We always went to my grandparents for the big family get-together at holidays. I mean all holidays, not just the biggies. We even celebrated “Decoration”, which seems to be a regional day when cemeteries are decorated in the Spring. The menus rarely changed. Things were occasionally added, but never taken away because there was a reason they were added in the first place. When my brother and I were little, my grandmother noticed that we weren’t especially excited about the feasts. Clever woman that she was, she thought that if we each got to pick a menu item that we would be more eager to actually eat something other than dessert.

That may be the only time my brother and I managed to successfully cooperate. Each of us picked an item that we both loved, ensuring that we both had two favorite items on the menu. My grandmother was shocked when we announced our decisions, and appalled when she realized there was no swaying us.

I picked ChickenRice and my brother picked DeviledEggs. The ChickenRice is a “leftover” dish made from chicken that falls off the bone to the bottom of the pot as it stews and DeviledEggs are a decidedly “Summer” dish. She tried to explain those weren’t appropriate for family-holiday-dinners, especially during the Winter. In the end, she didn’t have the heart to deny us. So. There they were on the menu. They stayed on the menu for decades in spite of protests from everyone that wasn’t me or my brother. Every time we saw them (even in spite of protests and her better judgement) we knew she loved us more than she loved having a perfect table.

I’ve started to allow my boys to have some input into special family meals. I can assure you, love does indeed account for some VERY weird menus.

Here’s the recipe for ChicenRice, which is particularly yummy warm and especially great cold (for breakfast) and extra wonderful when you’re sick and spectacularly nice when you’re well:

ChickenRice

4 cooked chicken breasts, chopped (I like the ones with the bones-in, you bring them to a boil, turn them to low, and leave them for a few hours. The meat will fall easily off the bone. Pull the fat off the front. Just flip the breast over, and pull the rib-cage off the back side. There will be one more bone attached to the top of the breast. You’ll find it when to chop the chicken up into little tiny pieces) Incidentally, the chicken freezes beautifully before chopping, but after boning. That way you can have some in the freezer for when you need a really quick meal.

4 cups cooked rice (Bring four cups water to a boil, add 2 cups white rice. Put lid on pot. Turn heat off. Check back in 30 minutes) Do NOT use “minute rice”. That stuff is just wrong.

1 can Campbell’s Cream of Chicken condensed soup
1 can Campbell’s Cream of Celery condensed soup

About 1 ½ cup of heavy cream (or half-n-half). You need enough to fill one empty Campbell’s soup can.

1 teaspoon Salt
1 teaspoon Black Pepper

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Sprinkle a little more pepper on top (to make it pretty) Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

Periodically, someone will say “oh, you know, children can be so cruel”. But, just as often, I find that children can be generously and spontaneously kind. There were a dozen lockers across the back of the room. There were significantly more than a dozen students, so the teacher put three children in each locker. She decided it would be best to assign lockers based on birthdays. To this day, I remember that Brad and Jamie have birthdays the same month as mine. Brad and Jamie were jocks, even in fourth grade. And in fourth grade, boys still weren’t even really talking to girls. They were as far removed from me as Martians. But … they tried to help me in that charming little-boy-way. They kept their basketballs and footballs and cleats out of our locker because they knew my mother would kill me if anything happened to that coat. They also came up with the plan that the coat could stay in the locker all week hidden behind their coats so that the teacher wouldn’t send me out at recess, thinking that my coat was at home. This minimized public humiliation. I took it home on weekends to wear to church, and it spent the rest of the week pristinely in the back of the locker.

