A bus exchange

The Slow-Cooked Sentence kicks off this month's group of guest posts with one from my sister Kyna, who writes about geting a second shot at vanquishing a childhood ghost that's returned to haunt her small son. Enjoy!

"illusion" courtesy of Lauren Marek.

The woman sitting across from us on the bus is old, so when she leans forward and shouts, "Is that your boy?" I raise my voice to answer, too. "Yes." I nod and smile.

"Well, he sure is a SKINNY one!"

My smile quickly turns to a grimace and I pull my son into my lap, looking to see if he's following this conversation.

"He's got the BONIEST little KNEES..."

I look at her for a long moment and say nothing. She leans forward and points a finger at his legs.

"I said, he's got the BONIEST -"

"You know, he can understand you," I interrupt.

My face feels hot. It seems the whole bus is listening (and no wonder, this is exactly the kind of exchange I love to watch).

"WHAT?" she shouts.

I know she's just looking to have a conversation, but my irritation grows. I'm thinking of all the hurtful things people said to me growing up. Toothpick. Bird legs. Stick girl. How much worse will it be for my son, since he's a boy?

"You are being very rude."

"Oh! Well..."

She rearranges her belongings and purses her lips. Thankfully the next stop is mine. Once we're on the sidewalk Dagan asks, "Who's that lady?"

"I don't know. I just don't think she was being very nice."

"Why?" Dagan asks.

I stop and look at him. He's watching me carefully. If he's upset, it's only because I am.

"What did that lady say, Dagan?"

He stretches his arms to the sky.

"She said I have looooong legs."

We laugh a little and set off down the street.

About the writer: Kyna Conlin Moser works at Literacy Source, a nonprofit center in Seattle. She's supporting her family while her husband attends Bastyr University to become a naturopathic doctor. She's pregnant with their second child. She blogs at Our Seattle and Blue Sky Sketches.

Predawn

Courtesy of John Steven Fernandez.

4:30 a.m.

I'm at my desk with a mug of something hot ... tea, hot cocoa, coffee, chai. The furnace hasn't kicked on so I'm wearing a bathrobe, wool slipper-socks and a fleece snow hat with chili peppers. The hat's band squeezes my head softly, and my brain needs that hug, that massage, early in the morning to get the juices flowing. I write until 6 a.m.

Things I'm learning in the dark hours before dawn: That I can wake and write with sleep in the corner of my eyes, because my head is warm and my brain is yawning and stretching with that first cup of caffeine and forcing stiff fingers to write down what it's thinking, remembering, imagining. So, there's not a lot of good writing going on, and much of it's stiff and awkward or is written in fragments, just fits and bursts of stream of consciousness. But participating in National Novel Writing Month has allowed me to accept that my first draft will be crap, that it should be, and to not worry about it, to not go back and read it, but to just keep shoveling out more and more words knowing that if I do so this month, then I can spend the next 11 months turning all of that raw stuff into a great story.

"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas. ”
-- Linus Pauling

"round and 'round" courtesy of Darwin Bell.

What am I writing about so early in the morning? Many of the ideas come from memory, from dry deserts and star-studded skies. I chase after tumbleweeds of tangled story threads, unraveling, recording, and trying not to worry about the thorns being planted because there's no plot or central character out there, just me wandering blindly and happily across the blank page.

Courtesy of Pensiero.

Failure or Alas, I cannot get published

"The blossoming of your words" by psyberartist.

Rejection excerpts:

Thanks so much, but we weren’t able to include this in the November issue. -- Skirt!

Thank you for sending "Creation" to us. Unfortunately, we won't be able to use this piece for Literary Mama. Please know that we receive a tremendous number of submissions, and can only take a small percentage of the fine stories that are submitted. But we are thankful for your readership, thankful that you thought of us and value us enough to submit your work. -- Literary Mama

I was really touched by your piece, and I think a lot of mothers would be helped by it. I don't think it would be retained by the Mothering editorial staff but I do think you should send it to Brain, Child. It reminds me of a lot of pieces they have published, although not on the same topic. -- Mothering

I enjoyed reading your essay and admired your smooth prose. However, I must report that we’ve decided to give it a pass. Please note that this doesn’t necessarily reflect on the quality of your work (we receive about 750 submissions for every seven we publish). I wish you the best of luck placing this piece elsewhere. -- Brain, Child

"La tristeza del silencio: Tears" by lord cнernoвιll.

