Good Mom Bad Mom: A Procreation Deliberation

Mothers. 

We all have one.  

When I say we, I mean every living being on this planet. Reproduction is fundamental to our survival as a species.  Everyone runs on the same cycle of birth to childhood under the protection of the parents, to puberty and adulthood, when the reproductive cycle begins again.  Sorry feminists, but the ancient sentiments of man finding a good cave and spearing a yak for his woman who will be barefoot and pregnant for life do still exist, maybe not so much in our American culture, but we didn't write the book on raising kids.  Or maybe we did.  When I searched Amazon.com for books with the words "raising a child', it brought up 29,000 results.  In its rudimentary form, reproduction and parenthood sound quite simple and natural, but the world is full of people who will tell you what you're doing wrong.  

My husband is half Sicilian and half Korean, and his 80 year old mother would still cut his meat for him if she wouldn't get the malocchio, the evil eye, from him.  He will tell you with equal amounts of tenderness and embarrassment that when he was 22 and in medical school he had to ask someone how to laundry.  My mother-in-law and I have a caring relationship, but I don't think she would mind if I told you that she doesn't like that I made her grandsons, my stepsons, do their own laundry at age thirteen.  That's a cultural difference between she and I.  She was a housewife who worked hard to provide all of those physical comforts to her husband, son, and now grandchildren (typically accompanied by "Stop spoiling them, Mom!").  Her mother died and she became the "woman of the house" at age nine, cooking, cleaning and washing clothes on river rocks for her siblings and father.  That's where she comes from, and I have to remind myself of that when she shows up with garbage bags to haul her grandsons' smelly clothes to her house.  It is a caring and loving duty that she undertakes.  

Even though Dad took care of almost everything,  I always felt like my busy career oriented mom was accessible.  She finished her bachelor's degree when I was in elementary school.  During my teenage years, she traveled three evenings a week from her full time job to her master's program three hours away and back home to Perry County.  She was raised by her schoolteacher grandmother. Her mother, Grandma Jo worked at the shoe factory for 51 years.  It was natural for me to start work at 16.  Because we worked at the same place, I was always expected to work hard and be on time.  She was quite tough on me, never hesitating to unmercifully chew me out in front of staff if warranted.  And when I went home, I did my own laundry and was expected to help around the house. Admittedly I stunk at it.  I still have a hard time keeping a clean house and dirty laundry from overflowing, but guess what, so does Mom.Mom taught me her work ethic. "I don't have time to be scared, I have $%!? to do" will always be my favorite Mom-ism.   I have the luxury of working from home, something she was never afforded and maybe would never want anyway.   

For me, it's important that my stepsons know the value of a buck, how to work for it, and how to take care of their basic needs without relying on others.  We perfected the fried egg years ago.   
I think I do all right.

I don't think my mom has many regrets.

My mother-in-law thinks she has done a good job.  

Is there such a thing as a good mother?

Is there such a thing as a bad mother?

Who is to say which parenting styles are right or wrong?

My mom always told me that there's a difference between a mom and a mother, so maybe its a subconscious choice that one makes?

Maybe the children are the judge, but as someone with five stepsons, I will tell you that just because they're mad doesn't necessarily mean you did something wrong.

So am I a stepmother or a stepmommy? I guess I'm concluding that only I can decide, and my opinion is the only one that should count.  

Don't agonize over it, Erin.  Go start the fire and clean the cave.  Keep it simple.     

The Fungus is Among Us: Preparation for Woodland Adventure

The time has come.  I must prepare myself.  

Hiking boots. 

Knife. 

Jacket and hat. 

Maybe the camo.         

My bag. 

My walking stick.  

I anticipate the hunt.  A trip to the wilderness to uncover my thus far elusive prey. I see it in my dreams. I smell it, taste it. I crave it. Once you know it, you will want it too.  

