My Nostalgia Shield.

"You're the only one who knows when you're using things to protect yourself and keep your ego together and when you're opening and letting things fall apart, letting the world come as it is - working with it rather than struggling against it. You're the only one who knows." ---Pema Chodron

This quote is me. At Thanksgiving. At any holiday really. Struggling, fighting, throwing an emotional temper tantrum because things aren't going my way. Because what I see isn't what I want to see. People have changed. I've changed. But I want things to be as they were. As they were all those years ago when Thanksgiving was perfect, the potato rolls were on the table, the country ham was never too salty and the turkey was never too dry. When all your loved ones were still with you, and the only stress you had was whether or not you'd have room for Nana's perfect pecan pie.

The memory you have in your heart is always perfect. Unblemished. All year long I eagerly await Thanksgiving because I crave the closeness and the gratitude and the peace that comes from family. Okay, I just wrote that and re-reading it microseconds later I don't even believe it myself. If family=peace Hollywood movie writers wouldn't have any material. But somehow in my mind I equate Thanksgiving with all the happy memories I have of that time when I was a child. It's like a perfect portrait of nostalgia. Not saccharin like Norman Rockwell, but certainly something close to it.

Except that picture doesn't even exist. Life isn't a stagnant oil painting. We grow up. Loved ones die. People move away. Things change. And the picture is a lie anyway. It doesn't show everything. It only shows the happy, pretty surface, not all the pain, baggage, and crap the kids in the picture carried into their adulthood. Carried with them like a second skin, refusing to ever let go. You can't see that in the picture. In the picture all is well. It's this perfect, unrealistic picture I'm carrying around with me, constantly trying to recreate. Struggling to recapture in vain. Not ever looking past the pretty surface, hoping to forget the painful shadows and only see the pretty highlights.

In my head this is how Thanksgiving is SUPPOSED to be. Happy happy. Pretty pretty. Perfect. And so every Thanksgiving rather than accepting what is, surrendering to what I am and what I have, and what I can handle, I fight against what I think it should be. What definitely ISN'T there, but what in my mind SHOULD be there. Instead of living in gratitude, I'm struggling and fighting.

I haven't accepted change and so I use nostalgia and memories as shields - to guard against the very real fact things are different. We don't get together as a family anymore, I don't have children, and things are never again going to be the way they were. And that's okay. I can't live in the past. It's getting tiring. I am grateful for Pema's words, because in reading them it's helping me to be aware. I might not be ready to surrender my shield just yet, but she promises that maybe relief from all this fighting is in sight....awareness is the first step.

Trouble is, this whole blog is about remembering. Recording and remembering for when I can no longer. How do you record and remember without totally getting lost in the past? And how do you accept change and begin to move through the holidays without losing yourself in nostalgia? Without fighting. Accepting and moving on. Being truly grateful for what you have instead of spinning and spinning in this longing for what you think you've lost. Creating new memories rather than longing to bring back the old ones. They wouldn't be as great as you remember anyway, would they? If hindsight is 20/20 then nostalgia is Blu-Ray...

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Fear of Frying.

I have a phobia about cooking, Any and all cooking coming from my own two hands. I just know from the moment I start pulling down pots and pans it's going to turn out TERRIBLE. It's going to SUCK. It's going to taste like crap, the people I serve it to are going to get sick. People are going to give me a look that says, "You're kidding, right?" So why do I write a food blog? Why am I writing right this very minute about appetizer anxiety? Because lately I have found two cures for my food fear. Two REAL cures that appear to be ridding me of a life-long phobia I have about cooking. Two cures that once I realized were there, seemed so very simple.

I've always had this fear. Creating a meal gets my heart racing, my hands clammy. The very thought of bringing out the chopping board fills me with a dread much like getting a root canal. Don't even get me started about planning full-0n dinner parties, or barbecues or Thanksgiving get-togethers. I've had full blown anxiety attacks from even opening my old cookbooks to look for recipes. The act of even LOOKING at an ingredient list for Herb Stuffing gives me stomach cramps because even though it looks scrumptious on the page, I know it's going to taste like cat litter.

Last Christmas was supposed to be a simple affair - a small brunch with just my husband, my sister, her boys, and my Dad. All I had to do was make some eggs and make sure the house was clean. Hubby was even available to help. But two hours before they were scheduled to arrive I was crumpled on my bathroom floor, paralyzed with anxiety and stomach cramps. They arrived to find me in my bathrobe, prone on the couch. I feigned flu - and I guess it wasn't all feigning. I really was sick. All because I had to cook.

