Going Green To Save Some Green

    


     It all started with a $753 electricity bill last January. Like many other people, I’m concerned a about global climate change and understand it to be a real scientific phenomenon rather than just a scare tactic dreamed up by Al Gore. Time will tell. But good intentions for the earth weren’t really what got me into energy-saving mode--basically, I’m a tightwad, and as such I hate to spend money I don’t have to. So I decided to put my household on an energy diet.

     The morning after receiving my paperless statement from Reliant Energy’s 100% Wind Plan, and still reeling from the shocking news it contained, I turned OFF both central air units when the family left for school and work instead of letting the programmable thermostat do its own timed routine. Yes, it was a little chilly when we got home that evening, but the house warmed up quickly enough. The kids got used to turning off the upstairs unit each morning, and at the end of the month I saw about 10% savings over our same-month-last-year cost. An easy $75, which emboldened me to expand my energy crusade.


     Now, turning off the heater each morning is a relatively simple and painless procedure, but the next phase threatened to affect others in my household more directly. I began looking with a critical eye at other energy-guzzling conveniences: the old dishwasher, the electric clothes dryer, and that 2nd refrigerator in the garage that only holds beer and soda. Right away, I emptied the outside fridge, put the drinks on the garage shelf, and turned the unit OFF. After all, it was like an icebox in the garage anyway so the cans still stayed pretty cold without benefit of Freon and electricity. Some re-education was required, but kids and husband adapted rapidly.


     On to the dryer. I cajoled my husband into stringing a clothesline across the narrowest end of our yard, between the house and fence, and out of view from the living area windows. We compromised on a single line, with a hook to allow its removal in the event of a party where our city friends might see it and laugh at the sight of such a countrified implement. In appreciation of my teenagers’ social sensibilities, I also agreed that there would be no drawers flapping in the breeze—only “safe” laundry. The clothesline has been a great success. I am not so compulsive to have calculated the exact cost of drying a load of sodden pool towels in the machine, but over time it’s got to make a difference. And sheets dried on the line are crisp and smooth without ironing. The biggest problem I’ve had is our dog’s tendency to “use” the area directly beneath the clothesline. I have to step carefully while putting out the wash and once had to redo a batch of towels when the overloaded line collapsed into the landmine zone.


     The dishwasher has been the trickiest of the three to abandon. I bought a nice stainless dish drainer, and a fancy dishsoap-fillable scrubber wand. I emptied the last load from the machine and advised my family that henceforth, unless we had a dinner party, we all would wash our own dishes by hand and put them in the drainer. No outright protests have been voiced, but I still have to be vigilant in the plan’s enforcement. The kids have perfected the stealthy plate- and- fork drop before running away upstairs under the guise of impending homework. Several times I’ve even found dishes secreted inside the dormant washer. No one will confess to this trickery--maybe the dog did it. As with the clothes dryer, I haven’t figured out exactly how many pennies this saves per day, but eliminating a two-hour wash cycle five times a week has to count for something.


     My earth-and-money saving zeal hasn’t stopped with the assault on the electricity bill. Since spring I’ve dreamed up other plans to annoy my beleaguered family: a hot-water recirculation pump, low-flow shower heads, and even a brick in the toilet tank. (I had to abandon that idea when the water began turning pink.) I gave the kids a timer for their showers, but quickly realized the folly of that strategy and took to banging on the bathroom door every five minutes instead. We dug a small garden which ultimately only fed the neighborhood’s wild rabbits, but did get a handful of tomatoes and cucumbers from potted plants stationed on the patio. Next year’s crop ought to be better though, because now I’ve installed a compost bin where I can make fertilizer out of the science experiments lurking in my remaining refrigerator. Too bad I can’t compost the dog poop--that would solve two problems at once.