I received five rejection letters last month, three in the final week. I read the last letter at 10 p.m., then I switched off the lights and walked head-on into a wall. Bam! Nose and ego both smarting, I crawled into bed, pulled the covers over my head and cried.

This is (generally) what happens when I receive a rejection letter:

I shut down. Hope closes, curls, crumples inside of me until it's nothing more than a small, hard fist that punches me in the stomach. Pow! Oomph!

I cry. Lip trembles, tears spill while my small son looks on. The toddling mime tries to mimic his mama, but uncertain whether she is laughing or crying, emotions flit across his face like clouds in a windy sky.

I remember. The clenched fist inside me finds scars left by editors who were too harsh, who cut too deep. Pow! Oomph! More bruises, this time self-inflicted.

I search. I open cupboards, find chocolate and eat the equivalent of two candy bars. I drink two cups of scalding tea.

I play a song. "Failure" off Laura Marling's album Alas I Cannot Swim. I pledge to play it every time my writing is rejected.

I read. The rejected piece of writing. Other pieces. Tinker. Email something to a new editor.

I stand. In sunshine, melting like butter.

The fist opens. Hope unfurls.

"Her Hands" by Slaff.

"A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper."

-- Ursula K. Le Guin: A Few Words to a Young Writer

I spent this weekend thinking about why and what and where I write, and decided that I need to shake things up a bit. So The Slow-Cooked Sentence won't be publishing three times a week during November. I'm going to be busy writing a novel.

"What?!" you ask.

Yep. I've signed up and am participating in National Novel Writing Month, a "fun, seat-of-your-pants approach (that values) enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft." The goal: To write 50,000 words in 30 days, which works out to 1,667 words a day.

The Slow-Cooked Sentence will publish (hopefully) on Mondays and Wednesdays in November. There will be a guest column or two and the occasional update on how the novel writing's going. So keep dropping in. Meanwhile, the gun's been fired, the race begun. I'm off and writing!

Ghostly goulies

Photos courtesy of heymarcel.

Unprepared

Margaret Hamilton as The Wicked Witch of the West
in the 1939 "The Wizard of Oz."

Witch hats
we have, but no
pirate patch, knightly sword,
pumpkins to carve. Where's Mummy gone?
Shopping.


A wickedly quick recipe.

Witch Hats
Feeds: A classroom

Fudge striped shortbread cookies, like these.
Kisses
Frosting

Unwrap a Hershey's Kiss. Squeeze a blob of frosting on cookie. Press the Kiss into the frosting.



Happy Halloween!

Slate's loss, your gain

This 75-cent jar was the inspiration for a short story contest
co-sponsored by Slate and Significant Objects.

I found the small, glazed pot in the back of the cupboard where I’d placed it five years earlier when we bought our home. Now the house is in foreclosure and I’m packing again. We’re not moving until the bank forces us out, but I want to be prepared so I pack one or two boxes a day. We won’t miss the brown pot from my first job after high school, but before I could wrap it in newspaper, my four-year-old daughter found it and asked to paint. The knobby handle fit her small hand perfectly as she dipped the brush into the paint. I returned to packing.

The pot was given to me by my boss. He was a ranger and I was an aide at a state park. He taught me how to drive a garbage truck, mend a barbed-wire fence, clean an outhouse, use a chainsaw, and kiss. Kissing was the most useful thing I learned. Garbage pick-up produced the best stories.

The job involved hauling trash from fourteen beaches. The bags were heavy and the flies quickly found them, so the bottom of every can held a toxic tea. I wasn’t strong enough to lift a bag straight out of the can, so I’d tip it on its side and drag the bag out. Wriggling maggots slid off its sides. Next the bag had to be thrown into the back of the truck. And, again, weak arms forced me to use chest and knee to heave the bag in, sometimes sliming myself with maggoty juice in the process.

The weekend of Bocce and Barbecue -- an annual competition that drew hundreds to the beach where they’d play ball and roast a pig in the sand -- meant eight hours of nonstop trash pick-up. The bags were so heavy it required two of us to send one sailing into the truck. We drove our way across the beach, hopping out to grab and toss. But at one stop I lost my grip. The bag snagged and innards spilled out. Pig parts, sticky and red, smeared my uniform and splattered my arms and face. Pig blood, I thought, and opened my mouth in horror. I steeled myself for the metallic taste of blood, but tasted tangy and sweet instead. Barbecue sauce.

