Finally, Fine Dining!

We've had some fun on here guessing what the meals my son whips up on his night to cook dinner are. I give him an "A" for his desire to be creative in an attempt to come up with something that may, one day, become his "specialty." After lent, he placed his first "post-lent" plate of food in front of me.

I had been bracing myself. Meat was back on the menu and I had no clue what he would attempt. When he placed the plate before me, I jumped back and with serious surprise proclaimed that the meal he had presented to me was not "blog-worthy."

"I didn't have time to mess this one up!" He explained.

"How am I supposed to keep my readers guessing when it comes to figuring your meals out if you're going to start serving dishes that look like this?"

"How come you only take pictures of the messy ones?"

I had to admit that he was right. There's no law or rule that states I can only post the mysterious meals. I mean, I did jump at the chance to photograph the marvel that was a turkey that I featured in a post entitled "Redemption." I nearly missed an opportunity to showcase a job well done. I grabbed my camera, and snapped a shot of that evening's meal.

This was dinner.

Go ahead, click on the picture to view it at full size. It's not scary at all! If you're so inclined, you may leave him kudos in the comment box. ;)

History of Mother's Day

On a recent trip to visit my parents, we stopped by the birthplace of Mother's Day in Grafton, West Virginia, which neighbors my hometown. Not many people know about Anna Jarvis, or her birthplace, or her mother, or how the holiday that's been celebrated for one hundred years even began, so I thought I'd share a couple of pictures, and historical information I was able to gather at West Virginia's Wild and Wonderful online travel magazine.


Here's a snippet of an article by Melissa Butheau:

It is said that nothing is stronger than a mother's love. But in the case of Anna Jarvis, it was a daughter's affection and dedication that led to the creation of Mother's Day in 1908. Founded in the West Virginia town of Grafton – and celebrating its 100th anniversary this year – the holiday was inspired by Anna's late mother, Ann Marie Jarvis. (read more...).

You may also want to visit the website for Anna Jarvis' Birthplace Museum, as well as the International Mother's Day Shrine.

Those of us who grew up where it began (I said where, not when!) know it's more than just a Hallmark holiday. It's a day to thank you for all you do, all that you represent, and all the sacrifices that you make.

For the moms who read the ramblings of this dad, I wish you a very Happy Mother's Day.

After all, without mothers, there would be no fathers.

Understimulated

Did anyone else receive their "Stimulus Package" payment, yet? Have you already spent it?

I remember a time when I could think of all sorts of things to spend "extra" money on. Of course, back then, the electronic gadgets I purchased could have been bought with about the amount of money Uncle Sam kindly deposited into my checking account. But now, the things I would be saving money to afford cost twice the amount of this "Stimulus" payment.

So here I sit, wondering what $600 will buy these days.

I checked Amazon.com to see if there was anything interesting to buy. I clicked on "Electronics," then decided to search by price from "high to low." What came up was a bunch of stuff I'd never heard of that sold for over a million bucks each. I went a few pages in, thinking that I'd be into the hundreds before long, but on page 7, there was a Sony laptop selling for $99,999.

I'm assuming it must cook or drive perform brain surgery or something. Whatever the case, my bank account was not stimulated enough to be shopping in that arena, so I searched in the other direction, from "low to high."

I found a ton of cables and cell-phone accessories listed at a penny. If my math is correct, I could buy 600,000 of these things, right? How much fun would that be? I don't even think the box on the order page at Amazon would accommodate a number that large.

I kept scrolling. On page 33, there was an ink tank (presumably for a printer) for $2.02.

I'm thirty-three pages in, and still not where my stimulus payment wants me to be. I shifted gears with the hopes of cutting to the chase, and clicked on "Audio & Video: TVs & HDTVs."
The search defaults to "Bestselling," and the best selling TV costs $1523.99.

Samsung LN46A550 46-inch 1080p LCD HDTV

Sweet, right? Unfortunately, I need another two year's worth of stimulus payments in order to cash in on that baby, so I gave up. The larger screens were two and three thousand dollars, and the government hasn't stimulated me enough for that.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to sound unappreciative, as I do appreciate the intent behind these refunds, but I'm not clear on just how people will be utilizing it to stimulate the economy. So much of what I've been reading indicates that people will most likely pay down current debt, and for those who are being swallowed alive by mortgages that are out of control, will be using it to make ends meet for a month. Without knowing if the dollar has gone as low as it can go, are we really rushing out to spend this money frivolously? Aren't most of us spending cautiously right now, even when it comes to spending "extra" money?