     Almost nine months after this obsession started, I’m not sure how much money I’ve actually saved for all my efforts. I’ve spent money on products that I think will save money, and don’t know if I’m in the black or red on that score. But we’re trying, and my family is getting on board with the plan. There is certainly more, much more, we can do to reduce energy consumption, at home and otherwise. It’s a slow process to change a lifetime of wasteful habits. Our summer electricity bills have still been outrageous, but then it was 100 degrees for about 47 days in a row and with school out we couldn’t just turn the A/C completely OFF. Hmmm, maybe if I didn’t have to open and close the back door for the dog so often…

Happy Forty-Five!

To My Friend, on Your Forty-Fifth Birthday

      Forty-Five. That sounds like a pretty daunting number when combined with “Happy Birthday,” but here you are. And it’s not really as scary as it sounds. After all, you’re only halfway to ninety, and that’s a lot of livin’ left! Old-timer that I am, I thought I’d pass along a few words of advice from my six-month head start on this milestone to tell you about some things you might expect in the coming year…

     First, if they haven’t already, your arms will begin to shorten. For this malady, your optometrist may prescribe bifocal eyeglasses. Now the good doctor and his staff will likely point out the many stylish options available and will offer you the “lineless” bifocal so that no one will be able to tell just how old you really are. But beware. Bifocals are not for the uncoordinated. I have never gotten the hang of raising my head up to look down at what I’m reading, and looking down to see through the top of the lens while I’m driving. All I get is a headache from the damned things. I argue with the doctor that I can’t see out of them, but he says I can, so I’m stuck. My advice is to take the money you would spend on the lineless bifocals and get a massage and a facial instead. If you still need reading glasses, head over to Target and buy a cheap pair in some outrageous color or zebra print that will embarrass your kids and that you won’t mistakenly wear out of the house. Maybe in a few years you can get one of those chains that hangs around your neck to hold the reading glasses, but for now just make your kids go look for them whenever you need to read something.

     Second, sometime soon, aliens will visit you in the night and replace your body with, well, something else. Afterward, you will be mysteriously unable to purchase clothes in any department store in Dallas. None of the regular jeans or “Young Attitudes” tops will fit you anymore, and you will cry in the dressing room. Instead, you will be consigned to shop in places like Chicos and Coldwater Creek that offer clothes for the more mature woman and come in prints better suited to the cruise ship or shuffle board court than the office. “More is More” in these boutiques, and you have to stay on your toes to avoid looking like someone's mother-in-law. Fashion tip: stick with solids or simple print offerings, lest you blend in with the fake foliage at Luby’s or the glint from your rhinestone–studded jacket blind others in your path. Alternatively, you can take a teenager along who will roll her eyes and mumble “Grandma” under her breath anytime you pick up an offending item. If you’re short on teenagers, I’ve got one I can loan you.

     Third, you will become all too familiar with your gynecologist. Hormone testing, mammograms, and bone density tests are but a few of the exciting things he (or she) has in store for you. And with all that to worry about, he (or she) will lecture you like a teenager that you can still get pregnant! It’s just not fair—I mean one day you’re having a hot flash and the next you could be knocked up. Life is truly a bitch. And I’m not even going to talk about the leak-when-you-laugh syndrome, because if you don’t already know about that, you’ll find out soon enough.

     But seriously, being 45 isn’t all that bad. In fact, I’ve never been happier. When I was 25, I viewed 45 as so ancient as to be almost dead. Surely, I thought, if you drove a four-door sedan, or worse, a mini-van, your life must be just about over. Nothing left to hope for. But fortunately, the wisdom of my youth has been proved folly and I don’t feel “almost dead” at all. I feel very much alive, and hope you do too. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up…maybe the cool old lady professor who can match wits with her young students and do the Sunday New York Times crossword in ink. Or maybe I’ll go ride a camel in Egypt and write about it on my blog. But I’m sure that in another 20 years we’ll look at this essay and laugh at the naiveté of my current outlook on getting older. We’ll both think how young we were then and how much more we know now. So when you turn 65 I’ll write you another story and give you some more advice, but for now, Happy 45! And please, try not to get pregnant.

