Where I'm From: Food Edition

I am a different eater now, but I have not forgotten where I am from.

I am from Lauren’s salty chocolate chip cookies, from Good Season’s Italian dressing on iceberg lettuce, and take-in double-cheese Bocce Pizza while we watch the game on Sundays, always. I am from weekly chicken fingers at the Four Seasons Diner, hands and face dripping with chunky-tangy Rudy’s blue cheese.

I am from home-baked chicken dinner with steamed broccoli and Uncle Ben’s wild rice pilaf. Four people at the dinner table, every weeknight; TV off. I am from Lauren and Arthur, bickering, bickering. A kiss. A smile. Bickering more.

I am from “how was school today?” and “pass your chicken bones to Dad” and “yes you can have seconds on dessert.” My sister talks about Grease rehearsal  while Dad Hoovers the drumsticks clean. They wait forever for me to finish my broccoli stalks (tops go to mom).

I am from thumbs on the wishbone, pulling hard, and taking turns for chores: Aimee set, so Tammy clears.

I am from a camera shop owner and a Catholic-turned-Jew. I am from a boy scout troop leader and a dentist who found chickens and eggs on his doorstep as payment for pulled teeth. I am from theater people. They wrote their own stories and sang them. I am from travelers. I am from Poland and Russia and New York and Syracuse and Buffalo.

I am from sloppy/sappy/noisy/crowded Christmukkah in our brown living room, where dozens of family and near-strangers gathered to devour a mountain of presents and bagels and lox and sweetsweet kugel. High on holiday spirits, dripping brisket juice and applesauce onto the shag rug, the guests pledged lifelong devotion to my parents. They made good on their word. 

I am from 30 Jews and adopted Jews stuffed around the Passover table, helping themselves to seconds on everything except the lousy kosher desserts. They sing about four flawed brothers to the tune of Clementine and belt out God Bless America in honor of Irving Berlin. Slowly I progress from "the one who cannot ask at all" to "the wise son."

I am from shore lunches on the rocks of the Georgian Bay and Sahlen’s hot dogs charred and steaming from the grill, indoors or out. I am from Lauren’s fresh blueberry pie at family reunions by the stream. I am from Easter in the woods with The Woods, where I helped peel potatoes for thirty. I stole my annual taste of ham and gorged on peanut butter cups from my Easter basket while Aimee was off fishing with the boys. 

Today, I am the keeper of half-forgotten recipes. I’m from “add a little of this and a little of that” followed by the shock of “yours doesn’t taste like mine.” I am from much more sugar. I am from a significant amount of real butter.

I am the owner of Synagogue cookbooks and the handwritten matzah ball soup letter (“because someday you’ll want to know how to make my soup and I won’t be around to tell you.”) I have bound copies of the close-enough zucchini bread recipe card and the transcribed, “best I can remember” ratios of potato to egg for Aunt Robin’s scalable potato kugel. My own record-keeping has not been much better.

And my children will inherit this tangled mass of edible history. They will know that the food we eat is bound up in our identity. It is part of every story we tell about ourselves and about our families. As in all cultures, our food links us to our past and helps define our future. 

My childen will understand their place in my history and reconcile it with their place in their father’s very different food legacy. They will eat with us at the table (screens off); they will hear our stories, and they will add their own. They will know their food, and they will know where they are from.

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Thank you to Nina Badzin, via Brain Child Magazine, and Galit Breen, via Mamalode for introducing me to this template and prompt. Also thanks to MamaKat's Writer's Workshop, for reviving the template again. It was a perfect jumping-off point to help remember the food that defined my childhood.

Jesus Lives at Comcast

I’m sitting at Panera Bread trying to do my writerly thing, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate because this lady at a nearby table is on her cell phone and she’s a yeller. I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to listen.

She’s doing some research with a Comcast representative. There’s lots of talk about monthly rates and cancellation fees. She yeses and uh-huhs a bit, and I start to think maybe the phone call will be ending soon. Good, maybe I can get back to the essay I’m supposed to be working on.

But then the conversation takes a different turn. Apropos of nothing, the woman says into the mobile, “Can I ask you a question? Are you a Christian?”

Remarkably, it appears that the Comcast representative is indeed a Christian, since the woman on my end responds, “I knew it! Because, you know, I felt the presence of God!”

