Casserole Will Kill You

My middle son, we'll call him Dickens, loves to eat fish. However, he, like his dad, does not love composite food like casseroles. When my dear wife, Roots, made a tuna + mac and cheese + peas concoction the other day, my daughter, Homegrown, loved it. But, our dear Dickens told her, "Don't make that stuff mom! It kills my baby girl!"

My wife was horrified. "Your baby girl?" she asked.

"That stuff kills the baby girl in my belly." he said.

While my son was mistaken, I have to say that, were I to have a baby girl in my belly, she would no doubt wish to die if she had to ingest tuna mush with peas.

Last night, he told her not to make another dish she was making.

"I'ts good casserole." she said.

"Casserole will kill you, mom." said he.

When we lived in Maryland, and had access to innumerable restaurants, we would arrive at some eatery or other and, upon sitting down, our two eldest kiddos would begin to sing "Cala-Calamari, Cala-Calamari!" in very well-toned voices to a very specific rock and roll rhythm.

We always ate anything. There were no holes barred (although some did, after some indigestion, wish that they had been).  From Kitfo to llomo saltado, Goan goat to golden tibbs, bulgogi to pho; tripe, tendon, head, talon, soft shell and hard, we ate them all. Then, we moved home to the Midwest.

Kids - they say that if a young child breaks their arm it takes just a few weeks to repair. Well, it only took a few weeks for our kids to go from a pack of Andrew Zimmern Jr.s to Carl's Jr.s. Where we live, variety is not available unless you bring it home. It took no time at all for our children to decide that they didn't like anything that wasn't on the school cafeteria's menu.

This year, in an effort to unisolate our children's palates, we have spent a lot of time making some out of the way recipes. Some are really good. The kids have been involved, and they truly enjoyed them. One of my favorites is as follows:

Recipe:
Delicious Lime Cilantro Chili Octopus/Squid that the whole family will enjoy!

Go to your nearest fishmonger. For us, that means the Little Saigon area of OKC. Order 3 to 4 lbs of baby octopus or small squidlings.

At home, gather your kids (I like to have at least three junior helpers, otherwise my fingers get pruney) near the sink. Place your clutch of cephalopods in a bowl in the sink, reach in and pluck them out one at a time. Bend the tentacles back from their origin and squeeze. The beak, hidden within, will pop out. The kids love it. Discard said beak.

(Note: If you are cleaning squid: inside the mantle of the squid is a longish piece of what can only be described as clear plastic. No person put it there - although it may be proof of a Creator who dabbles in the manufacture of petroleum products - there will also likely be an ink sac and maybe even a half-digested shrimp. Remove these.)

Now the serious bit: Rinse your Octopus/Squid then place in a nice glass container. Squeeze the juice of about six or seven limes into the this container.

Add a few dashes of Worcestershire Sauce

Add two tablespoons (more, if you are like me) of Siracha or a comparable chili sauce

Add a pinch or five of salt

A good tablespoon of black pepper

Press in five cloves of garlic

Put in (I know it sounds crazy, but trust me) one tablespoon of Brown Sugar

Cut up one bunch, as defined by Wal-Mart, of Cilantro, and add to bowl.

Now, get your hands and the kiddos' hands busy mixing this marinade. Don't let the kids walk off to go to the restroom or to rub their pinkeye until they have thoroughly washed their hands. The chili sauce takes no prisoners.

Leave this gloopy concoction in the fridge for an hour, two if you have the time. Now, it is time to put it on the grill. Because of the science of Ceviche, you needn't worry too much about under cooking here. Using tongs, place each octopus out on the grill so that it gets ample exposure. You don't want a dog-pile of sea creatures mounding up like some fishy tower of Babel - spend some time, let them each cook to perfection.

In order to ensure maximum enjoyment, cook the octopus on the grill until the longer, thinner bits of the tentacles are nice and crunchy.