The next day I found the pot on the lunch table with my name taped to the lid. And because I was just 17 and in love with my boss, I loved the pot and took it home. But summer ended, the job ended, and so did we. The jar stayed. Eventually, it became a handy spot to dump change. Later a boyfriend used it to hold his stash of pot. And finally it served a small artist. My daughter’s painting is of two stick figures, holding hands. I packed the painting. It's time for the
the pot, like the house, to go.

My story was one of more 600 submitted in the Significant Objects Story Contest. The challenge was to write a short story in which a barbecue sauce jar plays an important role. The winning story can be read (and bid upon) here.

The idea behind Significant Objects is: "a talented, creative writer invents a story about an object. Invested with new significance by this fiction, the object should — according to our hypothesis — acquire not merely subjective but objective value. How to test our theory? Via eBay!"

Significant Objects is filled with many stories about once worthless stuff, all quick reads, well written. I loved R.K. Scher's "Indian Maiden." The comic by Betsey Swardlick, "Dilbert Stress Toy," is fabulous. And "Spotted Dogs Figurine" by Curtis Sittenfeld is bittersweet. Go treat yourself.

Autumn manifesto

Photo courtesy of ul_Marga.

A new habit
Tea, biscotti and my writing notebook while the littlest naps.

Am loving
Wrapping up another soccer season
The Uniform Project
Leaves to jump in
(as suggested by Buttons Magee)

Inspirations
Significant Objects
Lunchtime walks with my husband
Cashmere-silk yarn in Henna

Am craving
Apple cider donuts

Am celebrating
Two fewer For Sale signs on my street

My autumn manifesto

We met in line at the fabric store

"DiscountFabrics" by scallywagsf.

He looked like a Vietnam vet, bald with a roll of fat at the back of his neck and a paunch. He was in the fabric store, alone with ten bolts of fleece in a riot of colors and motifs: giant watermelon slices, over-sized holly berries, polka dots, tie-dye, sunflowers, polar bears.

He took off his hat, a floppy fleece-y thing that bunched at the top, and showed it to the employee. It reminded me of something ... a head cozy, the blob of frosting on a cupcake ... I couldn't put my finger on it.

"I'll have 27 hats when my wife finishes these. One for almost every day of the month. My wife says I sweat a lot and the hats stink."

The employee cutting the fabric nodded. I smiled weakly.

"I have a pink one for Valentine's Day and an orange one that looks like a pumpkin for Halloween."

"Where will you wear the polka dots?" I asked.

"New Year's or my birthday."

"Or the circus," I suggested.

The employee slid the stack of cut fleece across the counter and he walked away. But we met again in the cashier's line, where he shared more about his hats: The wife sells them in Apple Hill; they're modeled after the old-fashioned ice bags.

"Of course!" I said.

And beamed at him for solving the niggling question of the hat's familiarity.

The ice bag has a new occupation.

Petrichor

pet-ri-kuhr
noun

Bring on the rain! Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Darkening clouds and a breeze carrying petrichor sends Sam into the house for an umbrella. When the rain arrives, he's ready.

1. The scent of rain on dry earth.

In 1964, two Australian researchers were the first to use the word to describe the smell of rain. The oil from plants, absorbed into clay soil and rocks during dry spells (and there are many of them in Nevada), is released into the air when it rains. The word petrichor originally referred to the fluid that flowed in the veins of Greek gods.

A morality tale

Ivan, curious. All photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

Update: I've discovered Steady Mom written by Jaime Martin, who challenged mama bloggers to write a post in 30 minutes or less. Since I find myself spending more time in front of the computer than I'd like, I decided to participate. Check out how other mothers write with children underfoot. I particularly liked "New Orleans Misadventure," "Sorta Teaching 911" and "Worms, Worms, Worms." -Rachael

Oh, what a difference a year (and three older siblings) makes. Here's my small son peeking into last year's "spider pumpkin" carved by an older brother. And here's today's boy guarding the chocolate chips inside his muffin.

Ivan, dangerous.

Ivan recently walked up to me, kicked me in the shin and then stomped on my foot. As I suppressed a smile and hauled him off to the bedroom to cool off, I could think of no one else to blame for his behavior than a pirate, a dead girl and a cockroach.

When the three arrived home from school, I bared the bruise on my ankle and explained how the punches and kicks they inflict on each other were setting a poor example. They looked a bit sheepish, apologized and promised to be better citizens.

