There was a post going around this week on Facebook, regarding a man that had approached a child playing basketball in his driveway, on 50th and SE Stark. 

The child's mother was home and saw the man talking to her child, and went out and confronted him.  Apparently, he was acting very strange and insisting on getting close to the child, and after the mother called the police and photographed him, he fled.

This was very upsetting to me, because it is so close to our house. 

Mark and talked to Freyja at dinner about safety...

Never get in a car with a stranger.

No grown up will ever need help from a kid, so if they ask for your help, then that is a sign that they are a badguy, and you should run away. 

You don't have to worry about hurting a grown up's feelings, you can be rude, you can ignore them and you can walk away.

If someone makes you feel uncomfortable, or yucky, you can tell us. 

Dad and I would never send anyone to pick you up that you didn't know, so never go with anyone, even if they say we sent them. 

If someone asks you to keep a secret from your parents, that is a sign they are a badguy.

If someone is bothering you at the park, look for a family, or a woman with children, to get help.  Don't be afraid to ask people to call your parents.

It goes on and on.

We try to be blasé, and empowering at the same time.

We have had this talk often throughout her life, but you never know. 

You just don't know if things sink in. 

I tell her about the time Maxwell lied to us, when he was in Jr. High, and went to party in Beaverton, and wound up having a terrible time, because he was with bad kids, but afraid to call us.

Maxwell nods, solemnly. 

Even though we were really angry about his bad choices, we would have come and picked him up.

Freyja looks astonished. 

She is typically the child that makes the bad choices, which mostly revolve around eating an entire box of Cheezits  and not brushing her teeth properly.

The notion of her brother lying and staying out all night with sketchy teenagers, is mind blowing.

I tell her about the time I was hitchhiking, and got a ride from really bad guys, with my friend Dom.  They would not let us out of the car for a long time, until I started screaming and screaming and banging my shoe against the window.

That was a really dumb thing. 

Getting into a car with strangers, is really dangerous and stupid.  

I tell them cautionary tales about smoking

JUST DON'T DO IT!!

The conversation devolves a little and Freyja wanders off to watch TV, and Maxwell and I are left at the table.

He is leaving for the weekend to a music festival in Seattle. 

At 17 he is very mature and I trust him completely. 

He got all that ratbag stuff out of his system in Jr. High.

(I hope)

Please make good choices the weekend, I could not stand it if anything happened to you, you know.  I would just disappear, evaporate, whither up and die. 

He gets up and stands behind me, and gives me a patronizing kiss on the top of my head. 

He tells me to "calm down", which makes me furious, but I know he's joking.

"And watch your teeth!"
(last year he was kicked in the face by a crowd surfer).

 I hosted the third Haiku group dinner.  Unfortunately it was hotter than HELL, but Mark busted out two fans and went and bought bags of ice and mineral water, to keep everyone hydrated.
I did a Russian themed dinner, more Imperial, less Stalin, and used my great grandmother's china.  The china is absolutely beautiful and all the pieces are in tact, which makes me wonder if it had ever been used.  I asked my father and he said he had no memory of it.  I found some etched, bell shaped wine glasses at a thrift store, that went with it, beautifully, and my spray roses happened to be blooming, so the whole table looked pretty snazzy. 

Haiku dinner for 13

Lizzy brought her homemade "devil's water", plum liqueur

Cabbage rolls, in a sweet and sour tomato broth, sauerkraut and mushroom dumplings, bacon wrapped tenderloin, with roasted potatoes, eggplant & carrot salad with dill,  pickles, radishes, pickled beets

Salmon mousse, with obligatory corny decoration.  It tasted fabulous

Mixed berry torte with lavender honey whipped cream

My great grandmother Koger's china, inexplicably, my aunt didn't want this gorgeous set.  I love it!

Monther's Day

I went to a tea at my mother's house.

My cousin was there.

She has two daughters.

they look like our family

Around the mouth

My mother sat small in her chair, with her pale skin, and her green eyes, looking like my great grandmother, around the mouth.

In her skin.

In her freckles.

She made a great deal of egg salad, that was outstanding.

She had beets and some other pickled things.

They were all quite good.

My cousin is my doppelgänger.

My cousin is my Snow-white to my Rose-red.

My cousin has black hair to my blonde.

We ate a great deal of egg salad, and beets.

We talked about my grandmother, my mother's mother.

 Who cared for me, while my mother was attending college classes.

My experience with my grandmother was quite different from my cousin.

I was my grandmother's pet.

This is an open secret.

A fact.

My grandmother baked me gingerbread and biscuits.

She cut off pieces of meat that I loved and fed  them to me, by hand, like a house cat.

My cousin remembers my grandmother tired and aproned and cranky.

I remember meat warm from the oven, in her fingers.

My grandfather, walking me home from kindergarten, the joy they both had at seeing me, in the kitchen at 3:00pm.

My younger brother and my cousin would slide down the stairwell, relentlessly.

Loudly.

Shamelessly.

While I sate silently at the kitchen table.

My mother said

"Mom made dinner and desert every day."

Every

day.

a

cake

a

pie

a cobbler

"I don't remember her face, I remember her apron."


When I was a little girl my grandmother told me the story of her own mother, a cruel woman, that pulled her youngest daughters out of school, to cook for a threshing team.

"Alice made the pies, and I made the cakes"

My grandmother could make a crazy cake, a devil's food cake, a gingerbread and a banana bread, that could rival the best bakery.

Her pies were magnificent, but she always deferred to her younger and beloved sister.

" Alice made the best pies.  Alice is the pie maker."

As a small child I stood at her side, on the "tall chair" a wooden highchair, watching her cook.

She on very rare occasions made egg noodles, rolled by hand, and cut with a butcher's knife.

My grandfather favored potatoes.