Bring the pile of octopus to the kitchen table on a single plate - we don't love washing dishes, so I better not see a single utensil, separate plate, or "my own plate." Add some fresh cilantro. Everyone dig in. Your hands are your utensils. Enjoy.

Even (former presidents and) Dickens's baby girl gives this one the thumbs up!

Mister Doctor

What's in a name?

Earlier this year I took my middle son, 2 years old, to the city to see his grandparents and great-grandparents. While in the city, we stopped at different shops and a restaurant. Three or four times that day someone, in fact they were all ladies, asked the kiddo, "What's your name?"

His response? "Mister Doctor."

I had a great laugh, and passed that little gem along to the relatives. I brought it home, where my wife and the oldest two kiddos, 4 and 6, had a good laugh of their own.

It is hard to know what goes on in the minds of these kids. Whatever it is, it is something close to real magic. Names - true names - some writers have argued, are the keys to magic. The idea goes as follows: If you can know something's or someone's true name, you have power over it. Of course, this implies that true names are a sort of arcana, unknowable to the average Joe. It takes an especially astute and perceptive intellect to divine or discover what name applies to the soul of a thing.

In our family we have scores of names for each other. Nicknames are prevalent, and their creation runs rampant. My son calling himself "Mister Doctor," though funny to us and obviously a bit bizarre to the random ladies who got it for their answer, is perfectly acceptable here. I could stand up, walk to the back of the house and call out, "Mister Doctor?" and, although he might say, "That's not my name!" it would only be my middle son who answered.

My colleagues at work, when I used to work on the East Coast, were shocked to here me address my wife as Roots, Rudy, Robotics, Rebs, Reebs, Rudolph, Little, Beebop, and I have no idea how many others. It's the same for the kids: apart from his given name, my oldest son will answer to a large number of names. Among them are: O'Malley, Federico, Ghost Rider. My daughter's current name of power? Homegrown. The middle son's current name? Dickens or Rundus. The rookie (2 months old) has already accumulated a number of names: Wad, Tiny, Hulu, Huffington.

What is it with these names? Why won't I type out their real names here?

Maybe the writers are right. Probably your mother only yelled out your full name - First, Middle (initials optional), Last - when she was very serious about something. It stopped you in your tracks. It held you like spell.

I think we use these nicknames like jargon. They are an esoteric language. Like an inside joke - a single word invokes within the knowing person an entire story, a series of stories, that unite the hearer to the speaker, but leave the uninitiated in the dark - these names carry the weight of shared experience, the laughter at embarrassing memories, hard times passed. These names bear the gift of ownership. I belong to them, and them to me.

Mister Doctor is much warmer than a full four name title. It says, hey, I remember that time you and I took that trip to the city and you told everyone that was your name. It is magic. The memory it brings to mind holds me here, smiling, eager for more. Maybe for that one day it was his true name.

   Mr. Doctor (Not, in fact, my son)

Who Do You Think You Are?

Friday, my oldest son and my daughter were doing dishes. They were at it for some time, when I heard my wife address them. She said something like, "Guys, you need to go ahead and finish up those dishes."

I was in the front room editing some exciting stuff my brother had written, so I couldn't see what all was going on, but I got the gist: They were working along pretty well. They made jokes, and got a lot of the kitchen wet. They never really stopped, but a long time had passed and, really, they hadn't made much progress. There were still a lot of dishes to do.

They worked a bit longer in silence. I went on reading. My wife went on doing whatever she was doing. My daughter scooted her step stool back from the counter top - I could hear the screechy rumble of the thing being thrown into reverse - and turned to her mother.

"Mom, I want to be like you." she said. "I don't want to do dishes anymore; I'll just take care of the baby."

A silence fell in the house. I was in the front room, and the wife was somewhere between the dish-washing kiddos and me. My oldest son must have stopped. I imagined his jaw hanging open, white plate in hand dripping water slowly down on the no-man's-land between the sink and the dishwasher. My daughter, I knew, would be sporting a most clever expression on her perfect little four-year-old face. She must have known that she had delivered what we would call "a good one."