Yes, my friends. The season approaches. The treasured prey I speak of...the morel, also called the hickory chicken, dryland fish, or sponge mushroom.  My Perry County cousins post photos on social media every season of their fist sized beauties. I am envious, salivating and motivated.  I prepare by reading about their hiding places. I burn their image into my mind with photographs as they can be difficult to see. I wait for my suburban lilacs to bloom, and I will know the time is right.  The blooming of the dogwood trees is another good indication.  My busy schedule the past two years has not made much room for the hard target combing of my 14 acres.  By July, I typically regret that it did not have a higher place in my Springtime priorities. But this year will be different. I am going to make the time. If you do an Internet search, you will find that foragers do not share their morel gathering spots. When people find them, they typically keep their stash a secret, some going so far as to wear camo and "Army crawl" through the woods to the riches, which of course can change season to season, further elevating the thrill of the hunt.  Most afficionados collect them to enjoy their goodness at home, some people sell them to local stores and restaurants for a premium price to be eaten by diners who frankly don't quite understand what they are eating. I, on the other hand, am extremely greedy. I want them all for myself. How convenient that their season begins just as I am cleaning up the grill! These babies don't make themselves easy to find either.  Their tall, hollow honeycomb caps blend in with the leaves perfectly and you could step on them without even noticing.  The rich black dirt around fallen trees is a great place to start looking.  Wet and warm is best, all is dependent on rain and temperature.  They can be dried and preserved for future use, but alas this humble writer is too impatient and hungry for such nonsense.  A favorite preparation of mine is to clean them well in a sink of cold lightly salted water (salt will help pull out any dirt and tiny critters), chop and create an earthy risotto to serve with a grilled steak and veggies (my meal is not complete without some green).  Add a glass or two of Cabernet and I am in Heaven.  

Or maybe you might like them fried with butter and garlic. 

Or on a rustic whole wheat pizza.  

I would love to puree them and mix them with semolina for homemade pasta.  A tagliatelle tossed with garlic infused olive oil maybe? 

I'm getting giddy! Holy mackerel! 

No, not mackerel, wouldn't go at all.  But chicken, yeah.  A light marsala with rustic red skin smashed potatoes.  

Any way you choose, it is a meal that is savored and appreciated for what it is.  

It is a labor of love.  

An exciting find.  

An adventure.  

Like Indiana Jones...and the Temple of Shroom.  

I crack myself up.  

On a serious note, if you decide to give it a try, do your homework.  Accept no substitutes.  

Happy Hunting! 

Hope Springs Irritable: Is Winter Over Yet?!

As published in the March 2014 Hibu Publications

The deep roots never doubt spring will come- Marty Rubin

Spring is on its way, and I couldn’t be happier!  I am so tired of the cold.  I know that I am not alone when I say that this was the most uncomfortable winter that I can remember.  The January cold snap gave us problems with the heating system and left me cuddling with a space heater for two days.  I’m ready for some sunshine.  I miss my garden horribly.  In the fall, I left the leaves in the backyard to ensure that the bees have a place that they can winter.  The koi in the pond have settled to the bottom for an icy nap.  I miss them and look forward to seeing them soon.  My nearly fatless dog has been dressed in layers for the past several weeks.  He misses his walks, but is very happy to be in his bed with his heating pad.  I have to keep a close eye on him as he will sneak little “accidents” in the house just to avoid the frigid temperatures.  My husband installed an awesome bathouse for me.  We had one or two curious passersby in the fall that will likely return in May and set up in there with pups, and I am so excited to have these new additions to the Team Geraci Headquarters.  For Christmas, my parents bought me a butterfly house made out of a gourd that needs to go in the shady area near the perennial bed.  My windows creak with the cold wind.  Pretty soon, they'll be opened to allow a morning breeze through the house that takes the stagnant dust off the bookcases and breathe new life into its living occupants. My dwarf citrus trees which usually occupy the warm and sunny deck in the warm months are lined up in the living room.  They look tired, cold and frankly miserable in their formation with the furniture, breathing in the dry filtered air and drinking nothing but ice cubes and mist from a plastic spray bottle.  They are yearning for the life giving sunshine drinking clean rain water.  The cool breezes that pass through the yard give them a workout strengthening their branches while the pot absorbs heat keeping the roots cozy warm.  In a few years they will give me fruit, but they need to grow up first.  I am never so excited about a huge to-do list as I am with the impending springtime multitude of tasks.  Soon I will be sewing vegetable seeds under lights in the garage.  I love the anticipation and excitement I feel when I see that first tiny little green leaf push its way up through the dirt.  Its so full of energy and strength.  The seed has been sitting in its cramped little envelope for weeks and months waiting for warm light.  I can really relate to how the seeds feel.  Perhaps that is why I enjoy gardening so much.  I am always sad to see everything die in the fall; I get attached to the plants that I raised from nothingness and into green bountiful glory.  In the fall, I wither right along with them.  Life goes on though, and I have people that depend on me to not hibernate with my garden critter family.  So here I am, sitting back in my depressing little dark and dirty spot, patient for just a little bit longer.  Soon, it will be my time to bloom, take off my socks and stretch out my ten little roots in the backyard.  I can't wait to get back out there.  Everything around me, the weather, the seeds, even the dog require my patience.  

