I Can't Stop Blinking! or The Boy Who Grew Up Too Fast

"You blinked again," accuses my dear husband.

***

Just a few months ago when my younger grandson's age was measured only in weeks, I noticed that he rarely blinked. As I held him, comforting him as he seemingly resisted easing into sleep, "Why does this child not blink?" went through my mind. A few minutes later I gently placed him in his crib and hurriedly scrambled to my IPad to google a query about infants and eye-blinking. It turns out that infants, in fact, do not blink very often at all. Who knew? Well, actually probably a lot of pediatricians, eye specialists and such knew this, but I didn't and I'd raised three children. But, I always felt that my grandparenting skills are far more acute than my parenting skills were back in the day.

***

"Believe me, Hon, I try my best to never blink."

***

My first grandchild, lives almost exactly 1,000 miles away, via the U.S. highway system, which is usually how we travel to visit him and his younger sister. He used to live just 14 miles away. Fourteen miles! Did I appreciate this proximity at the time? You bet I did. From the moment each grandchild was born, I have treasured each as the rare gems they are and tried to spend a reasonable amount of time in their young lives, without being an overbearing pain-in-the-neck to their parents. "Be helpful and not a hindrance to the parents" was my mantra (in other words: Keep your yap shut and don't offer a single word of advice unless your opinion is specifically requested.) Anyway, it seems to have worked for me.

>-Blink-<

One day, when I was ten years old, I was walking on a sidewalk in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago, when I stopped stock-still with the thoughts: Where will my future take me? and Will I remember this exact moment of standing on the block, where I live, and being ten years old? Where will I be at the age of twenty? Gosh, that seems so awfully long from this moment. Where will I be at the age of thirty? forty? fifty? Will I even live to be sixty?

>-Blink-<

We are married with two young children in a two-bedroom apartment, toys splayed across our living room, as we pour through newspapers looking for houses for sale in the area. Dear husband walks toward me with a listing, "Hey, look at this one! It's not far from here, it looks perfect and it's in our price range." As he holds the paper forth, he trips over a toy, shakes his head and laughs, "How did this happen to us? How am I tripping over toys that belong to my children? How am I looking to buy a house? It seems just yesterday I was a single man and I just met you. In a blink, the time has passed."

>-Blink-<

I join a "baby playgroup" after the birth of our third child. A mother with older children comments, "Well, Dan and I have reached the half-way point of our time living with Matthew," (her, then, nine-year-old son.) I do a double-take, "I'm sorry, I don't-" She explains, "Well, if Matt goes to college at the age of eighteen, as we plan, he probably won't return home after graduation, because he'll get a job. So, logically, the age of nine is the half-way point of his life spent residing with us."

>-Blink-Blink-Blink-<

"Hey buddy, Grampy and I are going to be selling our house in the city and moving to that house we bought out in the country. I need to work on getting the city house ready to sell, so I'll only be coming over once a week from now on."

He looks surprised and quickly says, "Okay, but you'll always come one day a week, right? Always once a week, right?"

>-Blink-<

"Do you want Grandma to tuck you in?"

"No, I'm fine."

He must notice the surprise on my face, as I once noticed it on his.

"Well, okay sure, you can tuck me in."

"I guess you're getting too old for this." As I plump up his pillows and rustle his thick hair I ask, "Hey, do you remember back when it was time for your nap that we used to play a game about a mouse with a magic eraser, who could make any mess, or dirt disappear?"

"Um, no."

"Oh well, that was a long time ago. Anyway, if we made a mess when we were playing and forgot to put the cushions and toys away or we tracked sand into the kitchen, or forgot to wipe the dog's muddy feet, the mouse would wave his magic eraser and restore everything back to neat and clean." I make the gesture he made with his hand as he played the important role of the mouse.

"Wait! I think I do remember that," he says laughing.

As I walk from his room it is not lost on me that he is now nine years old.

>-Blink-<

I sing a litany of songs to my newest grandchild, whose age is now measured in months, as he begins to doze off for his nap. Every single time I get to the last part of "Puff the Magic Dragon," he fusses. A couple of times, when I get to this part of the song, he sleepily waves his arms as if shooing something unpleasant away. He does this with no other song. It's the part of the song that goes:

A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys

Painted wings and giants's rings make way for other toys.

I mentally delete this song from my list of nap-time songs, thinking maybe the baby hears sorrow in my voice, or something.