I think about the phrase, “Presence of God.” I have felt the “Presence of God,” only a few times in my life. I suppose, if I were a true believer, I’d say I felt the Presence of God the first time I held each of my children, the first time I heard Beethoven’s Ninth, and the first time I made love to my husband. Major milestones, all.

But this woman felt the Presence of her God in an everyday transaction. Her search for a phone carrier was an extension of her search for salvation. That’s pretty impressive.

She continues, “I wasn’t going to call you guys, ‘cause I already talked to Verizon. I called them first. But something was telling me to call you, and now I know: it was God! I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my savior, and he brought me to you!” The joy and optimism in her voice nearly makes me gag on my spinach.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to look around to find some sympathetic neighbor at whom I can roll my eyes. Also, I’m desperate to get a peek at this loony tunes who thinks her savior is with her, speeding through the invisible telephone wires.

But I can tell this is just the beginning, so I bide my time. And now she’s saying, “You know, I was having the worst day, and I’m so glad I called you. My day was just terrible until now, and now that I know you’ve accepted Jesus too, my day just got so much better...”

“…But don’t give the devil an inch,” she warns, “‘cause he’ll take a mile.”

The easy thing to do would be to laugh. I’m an agnostic – a “cultural,” barely practicing Jew sitting in a public space listening to a very loud woman proclaim the glory of her God. But the hard thing to do, the hardest thing for me, is to stop judging.

I think about this woman’s “terrible day,” and try to imagine what terrible means to her. It could mean that she spilled coffee on her blouse and was late for work, or it could mean that her husband left her and she just got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. The point is, we never know how others are struggling. If this woman is having a rough day and this connection to a stranger has made her life a little more bearable – who am I to judge?

Isn’t that what we all need – a sympathetic ear when we’re feeling down? A tiny connection in this universe of fast-talking strangers? A belief that maybe there’s a purpose to all the little decisions we make throughout our day, and throughout our lives? Decisions even as simple as which company to call up for a quote on phone service?

And still, compassion is hard. The rational, ironic, post-post-modern side of my brain is screaming: oh man, this will make a great story at book club tomorrow night! But the more honorable side of my brain says Stop. This is someone’s life. This is important to her. Right now. Don’t presume to understand her pain or how she could ease it.

Then there’s the Comcast rep: why was he still on the line with her? A cynic would say he’s going along with anything she wants to hear. He gets paid on commission after all, and studies show that the longer he keeps a customer on the line the more likely she is to buy. Maybe this is true, but the pauses on her side of the conversation are getting longer and longer as she listens ever more attentively. She seems to have found a soul mate. And I begin to think, “wow, maybe he really is providing a little comfort to this woman who is howling in the wilderness. Maybe, just maybe, strangers can be kind to one another just for the sake of being kind.” I’d like to believe that was true.

A friend once said to me, in all seriousness, “You make a great Christian, for a Jew.” What she meant, of course, was that I had acted like a decent person; a kind person. I don’t even remember what act prompted that statement, but since my friend is a devout believer, I took her words as the highest form of compliment. The truth is, we all need to strive for compassion, especially when that’s not the easy choice. We all need to accept that others are struggling to make sense of the world.

I’m not always great at showing compassion, but I’m getting better. I’m trying to be more sensitive to the ways in which people cry out for help, and I’m trying very very hard not to judge.

Who knows? Maybe this woman yelling into the phone was onto something. If Jesus himself doesn’t live within the Comcast cable lines, certainly those lines allowed his spirit to appear at Panera today.

I Told Myself I’d Never Do It Again

Linking up with MamaKat's pretty much world-famous Writer's Workshop today. 

 

She was tiny, like me. Curly brown hair, pert nose, eager to please.  She was quiet and timid; overshadowed by her vivacious big sister. And she stank.

It’s true, I’ll admit it. Despite regular bathing, my toy poodle Pookie trailed a constant stench of bodily waste and decay, especially at the end. But I get ahead of myself.

Pookie was my first pet -- I think she was presented to me when I was still in diapers. Eventually, I learned to control my bodily functions, but poor Pookie never did. She was awarded her name, our family’s term for ‘fart’, during her first days at home, because we quickly realized it would become her primary form of communication with us. Pooks were her signature party trick; her calling card; her drafty personal contribution to family conversation. From the day we met her until the day she died, she was gassy.