I haven’t thought about The Purple Coat in years. Mostly I’ve obsessed about The Orange Turtleneck. No one could save me from The Orange Turtleneck. But that’s a different story …

This week, I started thinking about those boys, and others. I suppose they were “bad” boys. Popular jocks with obviously-bad attitudes. I’ve wondered why they took care of me, then and other times. I’m not sure they were my friends, we didn’t talk about our days and our lives. We never played together, or just hung out. But if I was hurt on the playground, they stopped what they were doing to make sure I was ok. When teachers, in some misguided attempt to ensure we were all getting exercise, made us play team sports like dodge-ball or baseball I never had to worry about being “picked last” or being brushed-back with a hard aggressive pitch. Eventually, our elementary school merged with other schools into a bigger middle-school. Boys from the other schools quickly learned, through no doing of mine, that even talking to me rudely was not allowed. (I’ll never forget Brad stopping in the middle of gym-volleyball to explain firmly to another boy that he would never talk like that to me again.) So, we weren’t really friends and they definitely didn’t have crushes on me. (You could just tell who they were crazy about, and it wasn’t me).

My parents sent me to a private high-school in another town. It was a last minute decision, so I got whatever locker assignment was left. As it turns out, I was the only girl in the “bad-boy” section of lockers. It never dawned on me that could be a problem. And, for me, it wasn’t. A few months later, the headmaster stopped me outside the auditorium after morning announcements. He asked if I ever had problems with the boys. I’m not sure who was more surprised. I was surprised that he even asked, and he was surprised there was no problem. And in that, I found my answer.

Often, children behave the way you expect them to behave. I never EXPECTED to have a problem. I expected them to open the door, and hand me the pencil I dropped, and say “excuse me”. I expected them to return the umbrella if I loaned it to them. I expected them to say “thank you” if I volunteered a cough-drop. I expected them to smile and say “good morning” back when I said it. In other words, I expected good civilized behavior. I expected to find that the “bad boy” was thin veneer, protecting fragile egos and heroic men-in-the-making. I expected to find at their core that they were gentlemen. And so they were, at least with me. Because I reflected back to them what they most wanted to see, that they were good fellows at heart.

A few minutes later, Erica (Henry’s wife) called. At first I couldn’t understand her because she was laughing too hard. Eventually she regained her composure, at least enough to get out a few words. See, Erica and I had already talked that day. Specifically about how we were both SO tired of watching SesameStreet and Barney, or worse. We had discussed that I was hiring a baby-sitter and ordering take-out for dinner and renting action-adventure movies (like DieHard and RedOctober) that were completely inappropriate for children.

Erica was a bit surprised when Henry walked into their kitchen where she was making dinner, sat down at the counter, and told her “You just never know about some people! Who would have thought Lucy was into porn?” Erica deserves some credit for saying calmly “What, exactly, did she say?” Henry explained to her that while I didn’t use the word “porn” I had used the words “adult movies”, and everyone knows what that really means! Erica had to explain to Henry that what it really means (on the Mommy circuit) is that there is no animation, no furry costumes, no scenes where all the characters sing instructions on brushing your teeth, no plot that involves learning the ABC’s or 123’s.

Poor Henry! I’m sure his jump to conclusions was prompted by the things he sees every day as a policeman. And I think he deserves a lot of credit for managing to stay blank-faced while he was talking to me in the yard. Still, every time I rent videos that I know the kids are too young to watch, I laugh thinking about that moment and his wild and crazy assumptions!

We decided to go see “Sliding Home” with Mark Harmon and Jody Foster … (break for those of you that have seen the movie, allowing you to regain your composure) … There may not be a more romantically depressing movie in the universe. That is THE all-time most depressing movie to see on Valentines Day. We thought “How bad can it be? He’s cute and she can act.” Little did we know! It starts with him being a washed-up ball-player holed up in a weird little motel with a tacky-bimbo. He gets a call from his parents, telling him a girl he used to know is dead. He goes back to his home-town. The next large part of the movie is told about how he loved this girl growing up, and then when he was a teenager she loved him too but he couldn’t hold on to her because she was a little older and in college (?) and then later ended up married to someone undesirable and then divorced and she kills herself. He finds out she left him her ashes because he would know what to do with them. The rest of the movie is him being sad and trying to figure out what she wanted him to do with them. Isn’t this exactly what you want to watch on Valentines Day? Especially with two actors who are at least good, and one of them being great, at pulling viewers into the story? Aieeeee.