Tippid

     Tippid is a small red and white bear, with a heart shaped nose and a ribbon bow tie imprinted with the words “I Love You” in gold letters. He was a Valentine’s Day gift from Grandma when Alex was four years old, and for years was a constant playtime and bedtime companion. We don’t really understand the origin of his unusual name, and I’m not entirely sure of its correct spelling, as it was born of a child’s imagination and to my knowledge has never before been glorified in print. Tippid’s fur has been worn smooth from years of hugs, and like the Velveteen Rabbit in the children’s story, he has become “real” through the strength of a child’s love.
     Today, Alex moved to his college apartment. He’s not going far, less than two miles down the road, but for all that it might as well be across the ocean. It is the first time in over eighteen years that he doesn’t live here with us, and the first time in his life he has signed a lease and been legally responsible for his own “home.” It doesn’t really matter that we can call, or text, or email as many times a day as we might like to-- it’s the fact that he won’t wake up here, won’t stomp down the stairs to breakfast, and won’t argue with Sophie over the morning comics.

     The move itself was a fairly informal affair, with the mattress tied to the top of Alex’s truck and assorted furniture, kitchen, and bedroom accessories piled loosely in the back. We got to the apartment and discovered that he had left the key at home--not an auspicious beginning. A couple hours work assembling the bed and hanging the shower curtain had the place looking almost livable. We took a picture to document his room in its original “clean” state. Quick hugs, and plans for a Target run tomorrow to stock up on snacks.
     Back home, the house was eerily quiet. Usually I enjoy a little mid-day solitude, but today was different. Sophie is at camp, Ted went back to work, and Patch was snoozing on the patio. I took a box of apartment extras up to Alex’s room, and for the first time looked around at the emptiness and detritus—stuff that didn’t make the college cut. Mostly it was just old boy scout and school stuff, but then I opened the closet, filled with empty plastic hangers and old shoes. And there, sitting alone on the shelf, was Tippid.
     I had been handling things fairly well until that point, but Tippid undid me. As far as I know, Alex hasn’t done more than glance at that bear for years, but at that moment he mirrored my feeling of sadness and loss. Our boy is grown up and gone. The fact that Tippid is here and Alex isn’t, and never will be in the same way again, made me burst into tears.
     I feel like a fool sitting here sobbing over a stupid teddy bear. I’ve tried so hard to be grown up about the college transition and treat it as the wonderful, positive thing it is, for both Alex and us, but who am I fooling? I am crying inside, and so I guess it is natural that I should cry on the outside as well. I know I will get over this, and I know this is the way things are supposed to be. Life moves on. Babies grow up, and up, and up. But it is not easy, and I fear I will never really have my boy with me again.
     I will never forget the night, when Alex was three days old, that we took him to the emergency room because of severe jaundice. The nurses bundled him into a tiny incubator and the doctor told us to go home and get some sleep. Go home? Without him? I refused to leave until Ted convinced me that I had to get some rest so I could take care of Alex the next day. I knew my baby was in good hands with the nurses, but I still cried all the way home, barely slept, and was back at the hospital by 7am to make sure he was okay.
     Now I feel sort of the same way as I did that June evening so many years ago. I know Alex is in good hands--the school has taken care of many a freshman and successfully dealt with their hyperventilating parents. And he is an (almost) grown up young man, not a baby or even a child any more. But I’m still not sure how well I will sleep tonight, or for that matter how well Alex will sleep, alone in his apartment for the first time. I do know, however, that I probably shouldn’t show up at his door at 7am to check on him. He’s really old enough to take care of himself—I’m just not sure I can say the same thing about myself.

Driving Lessons

I’ve gone to church all my life with varying degrees of success, and sometimes have struggled with the issue of trusting God, whether He really hears me when I pray or if it’s just me talking to myself, and whether He really does watch over me and mine like the biblical sparrow. I still have not completely resolved all of these questions, but the events of the past three years have brought my faith into sharper focus and have definitely caused me to lean toward the “yes” answer on all counts. You see, I am the the parent, driving instructor, and insurance benefactor of a teenaged male driver in Dallas County.