Harmony prevailed. The pirate poured cider and offered it to the dead girl; the cockroach requested help with his robot costume and received it; the dead girl shared a favorite book. Five minutes later the timer went off, pumpkin-chocolate chip muffins were pulled from the oven, and peace fled from the house. The cockroach and the dead girl began to fight over who had the biggest muffin; cider spilled on homework and a chase ensued. Meanwhile, the pirate raided the unattended muffins for chocolate chips.

Pumpkin-chocolate chip muffins
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen and Gourmet, November 2006

1 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup canned solid-pack pumpkin
1/3 cup vegetable oil
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice or 1/8 teaspoon each of cloves, ginger and nutmeg
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Put liners in muffin cups.

Whisk together pumpkin, oil, eggs, spices, sugar, baking soda, and salt. Add flour mixture until just combined. Add chocolate chips.

Divide batter among muffin cups. Bake until golden brown and wooden pick inserted into center comes out clean. About 25-30 minutes.

Alternative: Omit chocolate chips. Mix 1 teaspoon cinnamon with 1/4 cup sugar. Sprinkle on top of batter. Then bake.

Melon soup

Grandy and me.

My Great Grandma Peggy was a woman with no verifiable past.

She once told my mother that she had a twin brother, and that she was one of eight children, among them were two sets of twins and a set of triplets. When my mother related this to her mother, the response was silence followed by hoots of laughter. No one had ever heard of the twin, nor name him. No one had met any of the siblings. Nor her parents, for that matter.

Grandy's past may be as wind-swept as the desert in Stagecoach, Nevada, where she lived, but I remember her vividly:

She was a round little woman with a face wrinkled and cracked as the desert floor she lived on.

She was a fast, sloppy seamstress, and her gifts were received with hidden hesitation because a shirt may have sleeves that dangled to the knees or a nightgown come with cuffs that pinched circulation at the wrist.

She was an excellent baker. Her rolls disappeared off the Thanksgiving table, and everyone clamored for her pie. But as a cook? Well, born in Boston, she boiled everything.

And when my family gathered for a night of silent, flickery home movies, a favorite was watching Grandy in her garden, in reverse. Oh, how we'd laugh as she re-attached melons to their vines, shoved carrots back into the soil, and then waved goodbye, walked backward into her trailer and shut the door.

The ingredients.

I was thinking about this tiny woman the other day as I composted my melon vines and planted an autumn crop of carrots. I thought about her some more as I turned the last melons into soup and dropped off duplicate ingredients at the neighborhood food bank. You see, it wasn't until after I'd started Stone Soup that my mom shared with me that when my Grandy lived in northern California she fed every hobo who knocked at her backdoor.

This soup is my own creation, named in memory of my great grandmother, Marguerite Butt Campbell Craft.

In the bowl:

Marguerite's Melon Soup
with yogurt and mint

Marguerite's Melon Soup
Serves 4

2 cups of melon such as juicy, sweet cantaloupes
1/4 teaspoon cayenne powder or to taste
squeeze of a lime or two
Thick plain, whole milk yogurt such as a Greek yogurt
Mint, chopped

Whirl it in a blender. Chill. Top with yogurt and mint.

Breakfast

"Woosh" courtesy of Rowan Atkinson.

It was morning and the hip hop blasting from the tan Buick's trunk was cheery as a bowl of sugar cereal:

Thump! Thump! Ka-Shhhh! Clink!
Thump! Thump! (Box on counter)
Ka-Shhhh! (Milk poured)
Clink! (Spoon hits side of bowl)

The Buick yawned and the man reached deep into the trunk's recesses to futz with the woofers or something. Music shook the windows of the sleepy house next door and a yellow school bus turned onto the street. Leaves as crunchy and brown as Frosted Flakes danced in its wake.

Girl power

The Slow-Cooked Sentence is doing a double post today because we just can't get enough of soccer around here. Round 2 features some fine sports writing by my husband, Marcel Levy, as he gives a blow-by-blow account of the Chili Peppers' path to victory.

Photo and text by Marcel Levy

There were four teams in the U11 category. The other three teams seemed younger, or at least shorter. The Peppers' first game was Saturday morning against Nevada Elite, which is a competitive team. Nicer uniforms, matching duffel bags all lined up in a row, and a coach with a British accent. A tough game, but the Peppers eked out a 2-1 win against a really focused and skilled team. They really targeted Jessie -- at one point it seemed like they were playing American football out there.