>-Blink-<

We took the older two grandkids to see a movie and in the theatre's long series of trailers, was a preview of "Pan," a re-make, of sorts, of the tale of Peter Pan. It's a story I never much cared for, either as a child or as an adult. (Although I did like the part where Wendy gets separated from and reattached to her shadow.) Barrie's touching inspiration for the story came from the death of his older brother and its devastating effect on his mother. Anyway, we all know that as much as we sometimes wish to figuratively "freeze" children so we can watch them age in some kind of slow motion, that it would be selfish to do so. Even if it seems as though children grow with the ferocity and tenacity of weeds, weeds germinated and sprouting forth in warm, rich, loamy soil, weeds fertilized and well-watered, weeds upon which the sun ever casts its rays of energy, weeds...

>-Blink-<

"Dear, I think you blinked again. It's 2015. Happy New Year."

"Yes," I sigh, "I'm pretty sure I did blink."

Deck the Halls (and bruise the outdoors)

"Tacky? Mom, what does tacky mean?" she asked.

I don't remember exactly what the mother's answer was, something like "gaudy" or "too showy" or "lacking good taste." But, as I watched the 7-year-old absorb this information and correlate it with the surroundings I got the sense that this was not how the girl had, until this moment, perceived the lights. Like most young children, she had seen all of the Christmas light displays in her town as beautiful, colorful celebrations of a magical season. But, as we drove through the streets, she clutched her commuter cup of hot chocolate, and as she waited for her beverage to cool to a drinkable temperature, she began to become a good critic of what was lovely and refined versus what was, well... for lack of a better word, tacky, when it came to Christmas light displays.

"Look at this one! It's beautiful!"

"This is a little bit tacky," she snickered, all-knowing.

We were driving through the streets of Richmond, Virginia. When it comes to "tacky lights," the mayor of Richmond proudly proclaims, "We own it!" The local newspaper features a "tacky light tour guide." (To be included in the prestigious guide a household must use a minimum of 40,000 lights.) Richmond is a stately, grand city, steeped in U.S. history and like a grande dame, she says, "We still know how to let our hair down on occasion and have a good time."

There were a couple houses on the river that allowed for a mirror reflection of the lights that made you forgive any tackiness.

And there were elements of tacky displays that had some simple beauty.

And then, there were the tackiest of all:

pah-rum-pum-pum-pum

Come they told me

pah rum pum pum pum

A new born King to see

pah rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring

pah rum pum pum pum...

rum pum pum pum

rum pum pum pum, brrmmm brrmmm brrmmm...

It's a touching song, a long-time favorite of mine. The message is simple. A little boy sees everyone reacting to the birth of a "king." He witnesses that "they," the others, bring wondrous gifts of frankincense, myrrh and gold and such. He has nothing of monetary value to offer, but he has the seemingly preternatural maturity to be able to discern that his drum-playing is pretty doggone good given his age. (Although I find nothing unusual about this as I feel most kids under the age of puberty have this wisdom and ability.)

The point being the little drummer boy does the best he can, which is drumming, and is satisfied that this is as just as good as any old tangible gift. And who, including a baby king, wouldn't be wowed by a choice drum riff? Like the one in the Surfari's "Wipeout?" Or the one in "Ina Gada Da Vida?"

Me, myself, being a plain old, average, middle-income American, who oft-times wishes she were a billionaire who could bestow grandiose gifts upon her children and grandchildren, also recognizes that sometimes it's my "unique talents" that are most welcome.

I'm pretty good at baking cookies. I've also been gifted, later in my years, with an unusual patience with, and affinity toward, infants and young children. These abilities make me a pretty doggone good grandparent. Not that being a good grandparent is an unusual gift, because by nature grandparents and grandchildren are an almost perfect fit and thus there is a plethora of good grandparents around.

Some of us have done well financially and will have tons of money to share with loved ones and some of us have only our talents to offer. I will purchase tactile gifts, because I "have the means", but sometimes my most appreciated gifts are gifts of my time and talents. Whatever gifts you have this season, do your best. And be generous and cheerful in your giving.

The Potus, Natural Gas and Indoor Plumbing...

This Tuesday, November 24, I was sipping a cup of coffee at the kitchen table of "our condo in the city" when I heard the FM radio newscaster mention that President Obama would be making a trip to Chicago to speak in Jefferson Park. *Gulp*

"Hey, Hon, were you aware that Obama is coming to Jefferson Park this afternoon?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I just heard Whip say that the President will be speaking at the Copernicus Center, this very afternoon, right here in Jefferson Park."