I don’t think a person can truly know fear until he or she has sat in the passenger seat of a motor vehicle piloted by a fifteen-year-old, fresh from the written test at the DPS office, and had to explain to that child how to simultaneously hold his foot on the brake, put the car in gear, and pull onto a public roadway. In Dallas traffic. One can only grip the dashboard, stomp the imaginary brake on the passenger floorboard, and hope that somewhere in the vehicle is a supercharged medal of St. Christopher.

The primary reason I am scared, besides riding with someone who doesn’t know how to drive, and the maniacal nature of many other Dallas drivers who are not traveling with their mothers and therefore do not have a conscience for a passenger, is that I am not so old that I don’t remember what it was like the first year I drove a car and the outrageous feats of stupidity that I performed while in control (!!!!) of said vehicle. At fifteen, my parents agreed that I could apply for the most coveted possession of any high school student: a Hardship License.

I don’t recall the specific nature of the hardship which served as my early entrance to the freedom of the road, but I think it may have had something to do with my mother's weariness of ferrying me and my brother around town and the fact that my father was the local DPS officer in charge of giving driving tests and distributing driving permits. Having my father as the official license giver was truly a “hardship” if there ever was one and virtually assured me that I would need the entire extra year to pass the dreaded “road test,” complete with the requisite parallel parking maneuver. Side note: teenagers today who have completed a driver education course do not even have to take a “road test” in order to obtain a driver’s license. I rest my case. Even the DPS troopers aren’t brave enough to ride with them.

But back to my own driving adventures. After several months of road-warrior training with Sergeant Dad in the front seat and three attempts to pass the road test, I was finally given the “all clear” and awarded my temporary permit. I am convinced to this day that the only reason I achieved a passing score from my father that third time was because my mother shot him a look that said, “If you want dinner tonight, or any other night in the future, you had better give her that license.” I was off to the races.

My first trip alone was to my high school for sophomore schedule pickup before the fall term began. My parents didn’t buy me a car of my own for this momentous occasion, but instead let me use my father’s 1970 Chevy pickup truck, with its faded blue paint and huge, winglike side mirrors. Dad didn’t need to drive the truck, as the State of Texas thoughtfully provided him with a black-and-white patrol car capable of going up to 120 miles per hour in the event of a driving test emergency. By default, the truck became my “wheels.”

The old pickup had many quirks, one of which was its transmission. Sometimes it would engage right away, but often it was tired and took a while to slip into gear. This meant sitting and waiting for several, or many, minutes until the telltale clunk of the gears indicated that the truck was ready to proceed. While sitting in the school parking lot that day, waiting for the transmission to work its way into driving mode, I fiddled with the radio, fiddled with my hair in the mirror, and looked around to see who else might be in the vicinity and be jealous that I was driving myself to the schedule pickup instead of having my mother schlep me around. What I did not do, while waiting, was check that the driver side door was latched shut.

When I took off, slowly and carefully of course, out of the parking lot and onto the four-lane, 50-mile-per-hour-speed-limit road that bordered the high school, I made a wide arcing turn attributable to both my driving inexperience and the wide turning radius of the big truck, and hit the gas. At this moment the driver side door suddenly flew open and I panicked. Instead of slowing down, pulling over, and securing the door, which is what I would do now if I were so stupid as to leave the door unlatched, I kept my foot firmly pressed to the accelerator while reaching with one hand to grab the errant door. Now I took science in high school, and I learned that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. So what happened next was not really my fault, just simple physics. The opposite reaction to my door-reaching was that my other hand, the one on the steering wheel, went in the complete other direction from the hand reaching for the door, sending the truck careening sharply to the right across both lanes of traffic, jumping the curb and barreling out across the practice football field at full speed.

The unfortunate man mowing the practice field with his tractor, I’m sure, saw his life flash before his eyes before I miraculously found the brake and skidded to a halt at the fifty-yard line, dust flying. Since I hadn’t actually hit anything during the flight, I threw the truck into reverse. The gears, surely sensing the urgency of my situation, complied immediately, allowing me to back off the field and jump the curb again in the direction from whence I had come, and then speed off toward home, none the worse for the wear.