What am I so afraid of? Failure obviously. But why? One reason is my mother. I always preface stories about her with the phrase, "She was Martha Stewart before there was one," or "She made Julia Child look like a rank amateur." Because she did. Growing up in the 1950's, and MAJORING IN HOME ECONOMICS (yes, you heard right) at Longwood College gave her a step up onto the Betty Draper platform of housewifery. Yep, she had to major in Home Economics to land a husband (instead of Art, her first choice), because everyone knows a woman can't make a living as a painter. So cooking was her art which she practiced almost as much as her painting. Tuesday night dinners were exotic affairs often served by candlelight (for mood), and much to the chagrin of my Dad, who always complained he could never see his food.

She experimented with Hawaiian, Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, and Indian when all you could buy at your local A&P was LaChoy ("Makes Chinese food........SWING American! Think of it!). Pretty exotic stuff in the early to mid 70's. When your Mom is making Baked Alaska from scratch on a Thursday night and the rest of your friends are eating Nilla wafers for dessert you sort of get ingrained in your head that you just MIGHT be set to a higher standard.

I tried. She pulled me into the kitchen, showing me the basics like greasing and flouring a pan, or cutting a carrot for your mise en place. But Mom always saved the fancy stuff for herself, like arranging the whipped egg white on the mound of mint chocolate chip ice cream (with a brownie base) for the Baked Alaska. So maybe I got it in my head that I was never good enough. I could never BE good enough. When she arranged the 12 different kinds of made-from-scratch cookies on her cookie tree - I could eat them (when she said so). But could never ARRANGE them. That was her job.

From all this I learned dinner parties were EVENTS. The lighting, the music (usually Sinatra), the food, the linens, all of it was so important. One detail left out could ruin an entire month's preparation. It's no wonder I become apoplectic at Thanksgiving! I can remember freaking out the first time Hubby and I presented Thanksgiving to my in-laws. I had forgotten to buy potato rolls, and of course, EVERYONE knows it cannot be perfect Thanksgiving without potato rolls! Hubby tried to help, but I was inconsolable. Dinner was ruined.

When I spent weeks planning a Tex-Mex barbecue, buying multicolored pitchers to serve sangria, festive tablecloths, tumblers, party bowls, and then TWO people showed up I freaked out. I was a failure, a waste. Why did I even bother? No one likes me that's why they didn't come. They knew the food would suck and it probably did anyway.

As you can probably tell, the other reason for my cooking fear is I have some sort of sick notion if the meal isn't good, my character isn't good. A failure in cooking is a reflection of my very self. Yeah pretty messed up, but that's my head. I can't help it. At least I'm AWARE of it, right?

I wasn't always like this. For many years I was single, and out of pure boredom I would cook. I loved scones and so decided to learn to make them. If they didn't turn out, that's okay, I'll just feed them to the birds. Got bored by prepared processed meals which tasted like cardboard and so learned to make simple pasta sauce. From there I started improvising - cooking the pasta and mixing it with different things depending on my mood - pesto one night, sauteed vegetables (Provencale style) another night. Just plain with garlic and feta a third night. I ate a lot of pasta - because it was easy to make, forgiving if it turned out wrong. And if it turned out wrong the only person seeing it was me. Eventually got so adventurous I was making curries - first from a recipe, but then eventually improvising on my own. Buying fish sauce and making authentic Vietnamese shrimp and chicken soup was a Sunday afternoon adventure - a way to kill time and entertain myself when I wasn't dating anyone. No stress, no anxiety. If it didn't turn out, I'd just dump it and make some mac and cheese. Try again next weekend.

So what happened? Somewhere along the way I got married - to a guy who cooks WAY WAY WAY better than me. So of course I transferred my Mom thing onto him. Poor Hubby. Without even knowing it, he had become the object of all my childhood "not good enoughs." Somehow I got into my subconscious I had to prove my cook-worthiness (and self worth) to Hubby, just as I had to do with my mother. Being successful at Thanksgiving would prove this. Creating a magical Tuesday night dinner would also. The anxiety was crippling, but I didn't know where it was coming from. Poor Hubby. It wasn't as if he was doing anything to make me think this sort of thing was expected of me. He loves to cook and will do so at the drop of a hat! And he'd love me even if I couldn't boil water.