Looks like for now that my money will be stimulating my savings account. Or, like so many others, I'll be stimulating an already overly-stimulated industry by spending that money on the next twelve tanks of gas I purchase.

"Miracles" During Holy Week

Christos Anesti!

As joyous an occasion as it was, Christ's Resurrection wasn't the only miracle that was observed around here during Holy Week (which I must say was an amazing time, at least while we were at the church).

My son's disrespectful behavior during the week leading up to Holy Week came to a miraculous halt following a serious discussion regarding his snide remarks, his unwillingness to answer simple questions with anything other than "you keep asking me all these questions," (which, clearly, I already knew), his lack of respect for not just me, but my home and my possessions, as well as those of others, his lack of remorse when he's "caught," and his argumentative attitude over every single subject. Yes, every single one.

I assured him that the answers to his questions, which are usually met with an affirmative reply would be a guaranteed "no" until he changes his tune.

That's when what I refer to as "Suck Up Tour 2008" began.

On the first leg of this tour, while trying to come up with something other than carrying a 12-ounce glass of water a whole three steps to do something "nice" for me, a staple miraculously appeared in a towel my son used to wipe his fingerprints off of my less-than-a-year-old stainless refrigerator. A miracle that would have prevented that towel from leaving a huge, squiggly scratch at eye-level on the refrigerator has not yet occurred.

The miracle of an apology did, though. Even though it was accompanied by "You can't think I did that on purpose!" Which I assured him I did not, but reminded him that even though I had asked him to just use the handle on the door, they were--by his own admission--his fingerprints he was cleaning off, and that he probably wouldn't have even thought to clean up after himself had he not been looking for a way to make up for the disrespect he had shown me for the two weeks leading up to this event. In addition, the only person doing laundry before me is a child who shoves everything he finds into his pockets, which could have been how the staple became embedded into the towel (which is one of the ones that I usually use to dry my car and clean the hardwood floors!). I assured him that I wasn't mad at him for scratching the fridge, but didn't see how he could blame me for being a little upset that something so new is already damaged, and that the resulting damage would be staring me in the face for the next ten years or so. I did use this as a teaching moment, illustrating for him how accidents can often occur while you're trying to do something good, which is why I get so upset when they occur when he's doing something wrong. Choosing to do the wrong thing or simply being careless (as was the case when the handlebar of his bike scraped the entire driver's side of my car--two doors and the rear quarter panel--when it toppled over sideways as I was pulling out of the garage) and causing damage in the process is avoidable. An accident while you're trying to help out is more easily understood.

Then I reminded him that I had purchased stainless steel refrigerator wipes, in part because I couldn't believe they existed, and in part because I thought every responsible stainless appliance owner was supposed to have them.

Several eyeglasses that looked much better on my son's face than the over-sized (and overpriced) $350 pair he figured--after nearly an hour of looking at every pair of frames in the store--"would do, I guess" appeared out of nowhere on the rack containing the frames that were completely covered by insurance. Of course, they only appeared after a near-tantrum, an unreasonable response from a sales clerk, the realization that the insurance wouldn't cover a single penny of the $350 way-too-big-for-his-face-and-his-head frames, a stern lecture on how behaving like a spoiled seven year-old would land him the glasses of my choice, the explanation for having insurance to keep out-of-pocket costs down, an unanswered question as to what he would spend $350 more than he had to pay in order to own, and a second chance from a different, awesome, sales clerk who actually listened to reason.

Some miracles require more work than others. I view the second chance to make a reasonable selection as a miracle in itself.

The remote control for the TV has miraculously stopped hitting the floor during the times that my son is watching TV. Of course, this miracle occurred only after I abruptly ended TV-time after repeatedly asking him to stop trying to juggle the remote control and dropping it onto the hardwood floor while he was watching. He didn't feel he had enough warning before the punishment was rolled out. I feel he was ignoring the warnings. I win.

The second room he was designing for himself miraculously disappeared when I left a note reminding him that his bedroom was down the hall, which is where the pillow, alarm clock, boom box, deck of cards, Rubik's cube, juggling balls, books, and the tray he fashioned out of the lid of a cardboard box to serve as an on-the-floor nightstand belonged. I had given him permission to juggle in that room, not build a summer home.