I was fully thirty years old before I told my parents this story. By that time I was a mother of two and judged myself immune to any repercussions for careless behavior on my first solo drive. But history has a funny way of repeating itself, and karma is not so easily escaped. On my son’s maiden voyage, as it were, just as I had waved him out of the driveway and gone back inside for what I considered a well-deserved drink, his truck had a massive tire blowout not half a mile from the house, on a busy road. But my son is a smart young man and handled his first vehicular emergency with much more aplomb than I had done with my own. He pulled off the road into a vacant driveway and called me from his cell phone. I wonder if, had cell phones even existed back in 1979, I would have been brave enough to call my own mother from the fifty-yard line of the high school practice field and tell her what had happened. Then again, maybe there’s something about that flat tire that my son isn't telling me. I guess I’ll have to wait a few years, until he is about thirty, to find out.

Adventures in Fredericksburg

Monday, Aug 10--Sitting in Lincoln St. Wine Market in Fredericksburg, Texas enjoying happy hour and recalling the events of a relaxing day with a bottle of Hill Country Wine, and my wingman Ted working on his laptop in the comfy chair next to me. We sent Sophie off to camp at Sky Ranch yesterday, and left Patch home to keep an eye on Alex. We’re not worried about Sophie, but hope the boy, house, and dog will survive, in that order.

We started the day in our B&B, which only includes the first B, and is a storybook stone cottage near Main Street decorated in a funky nautical them. We find this fascination la mer a bit perplexing here in the landlocked hill country, but it’s cute and well done. We can only wish the decorating enthusiasm had extended to a curtain for the bathroom window, possibly fashioned of sailing canvas or seaweed to complete the theme.

Breakfast (the second "B" in the acronym) was at Rather Sweet, a quaint bakery in another old stone building off Main. We had heard various rumors that the owner was, alternatively, the niece, sister, or cousin of TV journalist Dan Rather, but were unable to confirm any of these suspicions. The cheese omelet and fresh peach kolache we shared were excellent, so it doesn’t really matter to us who is related to whom.

After breakfast we were off to do touristy stuff like visit Wildseed Farms, a working wildflower farm right outside of town. The wildflower fields were worth the trip-beautiful fields of color under a blue sky. Optimism inspired us to buy some “Texas-Oklahoma Mix” seeds but I’m sure our backyard field of color will pale in comparison to the acres of richly blooming plants we viewed today.

Then, because it was 11:30 and it had been two long hours since breakfast, we went in search of Texas Monthly’s No. 3 Hamburger in the Great State of Texas, which was allegedly being grilled only ten miles from Fredericksburg down the Old San Antonio Road. That’s quite a drive for a burger, but we are intrepid foodies who won’t be deterred by winding roads, one-lane bridges, and the occasional flock of buzzards munching on a deer carcass by the side of the road.

Alamo Springs Café, home of said prize winning burger, reminds me of my grandmother’s house, only with table service. It’s a not-too-well maintained white frame building with a screen door off the front porch, and an old fashioned, Coke-themed refrigerator inside stocked with sodas. Cleaning does not appear to be high on the priority of management. Ted and I opted to share one award- winning cheeseburger on a jalapeño bun, with grilled onions and all the fixins. Plus a half-order of fries and onion rings. You have to admire our restraint. Texas Monthly did not lie--this was indeed one of the best burgers I have ever had, and was so tall that it was served with a steak knife as a skewer to hold the towering mass together. We were entertained during the meal by the waitress, who swatted aggressively at flies to the beat of Strange Brew on the jukebox. I think this is what may be referred to as “local color.”

For an after-lunch excursion we went by a couple of the local wineries to see which of the local vintages made the best cheeseburger chaser. Our favorite was Becker Vineyards, with its six-wine tasting for $5 and fields of fragrant lavender. We bought a couple of bottles to take home because it’s bad form to taste and run. The Torre di Pietra winery tasting featured a wine called Dirty Girl, which we thought tasted like dirty bathwater, speaking rhetorically of course.