In the afternoon came the match against the Panthers, who seemed to me like a swarm of angry little hornets. They hustled like nobody's business, and had some amazing defenders. They scored early, and then in the second half the Peppers scored to tie. Sigh of relief all around.

Sunday's early, early morning match against the Pride was looking pretty good even before it started. Both Nevada Elite and the Panthers had crushed the Pride the day before, and they didn't have any subs on Sunday. I still think they played really well, and even managed to score on the Peppers. But still, they got crushed 4-1. One of their keepers was hilarious -- the game had barely started and she already started yelling at her coach to switch.

So after that game Lou says we definitely have one more match, unless something weird happens in that morning's Elite-Panthers match-up. They tie 1-1, so later that day the Peppers face the Panthers again for the U-11 Sagebrush Friendship Tournament championship....

Things start out well. Jessie scores twice in the first half, with these amazing chip shots that sail right over the keeper's head and into the goal. Just perfect and almost impossible to stop, even if the keeper hadn't been so short. The Pepper's parents were really fun to watch -- especially Baylee's (the keeper) dad, who yells out "You're a wall! A chick wall!" several times. Much mirth and merriment during halftime, and the only way to explain the two Panther goals that they score in the first five minutes of the second half is that the girls got a bit cocky and lazy.

The score is 2-2, with most of the half left to play. You can tell the mood has changed. The anthers have all their spirit back, and the Peppers are focused again. It didn't seem to me like either side dominated the other. There was lots of action near both goals -- I was stationed near the Panthers' goal, but I could hear some very loud stops by Baylee all the way across the field. Samantha, Gillian, Lauren and Annie are constantly in action to keep them away from the goal. Jessie and Sarah kept trying to get a shot in, but the Panthers' defenders were all over them.

Then Jessie scores with another chip shot. The Peppers' parents explode. But the ref invalidates it -- turns out the Panthers' goal kick that started it off hadn't been legit, and no one heard the whistle. Back to nail-biting.

But now you can tell the Peppers are putting on more pressure. The midfield is out-hustling and out-playing them, and the ball is down near the Panthers' goal more often than not. And then with a minute left to play, Sarah nails it and scores. The parents totally go nuts -- I should really have been taking pictures of them at that point. Panthers kick off, but shortly after that the ref calls the game, and it's down to the pavilion to get the trophy.

Carom

kair-uhm
noun

Chaja at the weekend soccer tournament. Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Like a ball on the soccer field, we caromed from home to field for five games this weekend. After seven hours of soccer, kids' eyes were glassy and crazed, and parents' judgment failed: We rented "The Wiz." But before we became punch-drunk from bouncing about town all weekend, here are a five things we learned:

1. The driver digs RJD2's song "Ghostwriter."
2. Girls run differently. Some are tough and solid as bears, some are so graceful they take my breath away. Some look fierce. Others as if they're on the receiving end of that pain. But they're all beautiful and strong on the field.
3. Ponytails are wonderful to watch and photograph.
4. $725 can buy cool uniforms, matching duffel bags and a coach with a British accent, but not a championship.
5. Which makes our girl's victory that much sweeter.

Video by Marcel Levy.

1. A rebound following a collision; a bouncing off.
2. A shot in billiards in which the cue ball successfully strikes two other balls on the table.
   

For another parent's take on the soccer-soaked weekend, visit Earthy Crunchy.

How do you like your coffee?

"Coffee and Beignets" courtesy of navycrackerjack74.

Leave room in my cup for cream and space in my posts for pictures.

I appreciate your comments and shape The Slow-Cooked Sentence in response to them, so will continue serving up illustrated words. Pictures "magnetize the eye to the page and create an atmosphere for the rest of the piece," according to Skelliewag. The site, dedicated to helping freelancers, bloggers and entrepreneurs excel at what they do, has an excellent article on how to find great images for free.

Unless my images are self-generated, I find almost all of them through Flickr's Creative Commons page or Compfight, a Flickr search tool. All legally mine to use. All free.

Me.

And while on the topic of the connection between word and picture, you must check out this amazing puppet show told in 35 photos. Really. You must. It's at The Big Picture.

Have a happy weekend. I'll see you Monday, coffee in hand.

What's cookin?

So, let's talk about it.

Do you miss the photos?

What?

You didn't even notice.

Ooookay. Go back and look. Three posts with just words.

Love it?