It's on its way.  

I couldn't be happier.  

My Endorsement of Jazz: Who Rescued Who?

As published in the February 2014 Hibu Publications

February is fast coming, another busy month for this humble writer. Valentine’s Day and President’s Day are this month, but there are also some lesser known holidays, such as Love Your Pet Day (Feb. 20), Walk the Dog Day (Feb. 22), and of course International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day (Feb. 23).  February also means a lot of birthdays to me, and as much as I adore my husband, sister and niece, there is someone else who has a birthday this month.  My dog Jazz turns 11, a great milestone for this “rags to riches” pup.   
I started nudging at the husband for a dog after my elderly cats passed away. The idea of spending the day working at home without companionship was an uncomfortable proposition for me.  I did months of internet research to first find the perfect breed and then the perfect critter.  After applications, interviews and home inspections,  I made the rainy journey to Philadelphia to pick up my new “kid” just before Christmas 2011, an 8 year old Italian Greyhound from a rescue program.  I was instantly smitten with him.  He was greeted by my family warmly, and my parents and sister welcomed the new addition with sweaters and a “Grandma Blanket” which he snuggles under daily. It was obvious that Jazz was not treated well at all- his skin was dry and scaly, ears and nails filthy, bony, and mostly bald due to years of malnutrition. This was a little guy who, frankly, needed me as much as I needed him.  

There were lots of things that all of us had to get accustomed to: we had never had a family dog before, and Jazz had never had a family.  He had previously never eaten dog food, so this was all very new for his little digestive system.  I had never before had a pet that had so many needs, such as a winter wardrobe and sunscreen to protect his hairless parts during the summer.  Since he has been with us, he is much less timid than before, though we can clearly see his emotional scars.  He is my work partner and travels with me everywhere.  He loves the trips to the bank because he always gets a snack at the drive thru window.  Tenants always welcome him enthusiastically, neighbors say hello, and social media friends see frankly too many pictures.   He’s become an honorary student of my karate class.  A popular guy, like the cute star quarterback in high school, but he’ll always be Mommy’s Baby.  But like I said, he is turning 11 this year.  His hair on his face is turning gray and though he was never really the type to run around the house and play, he has more inclination to nap these days.  As I write this, he is sitting on his favorite chair in the living room, wrapped up under the Grandma Blanket and staring at me with his big eyes, whining for me to come pet him and kiss him on top of his bald wrinkly head.  Its almost time for bed, a soft crate draped with a blanket.  The heating pad inside is on a timer to click on at 8:30 so that it is toasty for him when he climbs in.  


As grateful as I am to have him (and I thank my husband regularly for such a gift), I feel very cheated. I wish he and I had found each other years ago.  He came to me as an old man, frail and uncared for.  He now lives a life of luxury, something that I think he has earned.   As with all things, he will not be around forever, so I will enjoy the time we have.  It will definitely hurt to say goodbye in the end, but I can’t live my life thinking about that.  It’s wasted time, time better spent napping in fresh clean puppy pajamas or taking a W-A-L-K.  We still have plenty of time for city and camping adventures.  Though our time together is short, Jazz and I are both better off for it.  We’re very lucky to have found each other. 
So now you know the story.  
Gotta go.  It's Cuddle Time.   

New Year's Disillusion- My Plan for 2014

Here we go, kids.  Its New Years Resolution time, or as the pessimist in me calls it, The Year's First Premeditated Implosion.  Now is the time to completely put away any of the self awareness that I may have accumulated over the last year and keep making the same old promises to myself that I know deep down I will never keep.  I love starting out the year knowing that in about a month, I will be labeling myself as a failure.  But yet, I continue to do it to myself, and I think a lot of other folks are in the same boat. Because I was curious, I researched the top resolutions for 2013 as gathered from users of social media websites.  I wasn't surprised.  Number one was change in diet and exercise, followed by save money, get organized, and drink less.  As I read this and I contemplated my experiences of the past year and what I have learned about myself, I realize something- all of these things are very general while the reasons why I have my bad habits that need "resolving" are specific.  For example, I am a sugar addict and I should cut back.  I crave sugar when I'm stressed.  If I try to cut out the sugar, I start to bite my nails.  So which one do I start with- the stress management, the sugar craving or the nail biting? Big resolution, lots of little ways it can fail, and for me, it always does.  Spending less money has the same pitfalls.  Am I shopping because I need new pants, or because I'm bored and avoiding the sink full of dishes waiting at home? Does 'stop being bored' need to be added to the resolution list?  You see how quickly it can snowball out of control?