Post-tasting, we set out for Luckenbach, because Ray Wylie told us we ought to go. We took our own picture in front of the general store and mailed a postcard home to ourselves before heading back into town. Along the way, we stopped to read Historical Markers and take photos of hundred- year- old stone houses. The country is rugged and gorgeous, in a scrub-brushy sort of way, and hot, but with a cooling breeze blowing. In someone’s farmyard we saw a stuffed cow with an ice pack tied to its head and a sign reading “Fred” around its neck. You just never know.

After dinner, which we really don’t need following our wine and burger fueled day, we will head back to the little stone cottage and tuck into the four-poster bed, full and happy. The home’s designer has thoughtfully provided a surprise for guests when the lights go out—hundreds of tiny glow-in-the-dark stars affixed to the bedroom ceiling. It’s almost like looking at the real sky, only with air conditioning.

Confessions Of A Library Junkie

From the day I learned to read, books have been my sanctuary, my inspiration, and my escape. The oft-quoted “So Many Books, So Little Time” is the story of my life. Through books I’ve explored times before I was born, places I both want to see and those that are lost to history, and have met people both real and imagined who have taught, enriched, and amazed me. And from the beginning, my portal to the world of books has been the public library.

Early on, my mother realized that my appetite for books would far surpass anything our family’s tight budget could satisfy, so we made the trek to our small town’s library. I can still see its upstairs kids’ area, with its rows upon rows of books, all free, waiting just for me. I am sure if I visited today it would seem small, but to my six-year-old eyes it was huge, and was the most wondrous place I could imagine. Mom led me to the children’s biography section, where I literally started at one end of the shelf and read my way to the other end. I took out the maximum number of volumes, which I recall to be ten, allowed each time I visited the library. The stack was quickly devoured, and my voracity kept Mom driving me back to the library weekly for another book fix.

I consumed bios of many famous Americans, but my favorite of all the historical figures was Abraham Lincoln. Something about his hardscrabble beginnings, his too-tall bookish self, and his bouts of melancholy resonated with me. Like me, he loved books and loved learning, but sadly there was no library for him in the frontier of his day.

My love affair with and addiction to books soon branched out from biographies to fiction. I loved the stories which came in series, because you could really get to know the characters and get inside their worlds. My absolute all time favorite was The Little House books. I didn’t just read Little House on the Prairie, I lived it and believed it. I wanted to be Laura and wanted to ride in the covered wagon with Ma and Pa and their good old bulldog Jack. I read those books so many times that my mother finally wouldn’t let me check them out anymore, insisting that I try something else.

Throughout junior high and high school I haunted the library and took out dusty tomes that no other self-respecting teenager had looked at in years. I read through the school’s entire collection of Steinbeck, Hemingway and Tolstoy. I even picked up a few books that I had to hide under my mattress, for fear my mother would find them and see what I was reading and learning (Forever, by Judy Blume, anyone?)

For several years after my children were born, I stopped reading for myself. The repetitive nature of The Very Hungry Caterpillar and The Cat in the Hat, both great books, to be sure, leaves but little energy for grownup literature. But in time the kids grew up and out of board books and we progressed to more advanced reading. When Alex was five, I took him to the then-new Southwestern Branch library to get his own library card and took Sophie on the same errand a few years later. Somewhere I still have those library cards with their crooked little kindergarten “signatures” on the back.

I loved introducing my kids to the world of reading, but the best part of taking them to the library was the joy I felt in reconnecting with my own neglected love of books. I started to read again, and discovered how much I had missed in my several years’ hiatus. Now, there’s almost never a week that I’m not picking up a new book, or three, at my local branch library, either for my grad-school work or just for some “fun” reading.