Hate it?

Doesn't make a damn difference to you 'cause you're just here for those slow-cooked sentences?

I don't wanna give the visual up entirely, just thinking of using it less.

Come on. Let's converse. Whadda ya think?

Judgments

On Sunday, the church's Crying Room contained:

One hungry baby whose bottle was left at home
Two mothers chit-chatting
Three Goldfish crackers on the floor
Four picture books, none religious
Five children coloring with markers

And because these two mothers needed to convince each other that their kids' inability to sit quietly during church was perfectly normal and not at all related to their own inability to shut up ...

"I used to think I was a bad mother because my kids weren't quiet."

"Oh, no. You're not a bad mother. What's not normal is all those parents out there with kids who are quiet. We're the normal ones."

... I missed the best line in church. Which was the priest urging people who felt sick, maybe with the swine flu, to take only the bread, and not drink from the communal cup of wine.

"You don't get more Jesus if you do both" he said.

The tastes of sickness

Bitter
The ache of an arm from holding a child that will not otherwise sleep.
Salty
A runny nose and the box of soggy, crumpled Kleenex on the floor.
On the coffee table. On the couch. On the bed.
Sour
Scratchy towels laid on top of vomited sheets.
Sweet
Cool skin that earlier burned.
Umami
The whine of a sick child tired of being sick.

Alliteration amoré

Because I love alliteration, and because a master of the form, William Safire, died this week, I'm dedicating today's post to this sentence he penned as a speechwriter for U.S. Vice President Spiro Agnew:

"In the United States today, we have more than our share of the nattering nabobs of negativism. They have formed their own 4-H Club -- the hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history."

A reading reduction

Left to right, from top: Sam tells his joke; Chaja, Sam and Annie read about harpies; Amelia goofs off before taking the stage; Max reads his riddle.

Let's Write poetry slam
Serves five children, plus their families

One chapbook (PDF version)
25 flutes of sparkling juice
2 strings of twinkling lights
40 cream puffs stacked in a small mountain
Two pounds of melted chocolate in a fondue pot
A friendly audience

Simmer for two hours. Taste the sweet success.

All photos by Marcel Levy at Dance in the Kitchen.

Let's write

One of five participants in my writing workshop. Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Five kids met regularly at my kitchen table to write this summer. It was a skill swap with a friend: She gave my kids art lessons, I taught hers writing. I seized on this arrangement because she's an excellent art teacher, and I'd never given a writing lesson.

Plunging into uncharted territory, I researched the broad subject of writing with children, and the particular topics of poetry and comic writing. Among the arsenal of books to guide me in developing a workshop, I relied most heavily on "Don't Forget to Write: 54 Enthralling and Effective Writing Lessons for Students 6-18." Armed with this excellent book, I developed a syllabus. Here it is, along with my class notes:

Message in a Bottle -- For years, desert island poets have sent their deepest thoughts out to sea in bottles. In this workshop, students create postcards and send them out into the world to find their way back.

Kids left their postcards in grocery aisles, tucked into library books, launched them with balloons and dropped them on sidewalks. One postcard made its way home, and, oh, how we cheered when it arrived in the mail!

Tiny Tales -- Celebrate in a small way. Eat tiny cakes, drink tea from tiny cups and write tiny stories that consist of just a few paragraphs. Learn the basics of story-writing on a small, manageable scale.

The most-anticipated class by the students, who gobbled up the petits fours and drank copious amounts of sweet tea. In the future, I'd divide this into two classes: The first focused on story craft, the second spent creating the book. The free tutorial I used is at Making Books with Children.

Weird Science -- Facts take a backseat to fiction in this inventive workshop. Students compose their own wacky faux-science journals.

This class was a hit with my active and younger kids because it involved shorter, directed pieces of writing.

Everyone’s a Comedian -- Introduction to joke writing and puns encourages word play. Leave with your very own riddle book!

The final class was the most challenging. Having never succeeded at retelling a joke myself, I was nervous and relied on the examples of how to write baseball jokes featured in "Don't Forget to Write." But my group of kids (all soccer players) didn't know baseball. Their lack of knowledge about the game made it difficult for them to manipulate language and come up with jokes like this one:

Why is a catcher a good dinner guest?
Because he is always cleaning the plate.

So I quickly moved on to the "How's business?" joke model found in Joanne E. Bernstein's "Fiddle with a Riddle" and met success. Example:

I'm in the diaper business.
How's business?
It stinks.