It got worse. Despite our halfhearted attempts to train her, throughout her life, skinny, nervous little Pookie seemed to prefer to relieve herself on my green shag rug or in the laundry room, where at least we had a linoleum floor. Inevitably, the odors, Pepe LePew-like, followed in her wake.

Still, Pookie was my dog, and I loved her unconditionally. She was my confidant and my playmate. She’d lick my tears when I was sad, and steady my breathing when I slept. I fed her and brushed her and bathed her; cleaned up after her many “accidents;” dressed her up in doll clothes; took her for walks – everything you'd expect from a girl and her pup.

Each night we’d drift off to sleep together – me: corpse-like on my back, fist balled into my hip, Pookie: wound up in the crook of my arm, resting her doll-sized poodle head on my shoulder. And each morning, I’d find my dog stone asleep at the foot of my bed as I stepped out into a reeking wet circle on the rug, or worse.

Pookie was 13 years old, and I was a delicate 16, when she began to die. She had been growing sicker for many months. Her small body was more skeletal than ever. Her fur had been falling out, and what was left clung to her frame in matted patches. Most of what she ate she vomited out. After we found a mess she’d cower in the corner, reduced to a shamed heap of small, shivering bones. Her body was literally wasting away, as bodies will do. She smelled of approaching death.

At last the day came when my parents decided to take Pookie to the vet for a lethal injection. They told me to say goodbye. In the foyer I held my dog close, cried into her sour hair one last time, and gingerly passed her to my mother. Pookie, for her part, seemed to know what was up. She didn’t complain. I’m told that she passed away even before they arrived at the vet.

I was inconsolable after Pookie died. I lashed out at friends who had teased me about the dog’s filthy habits and I cried myself to sleep for weeks. I moped around the house and wept in the bathroom at school. 

I knew that I should have been grateful that I had so many “good years” with her. I should have been happy that I’d lived to the ripe age of 16 without ever having to say goodbye to someone (something?) I loved. But the cuts ran deep. Never again, I told myself. I swore that after Pookie broke my heart I’d never again let myself get attached to a pet.

Yet time moves on, and though there are scars, wounds do heal. Now, 25 years and two kids later, I am finally opening my home to a new animal. I hope that since Pookie died, I have gained some wisdom and distance from my pain.  While I am saddened at the thought that my children will have to endure the same kind of loss that I did, I realize that caring for an animal is a character-building opportunity. It is a chance to learn how to love and care for something beyond ourselves. It teaches responsibility and generosity, patience and sharing. Sooner or later, the suffering will find us. It is how we deal with that suffering that makes us who we are. Better to have loved and lost, and all that.

If there’s one thing children teach us, it is to open ourselves to all of life's possibilities – to welcome the joy and the agony, and yes, even the stink – because in the end, our lives will be richer for it. I know this now. My kids have been lighting the way for years. I think I am finally ready to follow.

So welcome, Wolfie the cat, to your new home. Let me show you where we’ll keep the litter box…

As You Wish: A Party from the Pantry

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Be ready. Stock the fridge and the pantry with big, happy, wintry foods that set up quick and settle deep (beany-beery chili, corn chips and hearty veggies, a few good breads and cheeses). Make sure you’ve got plenty of firewood, some beer and wine. Pull out the folding table, extra chairs, some board games, plastic utensils. Nothing fancy. All you need now are one or two very good friends and a miracle.

With almost no planning and a great deal of luck this weekend, I conjured such a miracle in the middle of a storm of foul moods and foul weather.

Every December my husband’s impending birthday seems to suck him down into the Pit Of Despair. He’ll shackle himself with worry over possible ideas for celebrating. He’ll list, and then methodically reject, all kinds of outings, meals, cakes, and general family merriment. He will mope around the house for days, terrorized by the threat of another year passing with nothing to show for it.

“I don’t want a party,” he’ll declare. But then, inevitably, about 18 hours before the big day, he will realize that only being around friends and family will cure him of his annual birthday blues.

I’ve spent the last twenty years building up an immunity to his birthday malaise, so I refused to be sucked into his Fire Swamp of drama. Instead, like the raspy old Albino, I set about nursing my poor husband back to his pre-birthday health.

Thankfully this year the winter weather predicted for his big day forced the cancellation of many regularly scheduled activities, and our neighbors were feeling a bit restless. So when we summoned them over on the morning of the event, they gratefully agreed to storm our castle for a few hours of merry-making.