I knew this photo, a block from "our condo" wasn't good, but I was worried that my phone would be confiscated if I kept taking photos. ;)

The Copernicus Center is about 2 city blocks from "our condo." Jefferson Park is a large (if you count square miles) city neighborhood. And the little part of that area, where we sometimes stay is undergoing a bit of infrastructure rebuilding. I'm not exactly sure, but I think the city is widening the sewer capacity here. All I know is they've been working on it for months, tearing up the roadways, replacing underground pipes, repaving, etc. Eastbound traffic on Lawrence Avenue, an exit on the Kennedy Expressway, is and has been closed the entire time. Vehicles that are unaware of this and make the mistake of exiting, wind up driving in circles on the neighborhood side streets trying to find a way out of the narrow one-way streets that sometimes abruptly stop because of the Metra and Canadian Pacific train tracks that bisect certain areas.

The city has, with owners consent, sent videographers to record the interior and exterior of the homes and businesses in the area, because when the work is finally complete, they, (whoever the city has contracted to re-do the sewers) will be dynamiting the area. If you have consented, you will have proof, via video, that your property was damaged as a result of the explosion.

Anyway, it's currently a mess and into this mess here comes the President! If you haven't experienced a Presidential visit to your quiet little neighborhood- well, holy smokes it's quite an event. Hours before he arrives security in the area beefs up, news helicopters sweep in to show an aerial view of where the President will be speaking, secret service vehicles station themselves about (like right in front of our "condo"), barricades block the building where he'll be speaking, local police officers take stations at various corners nearby and throngs of people begin to line the sidewalk outside the building (in this case on a frigid 19 degree fahrenheit evening) hoping to get a glimpse of the Potus. A visit from the Potus is like a visit from royalty. That's what the First Family is like, they're like our own royalty here in the USA. Whether you like them or not they are a big deal.

Now I happen to like President Obama. I think he's doing the best he can with every single Republican politician doing their best to thwart and undermine his every move. But, no matter, I am grateful, I am ever thankful to be an American. We don't always treat each other well, like in Ferguson, Missouri right now, but I still love the U.S. Wasn't I lucky to be born in my favorite country? ;)

***

The next day, on Wednesday, we were at our country home which is in a private community in the middle of nowhere. When the community was being built they were fortunate enough to get ComEd, a major electricity supplier, to agree to outfit the place with underground service. It's so nice, no wires hanging strung from poles all over the place. But, while we had first rate electricity, but were saddled with propane gas, which is stored in tanks outside of each residence. The community's A&E (I think it stands for "architecture and esthetics" or maybe it's "… and environment") committee dictates that we must cover the unsightly tanks with lattice or else we must have them buried in the ground.

A couple of years ago a resident genius of our community (his name is Mike) came up with the idea of checking the viability of having natural gas supplied to our community. It took many a meeting and negotiation, the approval of the Illinois Commerce Commission, approval from the local gas purveyor- Jo-Carroll Energy- who decided they weren't interested in us, finding a company- Nicor Gas- who was interested, more meetings, more negotiations, and finally our association's Board putting a vote to the community before it looked like it was actually going to happen. Just about one year ago today, Nicor broke ground. This Wednesday I turn on my stove to prepare for Thanksgiving to see a lovely blue flame of natural gas. And when I turn the burner or oven off I don't hear the "propane pop." And as far as the cooktop, I love cooking with natural gas. Electric cooktops and propane cooktops just don't equal the control one has with natural gas. I find electric ovens do fine, but propane ovens are not as accurate, overall natural gas is the way to go.

My husband is happy because he no longer has to endure "propane delivery" anxiety, which comes in the winter when the country roads can be snow laden to the point that travel is compromised, we don't get mail, we don't get deliveries. If your tank is empty, the furnace, stove and hot water heater are down. With natural gas we now have a constant supply.

My husband and I are both absolutely delighted to be rid of our unsightly propane tank. We found someone who picked it up, took it away and was willing to pay us $500 for it, to which I sang like Iggy Azalea: 

…understand my life is easy when I ain't around you, 

…and the best thing now is probably for you to exit... 

There's a million you's, baby boy, so don't be dumb
I got 99 problems, but you won't be one- like what? 

I got one less problem without ya,
I got one less, one less problem

I am thankful today for my Nicor-supplied natural gas.