Realizing all this was coming from my own twisted experience was liberating. A huge weight just lifted right off. Sure, you have that first moment of, "Oh my GAWD, I can't believe my subconscious is doing this," but once again, when you're aware, you can fix it. Or at least try. So what did I do? Simple. I just pretended I was single again.

Every time I cooked, I pretended Hubby wasn't in the picture. I pretended the only person who would be eating this meal would be me. So if it was a failure, it was okay. I could just throw it away and eat mac and cheese. Just me. And you know what? It worked. By tricking my mind, my soul calmed down. My anxiety eased. Not all at once, but in steps. And every time I cooked, it got just a little better. Baby steps. But better each time.

Having a CSA was the other cure that helped baby-step it along. When you've got 16 tomatoes just on this side of too ripe and might be covered in mold tomorrow - you HAVE to figure out something to do with them real quick. Pasta sauce? Ratatouille? It forces your mind into creative cooking real fast like a smoke alarm runs you out of a burning house. Tomatoes. Rotting. Must. Cook. NOW!

Eventually all this forced creativity got me into small acts of regular food improvisation. I could look at a recipe and think, "That would taste better with a little acid, like lime juice," or "That cobbler would be WAY better with pumpkin spice instead of just cinnamon." And it was. Another baby step of confidence. Stepping away from all that fear.

Recently I've discovered not only am I as good a cook as my mother was - in some respects I am better. When I pull a homemade peach cobbler out of the oven that looks like it should grace the cover of Gourmet magazine, I still pick apart its flaws. I'm still way too hypercritical. But inside, deep, deep inside, I'm thinking, "You know, Mom never made cobbler." She BOUGHT plenty of pies, maybe even made refrigerator pies, but never a true, homemade peach cobbler. One that looks great, and I admit with much reluctance, tastes incredible. Credit goes to the CSA peaches, but also to my willingness to take a recipe and tweak it without fear. To actually NOT follow it to the letter, is a pretty big step. And to not sink into a heap of anxiety on the floor is leaps and bounds beyond anything I ever thought possible...

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Reunion.

Had an odd and strangely surreal and beautiful experience over the weekend. I went to a reunion. But not a school reunion. Well, maybe, but a different sort of school. The school of my early 20's, the school of young adulthood.

Somehow, my old roommates from when I was 20, with a little Facebook magic, managed to pull together about 50 people to come back to Richmond, VA (my hometown) for a weekend celebration of.........what? That I'm still trying to figure out.

Back in the day my friend D. was the man. Along with his partner G., he gave parties, beautiful, elegant parties. Themed parties where everyone dressed like it was 1927, complete with bobbed hair, black tie and tails, cigarette holders. Pandora's Box starring silent movie star Louise Brooks would play on the television while we all mingled about, pretending we were Gatsby. Or Daisy. Or Clara Bow. Or Gloria Swanson.

D. threw LOTS of parties. Always packed with people because he created fliers and passed them out at the dance club where we lived. I say "lived" because we went there to dance, drink, socialize and generally make fools of ourselves literally 6 nights a week. D.'s parties were spectacular - always cocktails (never beer), fabulous lighting, and he'd place huge bowls full of Benson and Hedges 100's all around the apartment so whenever somebody wanted one, all they had to do was reach over. The consummate host.

We dressed to the nines more often than not because the surroundings required it. The apartment was SPECTACULAR - like you'd just walked into the Vanderbilt estate. Beautifully painted eggplant walls, polished brass window latches (because he removed and stripped them by hand), antique sofas reupholstered in black silk shantung, Egyptian artifacts, oil paintings, the works. Very Rococo, but it worked. I loved living there. Moving in from my split level suburban shithole was like moving into the Metropolitan Museum. I had an antique armoire in my bedroom, and every time I walked out to make coffee in the morning, I felt like I should be wearing a silk robe or an antique peignoir. A friend once remarked he could never live in D.'s apartment because it looked like a museum. "How can you EVER relax?" he asked. But I love museums. Of all the places in the WORLD I'm most relaxed in a museum.

So why did I go to this reunion? Why does anybody go to a reunion? To brag? To satisfy that morbid curiosity that says, "I wonder how everybody LOOKS?!?" Isn't that why? But I didn't need or want to do any of those things. I just wanted to see them again. To give them a big ol' hug of thanks. To see my old roommates, my very first roommates as a matter of fact. Other than living with a boyfriend which turned into a DEBACLE that sent me running back home, I had never lived away from my parents. D. and G. were the friends who first taught me to be, and to live, as a free adult. Free from parents. Free to make mistakes and fall right on my ass drunk and learn that most times you have to pick up your own damn self because most of the time no one is going to be there to hold your hair.