We spread out a lavish buffet of mis-matched munchies. Ben happily chunked together a pot of his famous turkey chili while I steamed up some ciabatta (recipe here). There was no time for cake, so our friends brought a big tray of homemade holiday cookies. (Even with no chocolate coating, they went down easy.) 
Brave wet friends tramped in, dragging dominoes and soggy children behind them.

Wine flowed, fire crackled, sarcasm reigned. Songs were sung, games were played, and no one bothered to keep score. My husband was revived. Love and laughter had conquered all.

Ironically, this is the second consecutive year that we’ve thrown an impromptu birthday party for my husband. I should have known it would come to this.

Next year, I’ll be ready for my true love’s annual drama, but still I’ll wait for him to figure out the solution. Just when he’s almost dead from the stress of facing another birthday, I’ll remind him that we simply need to take stock of our assets, then call in the reinforcements. With my brains, his chili, and maybe a holocaust cloak thrown in for good measure, we’ll be prepared to be spontaneous.

As you wish, dear, As you wish.

(photo credits: MGM)

Ben’s Turkey Chili: A Loose Guideline

2 lbs ground turkey

5-6 peppers (sweet red and green, banana, chili – whatever combination you like)

6 cloves garlic

2 cups celery

6 dried ancho peppers, reconstituted and seeds removed

28-oz can of crushed tomato

1-2 bottles of dark, malty beer

4 tablespoons cumin

3-4 cans of beans (pinto, black, roman, cannelloni – whatever combination you like)

Garnishes: chopped cilantro, tomatoes, shredded cheddar, chopped jalepeno peppers, variety of hot sauces, sour cream, etc.

In a large skillet, brown turkey and remove to a large pot.

In the same skillet, sauté peppers, onion, celery and garlic until soft. Add this to the turkey.

Place dried anchos in blender with a little water and grind. Dump this into the pot with meat and vegetables.

Add beer, tomatoes, cumin and beans. Throw in a little water, until pot is 1/3 full

Bring to a boil, then simmer for 30 minutes. Taste. Add more water if necessary, or replace with beer.

Add salt and pepper to taste. 

Simmer for another 30 minutes or all day until guests start getting cranky.

Serve warm with fresh bread and allow guests to garnish to their hearts’ delight.

And May the Cookies Be Ever In Your Flavor

If you understood the reference above, then you need to see this hilarious Sesame Street video that's been circulating in the media.

For those of you who are fans of young adult fiction, or fans of the Tuesdays with Dorie project, I offer you this, a parachute from our sponsor, Rick Katz's Double Chocolate Cookie:

Alas, these particular cookies were not in my favorite flavor. (I guess I'm too Finnicky.) I've never been much of a chocolate lover. But I love those who love chocolate, so this project was worthwhile for their sakes. Here's what the Master of The House (the MOTH) had to say about it, after a long stressful day at the office:

"(When I tasted the cookie...) I was transported to one of my favorite places—The Chocolate Room (disclaimer, we know the owners). Now with two locations in Brooklyn, The Chocolate Room serves fantastic desserts, and we don’t get there nearly as often as we would like. Tammy's cookie was tasty and soft (much richer and chunkier than store bought), but the flavor and texture was not why eating it made me think of the cafe. 

Taking a bite of that cookie was a moment for me to close my eyes, savor, breathe deep and then be transported to my “happy place.” The cookie triggered memories of being with friends and family, enjoying a treat made with love, and being in a safe place like The Chocolate Room. Nothing but smiles with chocolate-coated teeth. I’ll brush and floss later.

Tammy, and her cooking, often do this for me. She can make me forget about the stressful side of my career. The challenging work, the endless hours, the long commute, the non-stop environment of the office -- these things all melt away when I get home and there is food—made with love—on the table. Sometimes, I’ll admit, that feeling lasts just a moment before the kids climb on me, the blackberry buzzes, and the stack of bills catches my eye. But I have that moment."

He's a real gem, that MOTH. This alliance is one I plan to keep.

Meanwhile, the Thanksgivukkah preparation continues at a furious pace, so our time together is brief. Tick tock!

Check out more bloggers' versions on this double chocolate cookie here. For the recipe, from guest baker Rick Katz, buy the book.

This One Wouldn't Let Me Go

photo source: en.wikipedia.org

Did you ever have an idea that grabs hold and won't let go until you pay attention? That's what happened to me a few weeks ago, when I was driving to pick up the kids from school.