Anxiety induced winter propane fuel check.

***

I know I've mentioned before that while I don't watch much daytime or primetime television, in the middle of the night, when sleep escapes me, I will turn on the TV and seek asylum. One show I watch is "Buying Alaska"- the last frontier...

There’s no place on earth like Alaska, and there’s nothing like trying to live there… From the bare necessities, to actual bears, to breathtaking frontier vistas that make it all worthwhile, living in Alaska is a challenge unlike any other.

Well, apparently they don't know that you can find such challenges out here in the country or right in the heart of the city, without hardly trying...

The thing I take away from repeatedly watching this program is that the number one benefit of being born when I was is: INDOOR PLUMBING.

Yes, there is no doubt, I am thankful for indoor plumbing.

Here is a photo of our new "night-light" toilet seat from Kohler (Kohler is in my home state of Wisconsin). The seat features charcoal filtration, LED lighting, a soft-close lid and automatic air freshener. Much better than an outhouse in bear country, right?

***

Of course, my priorities always lie with good family time, the gift for which I am most grateful this Thanksgiving and any other day of the year, for that matter.

But, if I were to think beyond my husband, my children, my children-in-law, and my grandchildren... I guess today I’m thankful for a country that lets me have a say in my government, my access to natural gas after a couple of years without, and always, always for a lifetime with indoor plumbing.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Clinton Closing

We are sitting in the kitchen of our city "condo"- well, it's not really ours and it's not  technically a condo. It's really just a two-bedroom apartment in a two-flat building. But, I like to think of it as "my condo in the city," as it gives me a feeling of urbane sophistication to be able to imagine myself in such a scenario. For instance, I might say to my faithful husband, "Oh, look at this cute lamp. Wouldn't it look nice in "our condo." To which he sarcastically replies, "Which condo?" immediately bursting my little quixotic thought. You see, we have this self-storage unit near our rural home where we keep all of the "can't-part-with-but-don't-use" stuff we were unwilling to relinquish when we downsized and moved to a smaller country home. The storage unit is about 10 foot by 12 feet, with an amazing 30+ foot ceiling, so if we had to store a tall sailboat or something, we'd be all set. Before we got our "city condo/apartment" this autumn, we called the storage unit, "our condo."

Anyway, for the next year or so, or until the two-flat goes on the market and eventually sells, we have our own place in the city. It's cute, with all the comforts one would expect from a nifty city condo. And someone is kind enough to allow us to use it gratis for the time being.

Wait, where was I? I'm so easily distracted these days. ;) Oh yes, we, faithful husband and I, were sitting in the kitchen of our city condo, sipping glasses of wine, munching on appetizers (celery sticks, grape tomatoes and breadsticks with a salad dressing-type dipping sauce, while dinner bubbled in the oven (lobster pot pie). Faithful husband had put our local Quad City area news on live streaming, so we could see what was going on politically near country home, as it was "election day." I didn't think anything could be more upsetting than hearing the fact that Joni Ernst was winning, but I was wrong...

…we heard the broadcaster say, "When we come back from break, news on a Target store in our area that will be closing.

We both stopped, me mid-bite, faithful husband mid-sip, neither of us able to swallow. Our eyes locked.

"Do you think?"

"I don't know. I hope not- "

I did a google search, unwilling to wait for the commercial break. I quickly spotted: "The store manager confirms the Target store in Clinton will be closing."

I nodded to my husband.

We sat silently for the briefest of moments, our expressions grim. Faithful husband said, "Well, we both kind of knew... "

We replayed some of the things we'd said over the past three years. Like, the many times faithful husband commented that the store contained more employees than customers. Oh, how we loved, laughingly, comparing it to the Chicago Target on Clybourn and Western, where we used to meet our son and daughter-in-law to drop off the grandchildren when they'd had an overnight visit with us, as it was a half-way point between our city home and their suburban home. We'd be lucky to find a single parking place in the huge Chicago-Target lot, with autos usually driving in tireless circles, until a spot became free. In our Clinton Target, where the parking lot has about the same size area and auto-capacity, there are usually fewer than 20 cars parked in the lot.

We waxed on the favorite "buys" we'd gotten of late, smiles returning to our faces as we recalled: the brand new 5,000 btu air conditioner for $35, the $19 air-circulating fan that now sits in our "city condo," and the $12 cuisinart chef's knife, honing steel and bamboo cutting board, that sells elsewhere for more than quadruple the price, or the half-dozen other great buys we purchased for use in the "city condo."