One thing, from my best friend: Lucy is bossy, she always wants her own way … (Obviously, because if I wanted someone else’s way because it was better then I would change my mind and make THAT my way) … but that’s Ok because when Lucy doesn’t get her own way she’s a really good sport about it. (This was blurted out spontaneously after I agreed only practically at gunpoint to go to that crazy vegan restaurant downtown and then somehow managed to not say “I told you so” about the bad food and the bad service and the bad bill and the bad parking and the bad weather, etc)

One thing, from my child (who isn’t good at counting yet): Mama’s favorite things are kisses and hugs and pats. And chocolate. And rainbows. And triangles. And Larryboy. And not snakes or frogs or bugs or spiders or sharks or weeds or monsters! (Take it for what you will)

One thing, from my husband: Lucy is loyal, very loyal. (I was a little surprised, but I think that’s a good characteristic to have. Not surprised because I think I’m disloyal, but rather because I don’t think daily about myself in terms of character-traits. Stopping to think about it, I realize perhaps I might give people the benefit of the doubt too much).

One thing, from me: I have blue eyes. Winter-sky blue. Gunmetal blue. Slate blue. Not-warm-even-a-little blue. Like my father. Like my child.

You, the reader, will most likely never know entirely who “Lucy” is in the depths of my soul. This site is only about the good things and funny times and happy tears. While not nearly the whole story, everything here is true and honest and real to the best of my ability. That’s more than some people will give you.

I was won over completely by a simple action, or rather non-action, by Cat. We were sitting on the front porch, “we” being me and my two year old toddler. She loves to follow Cat, who usually tries to stay a few feet in front of Cassie. In a fit of determination, Cassie tried to actually grab Cat. This only resulted in Cassie tripping and landing square on top of Cat with a “thud” spread eagle. I couldn’t see cat parts anywhere, just a blob of toddler on the sidewalk. Before I could reach them, I saw a paw wiggling out from under the blob, quickly followed by more cat-parts. I had this awful image in my head of Cat smacking Cassie and blood everywhere and a cat-phobia for the rest of her life. (I have a vivid and quick imagination). Instead, Cat kind of shook it off and then continued to play gently with Cassie. What a cat!

We have no clue what went wrong. We go over and over the recipe. My mother even sends some to my grandmother, hoping against hope that she can figure it out. No such luck. My dad throws the pies into the trough for the cows, because cows will eat absolutely anything sweet. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick.

My mother and I are frantically trying to assemble another set of pies. She finishes up while I get dressed for my date. It’s down to the wire. The pies are coming out of the oven at the moment I’m supposed to be leaving. We try a bite of pie #2. Our hearts fall. It’s the worst pie in the history of the entire world. That pie also goes to the happy cows. What a dilemma! We decide that it’s better to be “the girlfriend with a good heart and a bad pie” than “the thoughtless girlfriend with no birthday gift of any kind”. Off I go, with the single remaining pie.

He loves it! He thinks it’s a truly great pie! He laughs until he cries when I explain where the other three pies are. As it turns out, I just don’t like key limes. Neither does my mother. Neither does my grandmother. I have been reassured over the years by many Key Lime Pie connoisseurs that this actually is a fantastic recipe. Here it is, for your enjoyment:

Key Lime Pie (for Cows and Others)

1 baked 9-inch pie shell (I prefer using graham cracker crust)
2 ¼ cups sweetened condensed milk (two small cans)
3 egg yolks (the yellow part of the egg)
1 cup KEY lime juice (use “Nelly and Joe’s Famous Key West Lime Juice”)

Beat yolks until thick and light lemon colored.
Blend in condensed milk (use a mixer or a whisk)
Gradually add Key lime juice, mixture will thicken.
Spoon mixture into pie shell.
Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.
Chill for two hours before serving.