I was thinking about the delicate process of raspberry picking, and how it parallels the  ripening process of adolescence. This idea came, as ideas will, at a very inconvenient time. But like a needy child at bedtime, it refused to loose it's grip on me until I spent some time with it.

So with urgency, in my car in the school parking lot, with parents and children hustling past me, I pounded out a short essay on my laptop. That night, I sent the piece out into the world before I could lose my nerve.

I'm happy to report that the parenting magazine, Mamalode, is publishing my essay on its website today.

Head over to Mamalode to read about how we're coping with this season of ripening, but not yet ripe.

I can’t believe I used to be embarrassed by this.

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For the first six months that I was a Jazzercise instructor, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. I wasn’t sure how my family and friends would react. I knew my loved ones would have questions, whether or not they gave voice to them:

• What is Jazzercise anyway? Isn’t that a fad from the 80s? The one with the legwarmers?
• Why aren’t you focused on getting a real job?
• You’re spastic, remember?
• You’re too fat to be a fitness instructor! (This was a variation on an old theme from my mother, who once claimed I was “too fat to faint.”)

Still, I’d known I wanted to get up on that stage from my very first class. The dance-fitness program’s combination of theatricality, fun, and physical intensity appealed to me. Regular classes had already improved my endurance, energy and fitness level. Instructors often commented on how I smiled through every class. It was obvious that I enjoyed the workout. With its endless variety of moves and super current music, I was never bored.

But I was ready for the next challenge.

I had been immersed in the world of nursing and diapers and mommy groups for five years after quitting my corporate job, and I was in no hurry to return to an office setting. With the kids in preschool and a husband supporting us, the timing seemed right. So after many, many weeks of testing and training, I finally became a Jazzercise franchisee.

Becoming an instructor was a form of reinvention for me, though not in ways I’d expected. I lost more weight and toned muscle, of course. But I also began to feel more graceful and walk with better posture. I smiled more than ever – on and off the stage. I gained confidence as a public speaker. I led my children in nightly dance parties. I gave myself permission to act goofy. I made lots of mistakes on stage in front of large groups of women. And as my customers forgave me, I learned to forgive myself. Perhaps most surprisingly, I began to see myself as a role model for my kids, my husband, and my customers.

Slowly I gained more confidence in my abilities, and began telling family and friends about Jazzercise. I corrected their ideas about legwarmers and leotards, and encouraged them to check out a class. But by the time I got around to sharing my news with family and friends, it no longer mattered what they thought of me. I was hooked.

Now, six years later, when I’m on that stage four times a week, I am still a version of my former self. That spastic, nerdy girl comes out when I occasionally flub a move, or when I make a geeky reference to Pi Day or Glee and I’m greeted by blank stares.

But I’m also a new, better version myself.

On that stage, I am a performer, a mentor, a sadist, a cheerleader, a therapist, a conspirator, a ringleader, a troublemaker, a choral director, a friend, and I’m the host of the hottest party in town. I’m good at what I do, and I’m thrilled to share it with others.

If I can make just one other person smile and sweat with me, I’ll have done my part in making the world a kinder, healthier place. How many people can say this about their jobs, or even their pastimes?

These days, I’m not so shy about telling people that I teach Jazzercise. It is not everything that I am or all that I do, but I hope it always will be a part of me. This version of myself – the confident, strong, flexible and charming Tammy that comes out on stage and occasionally spills over into the rest of my life – this is a version that I’m happy to keep around.

The Letter I Didn’t Send

--> Dear Miss Bean, 

I hope you’re enjoying camp. No that’s not true. I hope you’re simply enduring camp and missing us so terribly that when you come home you’ll make us pinky promise to never ever ever send you back. You’ll beg us to never ever ever let you wander away for weeks at a time -- to a place where you are forced to make your own bed, do your own laundry, to brush your own hair (or not), to make your own decisions about what and how much to eat for dinner. Maybe in a few weeks you’ll come back shaky and unsure of who you are, a little younger and more vulnerable and needier than before. Don’t worry. We’re your family. We’ll help you recover. We’ll build up your spirits again in no time at all. You’re our little girl, after all. And you’ll sleep under our roof every day and we’ll take care of each other from now until forever.

Whose idea was this whole camp thing anyway?

No, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say that I hope you adore everything about camp (even the singing, which you pretend to hate when you’re home). I hope you cherish every campfire and canoe ride. I hope you get plenty of use out of that zip line and the Gaga court, and that you play in the mud and collect frogs and tell ghost stories and talk the other girls into some elaborate plot to embarrass the counselors.

Milk this time for all it’s worth, because I need you to get this out of your system – this whole growing up and apart thing. Dad and I are emotionally unprepared for it and it’s simply not fair to any of us. Dad and I like to think of ourselves as plan-ful people. But there’s just no planning for this, is there? This merciless metamorphosis? This inexorable pulling away and opening up to the world around you? Who said you could begin to leave us so soon?

What if I forbid it? What if I said no screen time until you stop acting your age? What if I promised to leave your stuffed animals – all 158 of them – slouching on your bed until you’re 90? I won’t touch them, I swear. What if Percy Jackson and Calvin and Hobbes and Phineas and Ferb were the beginning and the end for you?  They’d be your loyal, lifelong companions, I’m sure. How about if I cook delicious dinners for you every night and bake you chocolate things that make you swoon? I’ll wash your clothes and do your dishes as often as you need. I’ll take care of you right here at home until I’m too feeble to stand, and then I’ll make your brother do it.

All you have to do is stop this relentless blossoming. When you finally get home, stay home. Stay 10. Or younger – I don’t care, as long as it’s not older! Promise me that when you come back from camp, you’ll end this ridiculous maturation process. I don’t want to talk about drugs and bullying and training bras (though we’ve already started, haven’t we?). I don’t want to worry about crushes and cliques and permanent records. And I certainly don’t want to talk about what comes after that. Because of course it’s not just the talking – it’s the knowledge that sooner or later you’ll be out there in the world, beyond our reach. Like now, with you taking your first steps down the path to independence. It is painful for all of us, and we shouldn’t have to endure it. We need to fight against it together.

So if you can just do this one thing for me – stay 10 forever – I promise that when you get home I’ll keep you with me. I promise to shelter and care for you always, and you’ll never ever ever have to go away again. Deal?

Love,

Mom

I Heart College Hockey

I wasn’t born with the sports gene. I’m blaming it on an undiagnosed recessive disorder: I am simply missing that part of my DNA. So when I say I love college hockey, this is a sign of great personal growth. 

My sporting history is riddled with embarrassing facts:

• See that little girl in the outfield picking dandelions while the softball rolls past her in the grass? That’s me.
• That girl under the blankets absorbed in a novel while her family watches the game on TV every week? Also me.
• I’m also the one who was discovered snoring on my fiance’s shoulder while we were sandwiched among 80,000 howling fans at a Buffalo Bills game. (Yes, in a blizzard. But it’s Buffalo, so mentioning the snow is redundant.)
• Because I offer, I’m the designated beer-fetcher at major league baseball games. Always have been, always will be.

It’s not that I can't follow the rules of sports. I even sometimes surprise my husband with my understanding of an obscure football call. It’s just that I never could muster the energy to care who won or lost. I've learned that this can be an annoying habit to the sports fans in my life.

However, since having children, the stakes have changed.

This weekend we’re on our way to the Frozen Four college hockey tournament in the mysterious town of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania (credit: favorite author Michael Chabon). The eve of the Frozen Four is a good time to reflect on why, despite my genetic makeup, I now care deeply about Yale hockey. 

My connection to Yale is only tangential. As a Yale alum, the MOTH has a deep affinity for the school and all that it has to offer, but it is hockey that has captured his imagination. Inevitably, the hockey fever has spread to the kids. Their combined reverence for the game has nudged me into the world of the season ticket-holder. Each year, the family's spirits rise and fall with the fate of our team.

Every game is an anthology of short stories: the Great Assist by the senior forward, the Blind Ref who made that terrible call; the Check Against the Boards that led to a penalty for the opposing team, which led to a Power Play, which led to a win … They are stories of heroes and gods, of oafish opponents and little guys winning in the end; of making mistakes and suffering the consequences. And sometimes, they are stories of kids giving all they’ve got and still losing; or kids who don’t give all they’ve got and who lose because they didn’t want the win badly enough. As with all sporting events, the opportunities for life lessons abound.

And one of these stories – the one that too often goes untold -- is the story about maintaining connections. For the MOTH, cheering for Yale is an opportunity to remain connected to a great university. The institution has a long, proud history and an infinitely optimistic future. He clings to this place, and for good reason. But for all four of us, cheering for Yale is also a way to connect with each other as our busy lives take us further apart during the week. Like sharing a good meal, watching hockey is where we shine. It’s what we do. We do it together, and we do it well.