I think red ink from my pen pooled on its tip and hung there, frozen in the act of making a dive for the run-on sentence far below it, as if it too were waiting to hear mom's reply.

A burst of laughter filled the house. I am not sure whether I laughed first, or if it were my wife, but we laughed long and hard. My oldest son, ever the sensitive peacemaker, no doubt laughed a laugh of relief - he would never say something like that to his mother. He dislikes any hint of tension.

It is excellent being a parent. You get to see yourself, and hear about yourself, from the perspective of people who are probably the most honest customers you will ever find.

The other day we were discussing the concept of "sedentary" and that of "living a sedentary lifestyle." The kid's inputs were thick with buzzwords they had picked up from some health day at school. We trotted out various definitions of sedentary, none of which would please Mr. Webster, and I worked to stop mom from giving known examples of people who might help define the terms for the kids.

My oldest son, who is six, said, "Well, that means dad is sedentary because he just looks at auctions all day."

The statement, while I would argue against its veracity, was a score for the boy - a good one. Everyone had a good laugh. Mom high fived our son, my daughter cackled with glee, I played the offended party and had a great laugh myself.

It taught me a few things: Kids pay attention to what you do, even when you think they are otherwise contented or preoccupied; and what's more, whatever it is you are doing matters to them - makes its mark.

Right now, I am spending too much time typing this entry. The kids are watching.

Bad Finger

Driving the kids home from soccer practice the other evening, my son asked me, "Dad, what do you call this finger?"

He was looking curiously at his index finder.

"That's your index finger," I said, "or, maybe it's your trigger finger."

"Index finger?" he asked, confused, "I thought it was your pointer finger."

"Yeah, you can call it a pointer finger."

"Dad?" he asked again, this time holding his right middle finger between his left thumb and fingers. He was looking at it with some serious hesitation. "Dad, what do you call this finger?"

"Oh, that's your middle finger." I said.

"I, uh," he began, "I thought it was your bad finger."

Keeping my eyes on the road, and struggling to keep a straight face, I asked, "Well, where did you hear that?"

"My friend at school told me it was called your bad finger. She's just always messing with her bad finger because she knows it's bad."

This was really difficult. I really wanted to laugh. My jaw tingled. I was not sure if I could get a word out without laughing. So, for a moment, I was silent.

"Dad?" he began again, "What kind of bad stuff can you do with your bad finger?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed. After that, I laughed some more. 

It was time to explain. I had to inform my boy that in this world there were such things as hand gestures with meanings that were negative or positive or meaningless based on culture. I never taught him to flip someone the bird, as we used to say.

He was appeased. I kept thinking about his question. I remember Tom Waits in Rumble Fish, giving someone the finger by turning an imaginary crank or reel, he slowly brought his bad finger up full-staff. I remember thinking that was so clever when I was a kid. Now it seems akin to this young lady in my son's class fiddling with her middle finger just because she knows it's bad. 

I told my wife; she laughed. From time to time, in the car, or at supper, or maybe while we're doing dishes, I will look over at her and she, with heavy lidded eyes and a suggestive expression, will be slyly touching the middle finger of her right hand with thumb and finger of her left. I laugh every time.

When I was my son's age, I had no idea there was a bad finger; but we did play a game called "The Finger" - pronounced: "The Fiiiiiingaaaaaah" in an Vaudevillian Count Dracula voice. In this game, my little sister, would chase my cousins and I around our house of my Grandma's. She would run around with her index - let's say "pointer" - finger sticking out like E.T.'s glowy one or a knight's couched lance. If she poked you you were out. It seems odd now, but I don't think anyone else was ever "it" as in tag or hide and seek. My poor Sis, always the bad finger.

Hey, that reminds me, she got married yesterday. Congrats, Sister. If I could see you, I would give you the thumbs up.