His answer? "But I like to listen to music when I juggle."

As if this explains the rest of the stuff he had arranged more neatly than he does anything in his room.

I'm all about music, but I still didn't see why he would need an additional space in the house when he already had a room and a bathroom of his own, space in my office where I've set him up with a desk that he never uses, storage in the dining room hutch, a drawer in a bureau in the TV room, space in the coat closet off the living room, and storage in the garage for all those wheeled things he never uses once he owns them. Besides, he listens to it loud enough that he would be able to hear it quite clearly if he just turned the radio on in his room and walked the fifteen steps to this new space he had invaded. I said "That's great. Bring your boombox in when you juggle, then return it to your room when you're done."

"But I--" was the last thing he said before his eyes welled up with tears.

I know. It was breaking my heart seeing a boy who had to suffer with having only one bedroom.

Did I mention he'll be 16 in September? Nothing is ever enough, is it?

I told him I would probably understand if he had to share a room with someone, but as it is, he has plenty of room, so there's no reason to squat on additional territory with the hope that he could claim more space for himself. I assured him that he could use that room over the garage as a place to practice juggling, but he could not move into it.

"Am I allowed to rearrange my room?"

"Of course."

"I need more uninterrupted space. The lamp is on one side of the bed, and the nightstand is on the other, which interrupts the space."

Do they teach this stuff in school? Where does this kind of talk come from?

I told him it was his room, he could move what he wanted, just don't block the door in case I had to get him out quickly in the event of a fire or a tornado or dinner or something.

On Holy Saturday, I told him I'd finally purchased "The Passion of the Christ," so we could watch it together, which was met with an eye-roll and a heavy sigh before he said "I don't want to." I told him that it was a well-made movie, in my opinion, and that it would help explain the part in the Creed where we say "He was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered, and was buried."

"I don't like it."

Did I mention he's going to be 16?

"How can you say you don't like it if you haven't even seen it?"

"I don't feel like reading." (He was aware that the movie had subtitles)

"You love to read."

"Isn't it, like, three and a half hours long?"

"No. But that's fine. Seems to me that if it were any other 'R-rated' movie, you'd be complaining about not being allowed to watch it. Go juggle if you want. I'll watch it alone."

(Insert miracle here).

"R?"

In the end, he thought it was a decent movie, and my priest felt it was good that he had the chance to see it before we attended the Resurrection Service that night. My son's biggest problem with the movie was that Judas' legs shouldn't have been that stiff when he hanged himself. He felt they should have been swinging all over the place.

I'll explain what rigor mortis is another day.

Orthodox Holy Week

It is Holy Week in the Orthodox Church, so I will not be posting again until after we celebrate Pascha, which is the Eastern Orthodox equivalent to "Easter."

During this week, Orthodox Christians around the world will gather for services at their parishes each night of the week. We will be transported to the days of Christ's passion, the crucifixion, His burial, and ultimately, in the most beautiful service I have ever seen, His Resurrection.

As our priest so eloquently stated in his Palm Sunday sermon today, this is not just a commemoration of the events that took place 2000 years ago. We are transported through our faith, and are living those moments. We will see Christ on the Cross, we will witness His death and descent into Hades to free the souls who had gone before Him. We will take Him from the Cross and carry Him to His burial.

Having participated in the Holy Friday service at my parish last year, when I was blessed to have been chosen to help carry the kouvouklion (Christ's tomb), I can tell you that this service is one of the most moving I have ever witnessed. There is a truly heavy sense of mourning, but unlike other funeral services I have attended, it is accompanied by the enormous and joyful anticipation of His Resurrection.

We're in for a week as edifying as it is long, which is what we have been trying to prepare ourselves for during the last five weeks. This is, literally, the home stretch. We have been preparing not only our bodies through fasting (from more than just foods like meat, dairy, oil, and egg), but through prayer, we have also been trying to prepare our hearts.

The Penitential Prayer of St. Ephraim is a prayer we pray daily during the six weeks of Lent:

O Lord and Master of my life!
Take from me the spirit of sloth,
faint-heartedness, lust of power, and idle talk.

But give rather the spirit of chastity,
humility, patience, and love to Thy servant.

Yea, Lord and King! Grant me to see my own errors and not to judge my brother, for Thou art blessed unto ages of ages. Amen.