Others may find it odd that we have no concrete connection with the team: we don’t know any players personally, we aren’t originally from New Haven, and our kids don’t even play ice hockey. We don’t follow professional hockey games. And yet we invest a significant amount of energy, money, time and good will toward these kids at Ingalls Rink.

We suffer and triumph together with this team. We wear ourselves out with worry. We travel to support them at away games. We scream ourselves hoarse to motivate them. Like any good fans, we purchase the gear, we follow the stats, and we talk up our team to anyone else who will listen. And all of this silly fansmanship is important, somehow. Choosing sides, for better or worse, demands that we commit ourselves to something. We must be all in, we must show earnest support -- for the sake of our team. No negativity is allowed.

This too, offers life lessons for our family: commit to each other. Make time to be present, physically and emotionally. Show your support for each other, and cheer each other on, no matter what.

Yale Hockey has made me a believer in the value of sports. Yale's is not a miracle team (yet), but it is MY team. It is the team of my family. So I’ll sit beside these enthusiastic kids and their jittery, zealous father on those cold hard benches. I’ll watch the games, teething my stale Twizzler’s and frying my tongue on hot chocolate. I’ll hold my breath until the end of each period, praying that my team and my family will emerge triumphant. I'll listen to all the stories afterward, and I’ll commit my heart and soul to this sport of hockey. For us, it is simply an extension of this sport of being a family. I heart hockey for all the lessons it teaches us about winning and losing, about staying connected, and about enjoying our time together while we're here. I'm all in.

A Most Selfish Act: Sorting Mail for Newtown

A tiny portion of the snowflake mail that continues to arrive daily at the  Connecticut State PTSA offices.

A month after the tragedy in Newtown, many of us are still grappling with the staggering reality of what has happened. As we work through our own fears and grief, we come back again and again to the realization that for those families who were directly affected, there is almost nothing we can personally do to help ease their pain.

And so we in Connecticut, and indeed throughout the world, have tried to find a way to show support and love by heaping millions of homemade paper snowflakes upon this little town. It started simply enough, with a Facebook request from one well-meaning Newtown parent named Bonny Marsciano. But the project soon ballooned out of control.

When the mail got to be too much for Bonny, she asked the post office to forward the snowflake packages to the CT state PTSA offices. When the PTSA office was overrun, the packages were stored offsite. The project had to end. Long after the PTSA had asked people to stop making the snowflakes, the envelopes and boxes continued to pour in.

It's absurd when you think about it. What on earth can a community beset by unimaginable grief do with this avalanche of heartfelt crafting? It would take a year to hang all the snowflakes that were delivered, even if Newtown and all of its surrounding towns had the manpower, space and stamina to do it. And then what? Still, as a symbol, the act of making and sharing those little paper cutouts, made by children and adults from every state and nearly every continent, has provided its own therapy of sorts. Early on, my own family even donated a few carefully designed snowflakes to the wintry mix. It was a pleasant diversion during a long winter break, and it helped to remind us of all that we are grateful for.

Back at the PTSA offices, it soon became clear that even sorting through the mail to get the crafts into the right hands would be a gargantuan task. So when the call went out to our school’s PTA that help was needed to sort and repackage all the lovingly wrapped envelopes and boxes, I jumped at the chance to do something. Anything.

In some ways, volunteering to help sort snowflakes was the most selfish of acts -- it was a way to demand collusion in the grief process; it was a way to verify that others (many many others) wanted to help and could find no other way to do so than to cut millions of diamonds into little scraps of paper; it was a way to confirm both the fragility and futility of life.

More importantly, participating in the project was a way to renew my own faith that community matters. Not just for the big things, like rebuilding a child's sense of security after an unspeakable tragedy, but for the little things too, like sorting the mail and reading the kind words of strangers. I needed this time. I needed this act.

I am so grateful that the CT PTSA office sent out the call for help. Just down the street from my house, where a tractor-trailor full of snowflake mail sat waiting, there was a place where I could finally do something to help someone, if only for a few hours.

Probably that someone was me. 

A map showing where packages of snowflakes originated. Every state was represented, and nearly every continent.

Pins indicate the countries that sent packages to Newtown. After awhile, we ran out of pins.