They didn't even know they were doing it, but just by living with them, by being in that environment, they were teaching me it's okay to fall on your ass sometimes. More than that, they accepted me for who I was. At a time in my life when I felt like less than NOTHING, completely self conscious and dorky, ugly, and beyond shy, they simply said, "Come on in! Live with us! You're welcome here!" I've never forgotten it. And because of that they are, and always will be, good friends. How could I NOT go?

What were we celebrating? In a weird way I think we were celebrating the fact we had even survived that time. The substances, the casual sex, the shit we did back then? It's pretty damn lucky all of us not only came out the other side of that 1980's black hole, but came out well. Some of us own businesses, some of us have kids, 401K's, nice cars, nice houses. And all of us, at least the ones who showed up this weekend, seemed happy. And damn did everybody look fucking great! We fell into old routines, refilling our glasses with vodka and tonic, picking up the cigarettes right where we left off when we quit back in 1992. It was as if time had stood still. Or at least turned back just a little. Except for the gray hair. And the laugh lines. And the beautiful crinkles around our eyes. Crinkles we had EARNED by god.

Talked about this with another old friend that night - someone I hadn't seen in literally over 20 years. We marveled at how well and happy everyone looked and at how there really weren't any horror stories when there should be. When you think about all the shit we got away with, there really should be. But we were all there. And all okay. Imagine that?

Were there stories? Maybe there are and I'm just choosing not to remember them. Or maybe all the drugs have washed away my memory. That's completely possible. The more I think on it, there were a few. But they weren't good friends, close friends. Well, one was. I still tear up when I think of Russell and how we lost him way too young. And I'm sure there are others. I bet if we all started hanging out again, we'd remember them. Think of them. But tonight wasn't about that. It was ultimately about celebrating the ones who were here. Who had made it. The very fact D. and G. are still together (25 years!) gives me a warm glow of hope. Too cool in my book.

And of course these days, when you think of all the things "the kids" are doing at FOURTEEN, it makes the partying we did in our 20's look pretty innocent. Sure didn't feel like it at the time though. I remember D. remarking once at how it was a good thing we weren't rich, or at least one of us would end up DEAD from the 6-day benders we used to go on.

Back then we even had a schedule - we'd come home from work, eat, nap, and then get ready to go out - never before 10pm. And every day had its own specific club. Can't remember them all. Do remember Wednesday was reserved for Russian Quaaludes at the Bus Stop, then on to Fielden's (an after hours club) for more dancing, drinking, and general misbehavior. Other nights? Maybe The Pyramid - then on to Fielden's. Sneaking into Rockitz by sending one person in, then recreating the stamp she got on our own wrists with ballpoint pen to save some $$$.

Sunday brunch might be the Texas Wisconsin Border Cafe, or this other place upstairs from it that served hot dogs and drinks for $1 - sitting out there on Sunday afternoons, getting tan, talking about where we'd head to that night. All those places up and down Main Street and Floyd in the Fan where we'd drink pitchers of beer, nursing our hangovers, discussing where we should go out. The only nights we didn't go out would be Monday, possibly Tuesday. A girl needs her rest after all.

Those were heady times. No obligations other than to get to work each day by 9am. And to somehow pay off that credit card bill. And that car payment. And rent. Maybe some food.

Why the Black Celebration album image? This was our soundtrack. Sure we played other stuff - Bowie, the Cure, the Smiths (LOTS of the Smiths), Erasure, some house music. But we always came back to Dave Gahan and the boys. Every single time. Black Celebration lived on our turntable for weeks on end, providing the background noise to so many parties.

Depeche was on the turntable last night in fact - D. still has that turntable, and finally hooked it up once again. The strains of "Drive.....drive anywhere," and "Route 66" really take me back to those times. I can't say they were the BEST of times. They were good times. They were important times. I learned a lot then. We lived through a lot then. All of us.

D. and G. are even living on the same block where I used to live shortly after moving out. It's a long story - I still blame myself - for being too much of a party girl, for relying on them too much to pick up pieces I really needed to learn to gather my own damn self. But going to their house on that block last night brought it all back. I lived just over "there" from where they live now, my sister and her husband lived just "there" when they first got together in 1990, and two other good friends lived right around the corner. Yeah, I'm waxing a little nostalgic. But it truly felt like coming home. To a place you know like your own bed. Your own pillow. A place warm and safe and full of old friends. What's better than that?

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