In addition to these topics, each class introduced a new vocabulary word (all fabulous insults such as popinjay and stinkard) and poetry form (such as couplet and haiku). Two great books I used were "Poetry from A to Z: A guide for young writers" by Paul B. Janeczko and "Poem-Making: Ways to begin writing poetry" by Myra Cohn Livingston. The Shakespearean Insulter was the source of the vocabulary list.

My students will read their poems and short stories at a poetry slam and art exhibition in my backyard this weekend; I'll share sights and sounds from the event in a future post. I believe the energy, time and money spent teaching kids what I love to do was a wise investment. Their art hangs on my wall. Their stories inspire me.

Quid pro quo.

Diktat

dik-taht
noun

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Oops goes the flour. Out comes the vacuum. One is never too young to understand the diktat: Clean up the mess.

1. A harsh settlement unilaterally imposed on a defeated party.
2. An authoritative decree or order.

Glorious, garlicky soup

Photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Sunday often tastes like the dregs in the bottom of the coffee cup. The day has a bitter grittiness to it: The weekend is over and the family is tired of the activities, the chores, and each other. But occasionally a perfect day comes along filled with mellow autumn sunshine, stolen naps, and garlicky soup for the many runny noses in my home.

In the bowl:

44-Clove Garlic Soup with Parmesan Cheese

44-Clove Garlic Soup with Parmesan Cheese
Adapted from Bon Appetit, February 1999 and Smitten Kitchen

Serves 4

26 cloves of garlic, unpeeled
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
2 1/4 cups sliced onions
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme, chopped
18 garlic cloves, peeled
3 1/2 cups chicken stock or broth
1/2 cup cream
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, finely grated
lemon wedges

Roast 26 cloves (I used a whole head) of garlic in a small ceramic or glass dish. Add olive oil, salt and pepper. Cover with foil or lid and bake until garlic is golden brown and tender, about 45 minutes. Cool. Squeeze garlic between fingertips to release cloves.

Melt butter in soup pot over medium-high heat. Add onions and thyme, and cook for 6 to 10 minutes. Add roasted garlic and 18 raw garlic cloves. Cook 3 more minutes. Add chicken stock, cover and simmer until garlic is tender, about 20 minutes. Working in batches, puree soup in a blender and transfer back to the soup pot. Add cream and bring to simmer. Season with salt and pepper.

Divide grated cheese among your bowls and ladle soup over it. Squeeze lemon wedge into each bowl and serve.

Manneken Pis

Photo courtesy of bEbO.
Manneken Pis, Dutch for "Little man, urinating," is a famous Brussel's landmark.

My sons' third-grade teachers are actively discouraging their students from using the restroom or getting drinks of water during class instruction time. Apparently, there was too much wildplassen going on (Dutch for random acts of peeing), so instructors came up with a thoughtful solution:

Each student has a "credit card" good for five trips to the restroom or drinking fountain in a week. Need to pee? Your card gets punched. Feeling thirsty? That's a second punch. Maxed out your credit card by Wednesday? My sons shrugged for lack of an answer. They don't ever plan to get to that point, they assured me. They're going to dominate their bladders until noon, when everyone is allowed to pee freely.

My initial reaction to this policy looked something like this:

"Angry sandwich" courtesy of Sakurako Kitsa.

What kind of teacher would develop a policy that could lead to bladder infections, constipation and embarrassing accidents? But, keeping in mind the excellent advice about experiencing discomfort from Geek Feminism's post "Notes from a PTA mom," I decided to let my boys solve this.

Each morning, they fill bottles of water to keep at their desks. Each afternoon, they make a beeline for the bathroom. Get out of their way; otherwise, urine trouble.

An ending

"Raking walls" courtesy of bricolage.108.

A robin hangs out under the pergola, picking grapes off the vine. Pinch. Drop. Pinch. Drop. But the third grape the robin swallows in one giant, grotesque gulp. The patio stones are littered with rejected grapes in various degrees of decay, which attracts flies. At the feet of the picnic table and under the benches are tangled messes of sticky web that crackle when torn. The widows that spun these webs hide and wait.

But I know that soon: The grape will shrivel. The robin will migrate. The fly will die. And the widow, stiff from the cooler night and maybe a little hungry from lack of flies, will expose herself to the waning September sun to thaw out and warm up.

And I will squash it.

Absolution

"Do they taste nice?" courtesy of publicenergy.