On more than one occasion, the clerk checking us out would comment on our good buy, "I can't believe the price on the air conditioner. It's half of what it was priced at last week and I thought that was a good price!" or, "I didn't see that one. I'd have bought it myself. What department did you find it in?"

After a while we began to worry that others had found our "secret": The best Target store in the whole world! As if by word-of-mouth, more customers appeared weekly and the aisles no longer seemed as wide and clean and clear and bright. We had more people with whom to share (and fight for) aisle after aisle of "clearance" shelves. Enough clearance items to put any nearby store to shame...

...Except there are no nearby stores, unless you count Walmart, and I don't. Walmart will have a "clearance" aisle where items feature a mere 3% discount, pennies less than the original price. In our beloved Clinton Target items are marked by a 30%, 50% or a 70% tag.

We habitually made a weekly foray into Clinton, 37+ miles from home, just to comb the aisles in search of Target treasures. First of all, it's a beautiful drive, with rural country roads featuring bucolic views ending with a bridge over the majestic Mississippi River where we'd spy the occasional bald eagle at eye level as it soared, oblivious of us, on its search for fish. Secondly, we somehow knew deep down that it couldn't possible last...

Oh, how could we have been so blind?! How did we miss the writing on the wall?!

Faithful husband forwards to me a local news channel posting:

… but we both know that it is too little, too late.

The Haunting of My House

He is just over three years old. I am tucking him in bed for the night when the family dog hops up and positions herself at the foot of the bed.

“Aw, isn’t that nice? You have a dog to protect you.”

His head whips around and he looks intently at my eyes, “Protect me from what?”

Why did I use that phrase? I stammer in reply, “Well, um-”

“What is there that she has to protect me from?” he persists.

Little kids are so smart. You really can’t fool them too much. It’s like they are born with an intuition that’s maybe meant to aid them in understanding our complicated world and they see right through us adults.

He couldn’t have known that I’d been raised with nothing comparable to the comforts and safety of his young home life, but what he did possess was a sensitivity that made him read into my words exactly what my subconscious was remembering at the given moment.

***

Fast forward to the present... The past couple of nights a television channel I fancy, TCM (Turner Classic Movies), has been featuring a mini-marathon of scary and frightful films in honor of upcoming Halloween.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asks my trustworthy husband? “You know how tender you are.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Why last night I watched ‘Psycho’ and ‘Signs.’ You didn’t hear a peep out of me. Don’t worry. I’m fine. And look at tonight’s line up. Honey, they’re shows we watched as mere children, ‘House on Haunted Hill,’ ’13 Ghosts’ and ‘Legend of the Hell House.’ ”

The reason for trusting husband’s concern? Not long after we married, I viewed “The Exorcist.” For a week afterward I woke him up whenever I had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. My trustworthy husband would dutifully accompany me on the short walk, wait for me to use the facility and walk me back to bed. Well, except for the one night where I “held it” until dawn because his back was to me and I was afraid that if I tapped his shoulder, instead of my trustworthy husband, some evil demon might turn toward me.

What is it about night that exaggerates my fear of ghosts and monsters?

Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, I’m confident, fearless and “able to leap tall buildings in a single bound,” but occasionally all of my ability at a rational thought process abandons me.  And it is always at in the dark of night, in the house, and when I am alone (or when trustworthy husband is asleep.)

I hear a floorboard squeak. I look at the door handle in the murky lack of light. I could swear that I see it turn. Is it my astigmatism? No, I'm sure I just saw it turn…

Doubt and fear take root and grow as if I’d thrust them into the lush soil of a greenhouse and poured super-fertilizer all around. I fight for control of my thoughts and wait impatiently for the light of dawn.

So, no TCM tonight. Maybe a bit of melatonin, a comedic show or a funny, heartwarming short story, or such.

Boo! And Happy Halloween. 

My Quest for the Perfect Taco

It was shortly after my 11th birthday and my best friend’s mom had just picked us up from guitar class. I didn't take guitar lessons, but my friend, Ellen did. Occasionally I tagged along and watched her progress through the glass door of the classroom. I'd wanted to take the class, but my mother said, "No deal. You quit piano lessons two weeks into it. If you want to learn the guitar, save your money, buy a guitar from the second-hand store and teach yourself. If you have any musical talent you'll be able to teach yourself."