I truly don’t think I would be the person I am today if it hadn’t been for the wealth of resources the public library has made available to me. Several years ago we were shopping for a new home, and our decision to stay in Dallas rather than move to a nearby suburb was based largely on the strength of Dallas’ library system. Now I hear that that the city is going to cut the branches’ hours and reduce the materials budget to save money, and this panics me. I am blessed be able to afford my own books now, but even Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble don’t give me the same rush as walking into a library and being surrounded by books, floor to ceiling. The sheer possibility of all those stories, real and imaginary, that I can try on to my heart’s content, gives me a feeling of hope and wonder. I hope the city council will choose to continue funding our libraries, and keep them well-stocked for those people, especially the kids like me and Honest Abe, who might find their wings, and their passion in life, in the pages of a book.

Family Gems

Last night we had an elegant meal at our house—mini corn-dogs and macaroni-and-cheese. I’m watching my weight, and my husband was out of town, so this meal was strictly a teenage affair. Believe me when I say they were pretty pleased to have a break from mom’s low-fat, healthful offerings. The corn dogs were the standard frozen blobs from Sams, but the Mac-N-Cheese was homemade. No “blue box” here-- only the best will do for my kids—we use Velveeta and shell pasta.

My daughter skillfully assembled said Mac-N-Cheese, having watched me prepare it many times over the years. The recipe, if it can even be called a recipe, is simple: cube up some Velveeta (the amount is never quite defined), melt it in the microwave, and stir in some milk until the consistency is right. The terms “some” and “right” are deliberately vague and require no small amount of discretion by the chef. Mix the sauce with the boiled shells and serve hot—reheated Velveeta is not a pretty sight. While dining, my kids and a visiting friend discuss all the foods which best complement MNC, from fish sticks to little smokies. I turn my Julia Child cookbook face down on the counter so that she won’t be witness to our discussion of haute cuisine. The kids argue over seconds and devour the entire gooey batch.

What they don’t realize about this domestic scene is that they are repeating history and carrying on a family tradition of sorts. When I was growing up, there was an ongoing debate in my house on the “proper” way to prepare patês-au-fromage. My mother’s mother, “Grandma,” prepared her version of MNC using a recipe with multiple ingredients, including freshly grated cheddar cheese and eggs. All of this took a long time to assemble and had to bake in the oven for a solid hour. The resulting casserole, with its cheesy crust, was served by the square. Mmmm. I loved it, and so did almost everyone else.

But my dad’s mother, “Granny,” took the easy-cheesy Velveeta route. I’m not sure when Velveeta was introduced as an official food group, but Granny must have been an early adopter. For as long as I can remember, she served the Velveeta Mac-and-Cheese, straight from the pot on the stove, at her house whenever we had a family gathering. Fishing for a compliment, she would wait until everyone was seated and digging in to announce to the ceiling, “It ain’t fit to eat!” Mouths full, we would all look up and say, in chorus, “It’s great, Granny!” Satisfied, she would sit down and preside over the meal, cigarette in one hand and coffee cup in the other. I don’t recall that she ever actually ate anything.

I loved Granny’s MNC too, and even came to prefer it to the baked version (sorry, Grandma), as did my dad. After all, it was his mother’s recipe. But my own mother stuck to her preference for the cut-square-baked kind. She never makes either herself-she hates to cook- but at a potluck dinner her fork always votes for the casserole version. Over the years this debate has become somewhat of a tradition among us, one of the few “arguments” my parents ever have. It seems silly, but my dad even teases Grandma, now 92, about it just to get a rise out of her.

You might say we are an easily-entertained lot, with a penchant for artery clogging comfort food. But it’s really more than that. The world moves so fast sometimes that it is comforting to talk about the foods prepared in our family kitchens, as well as to eat them. It reminds us, and our own children, that we were once kids too, and helps us bridge that ever widening generation gap. There’s an ad campaign about dinner together once a week being a tonic for what ails the modern family, and I think there is something to this idea. Many memories of my grandmothers, who were the same age and, coincidentally, were both named Jewel (Grandma’s name spelled with two L’s) revolve in some way around the family table. Granny died more than ten years ago, so neither of my kids really remembers her, except through pictures and stories. But if, by passing on her recipe for a satisfying, easy dinner to my kids, I’ve helped to keep her memory alive, for them and me, well I’ll eat to that.