I'm 35 now.  

I am never going to be in a size 2 again because I like being able to eat whatever I want. I need to just accept this and enjoy my dessert.  

So perhaps that's a good resolution:  Focus more time on who I am as a person.  Learn something new about myself by experimenting with who I am and what I can do.  I think that if I keep things very specific, like on a to-do list, I can check things off and my success is documented.  If I fail, what was the barrier that kept me from success? 

I think, this year, I would like to lessen my carbon footprint.  Pick a week and see how little garbage I can create.  Every time I reach for something processed, that wrapper will be staring at me.  Then come the questions- how does the piece of fruit as opposed to the candy bar make me feel? Instead of hitting the take-out place with all of its packaging for lunch break, maybe I should take along last night's leftover lasagna already packed in Tupperware.  What's the hang up there? What am I missing out on that the trip to the sandwich shop provides? It can go down deep if you follow the hole. 

My waistline wins, my compost bucket wins, my family wins because I'm cooking more instead of ordering a pizza.  I remember 'Be a better spouse and parent' from that Top10 list!

I'd also like to follow the three day detox diet designed by a Hollywood celebrity dermatologist who guarantees me beautiful skin.  Its only three days, not 365.  What if I look better and feel better afterwards? Can I take that feeling of small success and grow it into something bigger and even more meaningful?
Only if I really want to.   

So I think that's where I am for 2014.  Short, obtainable challenges that I don't have to worry about failing because they can teach me something about myself, whether I succeed or not.  Gain something from it, then try again.  

Another good resolution: Don't wait til January to get to know yourself.  Every day's a good day for that.  

Make Your Own Gift: Finding Holiday Happiness When The Rest of the Year Has Sucked

As published in the December 2013 Central PA Hibu publications

Life is much more manageable when thought of as a scavenger hunt as opposed to a surprise party.- Jimmy Buffett    

I don’t mean to bring the mood down, but the holidays aren’t as much fun as when I was a kid.  Frankly, I don’t look forward to them at all.   I really dislike the month of December.  I’m fortunate to have all of my family nearby so that I don’t have to travel a long way, but there’s still lots of preparation for meals, presents to buy, parties to plan for and attend, the Christmas cards, all of these things that have deadlines (anyone who knows me knows that I’m not great at that).  There are several birthdays in December (including my own) that need considered, and business obligations that need tended to before the end of the fiscal year.  These are the things that are the constants year after year, no matter what else is going on.   Its only when December and the holidays come around that you start thinking about things that have happened over the past 11 months.  I lost my last 2 grandparents this summer- my grandfather, whose birthday is in December, passed away in early June, and of course, Grandma Jo left in August.  For me, that’s when it starts to hit home.  Both Mom and Dad are without parents for Thanksgiving and Christmas for the first time.   When my stepson passed away 6 years ago, that first Thanksgiving without him was the toughest for my husband’s family.  So my brain starts getting into those planning stages, not only to cope with the stress, but also with the grief that holidays can bring.  You can’t exactly take it off your schedule so that you won’t have to deal.  So where can I find my comfort this year?  Obviously with family, the only people in the world who can understand my feelings, because they share them with me.  But my crew and my husband’s crew are quite different in their own ways.  My inlaws are the Sicilian-Korean-Catholic New Yorkers.  Every Christmas Eve has been pretty much the same since the family came to this country in the 1920’s.  Fish dinner that includes all of my father-in-law’s Mediterranean tradition with my mother-in-law’s unique Asian touch, relatives coming from out of town crammed into their tiny dining room elbow to elbow, just like it used to be in my husband’s Bronx childhood.  Wine and conversation deep into the night, games, laughter, eating until you are ready to burst.  That’s every single Christmas Eve, and there’s a comfort that comes with that consistency.  But on the other side of the mountain, literally and figuratively, this is will be the first holiday for the Perry County side that will be missing an entire generation at the table.  We’re a small (but rowdy) crew as it is, so the loss of two will be felt more than ever this year.  My sister and I already started talking with Mom about it, and we’ve pretty much decided that we’re going to let my young niece and nephew decide how we’re going to do it this year.  Maybe we’ll have pancakes and bacon for Thanksgiving dinner instead of turkey, followed by a Wii Sports Championship Tournament.  Why not? Sounds like fun.  Let’s keep it exciting, bring some carefree kid-ness back into it.  Take a break from licking our emotional wounds, make some popcorn garland and decorate the pine tree in the backyard for the deer that come through in the early evening.  We may enjoy it so much that we can create new family traditions that my niece and nephew can pass to their kids.  Even the Sicilian traditions with their “old country” roots had to start somewhere.  Despite the fact that both sides of my family are very different, we all find comfort together because we share the same human experience.  We should embrace the  new and the old, finding our own happy place within it all.  And it’s not going to be gift wrapped under the tree.  Sometimes you have to go make it yourself. 