Since I was raised on the Catholic model of confession and penance, I'm sharing this deadly sin: I am a glutton.

I blame it on the box I'm sending to Heather, my friend in Spain. I thought it'd be fun to include her family's favorite candy bars, but, being at the grocery store without a list of what they liked, I decided to guess. Into the cart go Butterfingers, Snickers and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Once home, I discover I was 60 percent right in my guesswork; nobody likes Butterfingers.

What else could I do but eat it?

There I am, crunching this too sweet, too crumbly candy bar that's sticking to my teeth, and I'm not enjoying it. I toss it. Growl. Open the Peanut Butter Cups to get rid of the cloying taste. As I eat this second bar, I realize that Dark Chocolate Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are much better, and actually congratulate myself on eating the candy bar intended for my friend. Now I can go back to the store and buy Heather the better candy bar.

This wrapper joins the half-eaten Butterfingers in the trash. My stomach feels funny from so much sugar, my conscience is pricked. I am unable to forgive myself for my lack of self-control, my binge, my guilty pleasure in chocolate.

The Snickers sits on the counter.

I eat it.

A key

Photo courtesy of alicia rae.

"Memories remain incomplete in your head but sometimes, if the memory is shared, you can pool resources and come up with a version that feels true."
-- Molly Young of Magic Molly.

I'm thinking of a particular memory. We -- me, my brother Joe -- were sitting on the back of the yellow Honda Civic, clutching the metal bumper as the car weaved and hiccuped across ... what? I remember a potted dirt road. Joe swears it was an alkali flat. I was, maybe, 12. Joe, 9. He says we were fighting, and our dad had stopped the car and told us to walk home. But who's idea was it to ignore the order and jump on the back?

I only remember the dust and coughing. Of legs, too long, scraping against bushes. Of feet dragging. I remember my fear mingling with, first, shock that my dad was actually trying to throw us off the back of the car, and, second, determination to not let him succeed.

I think Joe may have fallen off. When I asked my dad about it, he just smiled and denied it happened. But each of us -- Joe, my dad and I -- got a third of the memory. Next time I see Joe, we'll unlock it and fill in the gaps.

Inspired by Molly Young's post "Not a cloud marred the blood-red sun." For more thoughts on keys, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Celerity

suh-lair-uh-tee
noun


Chaja reads in twilight, courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

She read with celerity, devouring the teen-age vampire story in two days and craving more.

1. Rapidity of motion or action; quickness; swiftness.

Woohoo for the workers

Hoorah for the secretary! An old ad courtesy of Olivander.

After this weekend's work -- sanding a door, painting a wall, scrubbing a house -- The Slow-Cooked Sentence is playing on this day dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers.

A story written with frosting

A 2-year-old's cake.

My daughter, Chaja, celebrated her birthday Thursday and frosted her 11th cake. When she was small she smeared "raspberry-fluff icing on an angel-surprise cake" a la "Bunny Cakes." Now that she's crowing that she has just two more years left before she's a teen-ager, she asked for a yellow cake with chocolate frosting as dangerously dark and delicious as the vampires in "Twilight."

The same girl, nine years later.

Here's the to-die-for recipe:

Foolproof Chocolate Frosting
adapted from Cook's Illustrated March-April 2008 issue

20 tablespoons (2 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup confectioner's sugar
3/4 cup Dutch-processed cocoa (I used Hershey's cocoa)
Pinch of salt
3/4 cup light corn syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla
8 ounces chocolate, melted and cooled (I used milk chocolate)

Cook's Illustrated recommended mixing the frosting in a food processor, but I didn't read the recipe ahead of time, and poured everything into my mixer. Didn't make a difference in the outcome.

Process butter, sugar, cocoa, and salt until smooth, scraping sides of bowl as needed. Add corn syrup and vanilla and process until just combined, 5 to 10 seconds. Scrapes sides of bowl, then add chocolate and pulse until smooth and creamy, 10 to 15 seconds.

Licking the bowl with her brothers. All photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

Farewell summer

"A leaf's view" courtesy of Creativity+ Timothy K Hamilton.

Watching
yellow leaves fall
in a late summer wind,
my small son looked at the trees and
yelled no.

For more poetry, go to Sunday Scribblings. I particularly enjoyed Quin Browne at a gasping little voice, Dee Martin at Thoughts Have Wings, and the concise piece published at GlowbyWords.