and the exhausted look on his face, made me worry about him, and work harder to sustain him.  Some nights, I had nothing more to feed him than swiftly prepared grilled cheese on a paper plate, before rushing baby twins and two preschoolers into bath and bed, before collapsing on the couch myself.  That’s when I realized.  It was no competition.

He needed his mom.  And so did I.

As much as I enjoyed the comfort of eating my mom’s chicken and green beans, I know he enjoyed the flavors of his own childhood.  The look of peace and relaxation when he chowed down on potatoes and rice, swimming in daal, made me rejoice.  I loved that man, and I loved his mom for taking care of him, too.

Gradually, my taste buds began to crave the hotness of her cooking and I looked forward to her dinner deliveries.  We’ve become spoiled by her.  And I hope she loves it.

So, this morning, while she showed me how to combine the ingredients of the chevro, I paid closer attention than I ever have before.  I know she won’t be around forever.  And I want to learn how to keep her food in our lives.

I’ve rolled down my sleeves for good.  No more competition between us.

But, you’d better believe, when the time comes, my daughter-in-laws won’t get off that easy!