My Kitchen on Mars: When Did Real Food Become Alien?

I make a darn good pumpkin pie.  It's a time tested recipe passed from my great grandmother to my grandmother to me (my mom doesn't mind being skipped because she gets free pie). It has always been the gold standard for me- it demands respect.  Those store bought pies are no match. I admit I'm smug about it, so much so that a few years ago, I entered it into a pie contest at one of the fall festivals.  What an emotional roller coaster it turned out to be. Off to the kitchen to create The Legend. After a few hours of preparation and some baking time, it was ready. Golden brown flaky crust, a smooth top with no cracks. I anxiously submitted my from-scratch beauty to the gray haired ladies for their judgment.  The wait seemed interminable! Here it comes- the announcement of the winners! Alas, I'm disappointed.  Time for the Walk of Shame to collect my rejected pan.  Two ladies brought my pan and to my dismay my pie had been virtually untouched! They proceeded to poke at it with the server the same way a 6 year old pokes at roadkill with a stick.  

"This doesn't look like a pumpkin pie.  Are you sure its cooked? No one even wanted to taste it."

"Yes ladies, it definitely is cooked. It may look a little different because of the type of pumpkin I used."

"Oh!! You mean this is made of real pumpkin? I've never had that before!"

Are you kidding me?! What a wake up call! They treated me like I was ridiculous and for a brief moment, I let them take away my confidence.  I relayed this story to members of my family and I got some needed sympathy to soothe my ego (my aunt almost wet herself laughing, which is also strangely comforting).

Yes, I peel and cook down my own pumpkin. I take pride in my orange hands that are stained from this labor of culinary love.  Admittedly, I grew up in the 1980's with working parents, so I've eaten my share of processed food.  But you know, at one point we also had a garden with melons and veggies, so at least I had an idea of what the real stuff was, which is better than a lot of kids have these days.  A relative in Florida mailed a huge box of oranges and lemons from her trees for Christmas one year.  I was in heaven, but my suburb-raised step kids  (who are actually rather adventurous eaters) wouldn't touch them because they didn't look like the stuff at the store with its paint and wax coating.  I love growing my own food.  I love my meat CSA- what a difference! So why then are my little dog and I so eager to get our fast food breakfast to share? I can make a beautiful egg sandwich with the bread machine, fresh eggs from my sister's chickens that make me practically giddy, and flavorful tomatoes and greens from my garden.   I've read the books.  I'm married to an expert in the field.  It scares me how easily I am tempted away from these beautiful things and into what is commonly referred to as the American diet.  I dropped cigarettes 12 years ago, no sweat.  Iced coffee?  I can't go without it.  But if a study came out that said my 'decaf-cream-sugar-coconut' was going to cause me cancer in 25 years, would I cut it out for good? I know that so-called Factory Food is bad. It makes me feel ill, wrinkly, fat, and tired, just like all of the books, blogs and talking heads on TV say it will whilst quoting the big university studies that are funded by who-knows. I wonder if the researchers change their ways based on what they see in the lab rats.  Maybe that's what I need to see for myself.  But am I already seeing it when I look in the mirror or watch the news? I suppose I'm just part of the culture that publishes thousands of tobacco-cancer studies yet sells billions of cigarettes, sells soda for cheaper than water, and gives blue ribbons to pies made out of a can.  So who are the ridiculous ones?  The lab rats didn't eat my pie.  Lesson learned.  Am I brave enough to live with the results?