Dr. Maria Khoury, an Orthodox children's book author who attends St. George Greek Orthodox Church in Taybeh, Palestine, is hoping to attend midnight services at the Church of the Resurrection, and be present at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Christ was entombed and rose from the dead. A miracle occurs at this holy place each year at Pascha. It is the miracle of Holy Fire. If conditions are such that she can travel from Palestine to Jerusalem, she told me she would light a candle for me at the tomb. The mere thought that a candle would be lit for me at such a holy place, in the midst of a miracle no less, is something I could never have imagined happening in my lifetime. Please keep her in your prayers.

To my Orthodox brothers and sisters: I pray that you have a blessed Holy Week and a glorious Pascha. May you carry His Light into the world to do God's Will, embrace this new beginning, and give glory to God for all things.

"It is what it is..."

Could someone please explain to me how this became such a popular catchphrase? I have heard it no less than ten times this week.

Of course it is what it is.

I can't be what it isn't.

Of course, there are some who might insist that it is what it wasn't. I can see how that could work, especially when you consider an adult who, over time and a few biological processes, is no longer a child. The adult is what it didn't used to be, or wasn't, which was an adult, because when he or she was what he or she was, the adult he or she was a child.

He or she is, however, still a person. So that person is still technically what he or she was. Isn't he or she?

The same with a seed that grows. It is a plant now, which it wasn't when it was a little old seed.

There was a time in my life when I would have bet my bottom dollar that it is what it ain't. But after years of fancy book-learnin', and laying off the sauce, I have determined without a doubt that it always was what it was.

I know. Dumbest ramble ever. I actually think about this stuff .

But it is what it is.

Holding Hands with a Martian

Ok, I have it listed as one of my favorite movies in my Blogger profile because I assumed that-- given the premise of the movie--it would be.

And it now is.

I have also joked that the screenplay for this movie must have been lifted from the pages of my life. After all, I am the only single, dog-owning, adoptive father I've ever known.

"Martian Child" is a movie based on the true story of a single dog-owning author who adopts an abandoned Martian wannabe. I'll spare you the many similarities between taking on an eight year-old Martian and adopting an eleven year-old "wizard," but what struck me the most in this movie was a scene that so many might have missed.

In that scene, the young boy, Dennis, is walking about a half step behind his adoptive father. You see John Cusack's character (David) reach back to get his keys out of his pocket. In that same instance, you see that little boy instinctively reach for his hand.

But the hand that little boy reached for went right back to the coat pocket.

Early in our life as father and son, I barely caught a similar moment as we were leaving a grocery store. I had reached out to keep him from getting ahead of me as we crossed the parking lot, and as I was reaching to stretch my arm across his chest, I saw his little hand raise up in an effort to take hold of mine. It was a quick action, and once my hand had reached its destination on his chest, he quickly lowered his hand to his pocket.

I'm not always the quickest thinker, so this took me a second to process. But had I not caught that little motion of his hand being lowered back into his coat pocket, I might have missed it completely. Just like David (John Cusack's character) in "Martian Child." He didn't know to look for it. He wouldn't have been expecting it. But it was there. If you've seen the movie, maybe you missed it, too.

I figured it out before we proceeded to cross the parking lot, and placed my hand on the back of his head and brought him closer to me so he wouldn't get hit. I could literally feel his neck relaxing against my palm. I remember being a little surprised. I had assumed my touch, and any effort to physically "control" him, would be met with some resistance.

Maybe I put too much thought into it, as I'm fairly certain my son wouldn't recall this quiet little gesture on his part. But the message was--as I think back on it--nothing short of monumental.

That was the first time he reached out to me. I interpreted that as the first time he had sent a signal that he trusted me to keep him safe. I'm not a psychologist, but I know how difficult an issue trust can be for foster children. I didn't know what that sort of signal might look like.

For biological parents who have held their children's hands since they began to toddle, this would have been an instinctive, everyday happening, and probably would have ended about the time your child entered a double-digit age.

For me, holding my child's hand began when he was eleven.

I thought about this the next time we crossed a street together. I was a little afraid that he wouldn't reach for me again, especially since it didn't exactly work the last time he tried.

So I held out my hand as an offer to keep him safe with me. He accepted it, then gently and patiently rested his head against my arm until it was safe for us to cross.