"Don't worry I'll teach you. Just as soon as I learn. And you can practice on my guitar." Good old Ellen. Ellen was a full year older than me. Within the year Ellen discovered boys and they discovered her. That marked the end of her interest in the guitar.

Ellen's mom was slender and petite, just about the same height as me at the time. She was a pretty Irish woman who served as a bailiff in the juvenile court system. I always found that to be funny since the kids she was ushering around must have been twice her size. Ellen inherited both her mother's pretty face and her father's tall statuesque physique. Ellen towered over both her mother and me.

Ellen's mom wasn't much like the other kids' mothers I knew. They were mostly stay-at-home moms, she worked. They were soft and round, she was lean and active. They were trite and insincere, she was forthright and honest. They were old-fashioned, she was hip. They cleaned and cooked, she did neither. If she answered the door when I arrived, she'd kick the toys belonging to Ellen's younger brothers and sisters out of the way as she ushered me inside, chatting amiably all the while. There was a perpetual pile or two of clothing in need of laundering sitting on the floor near the staircase, waiting to be taken downstairs to the laundry room, the beds were unmade and the kitchen sink  full of dirty dishes and she'd be giving Ellen instructions on how to prepare some simple casserole or one-pot dish. However, inactive she was not. The only time I saw her sit was when she was driving the car, chauffeuring Ellen and me somewhere.

The park building where Ellen took her guitar lessons was in Chicago's Uptown neighborhood, and that day, when her mother picked us up she proclaimed, "I'm starving! Say Ranell, have you ever had a taco? Ellen, I know you haven't. It's a Mexican sandwich, of sorts. I know a great place right near here. How about it, girls, are you up for trying one? I think you'll enjoy it."

It's hard to fathom it now, but back in 1963 the Mexican restaurant business in the U.S. was still in it's infancy. Salsa was an almost unheard of product, then available mostly in the southwest part of the States, or in urban-area groceries where hispanics shopped.

Ellen's mother told us she'd tried tacos on a business trip she'd made a couple of years earlier to California. "Imagine my delight to find this little spot here," she told us as she parked the car near the northeast corner of Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road. It was late in the afternoon and the place was empty except for the young man and woman, I took to be a husband and wife, who were behind the counter. Ellen's mother directed us to seats at the counter of the small storefront restaurant. She ordered for us. In a short time, the man placed plates containing one beef taco each in front of us. It didn't look like any sandwich I'd ever seen.

Before me sat a round stiff shell of some type, folded in half and holding cooked meat that somewhat resembled my mom's leftover pot roast. Across the top of the meat I saw a few sliced onions. Next to my taco was a small small bowl of a green sauce I would come to know later as salsa verde. On the counter the man had also placed a small cup of sliced lime wedges. I looked over and watched as Ellen's mom spooned some of the green sauce over the meat and onions, then picked up a lime and gave a quick squeeze over the "taco." Then she picked the whole thing up and took a bite. I did exactly what she did. My mouth was immediately filled with a combination of savory deliciousness that was salty, acidic, and crunchy, all at once. It was after I'd chewed and swallowed that I felt the heat of the peppers, that tingle to my pain receptors that made my brain quickly reassure me, "Don't be concerned, this is good pain." I turned to look at Ellen's mom. She laughed at my expression, "Good, huh? I knew you'd like it!"

My life became a quest to reproduce the experience of that seemingly deliciously simple and innovative mini-meal.

The meat was melt-in-your-mouth, with sweet bits of crusty caramelization on the ends. The tortilla, which is what Ellen's mom called the round "bread" with which our sandwich was made. It was made with corn masa and had been flash fried to make a crisp shell that almost shattered upon bite. The onions were sweeter than the kind my mom used at home and added an interesting contrast of flavor to the meat. The lime juice added tang, and that "salsa" with it's hot, jalapeño-based brine… well, all I can say is that it all came together in wonderful harmony in my mouth. Crunchy, salty, sweet, juicy, savory tang with an addictive after effect of heat that rushed from my mouth straight to my brain.

I tried tacos in various parts of Mexico, at street-side taquerias here in the U.S. in a valiant attempt to replicate the taste. I made tacos in my own home. Yet no taco compared with the taco that Ellen's mother bought for me that day. I came to accept that, just like a first kiss, it was a lovely and distinctive part of my memory, that was not meant to be replicated.

***

Sometimes I grill a steak that's been marinaded in "Mexican" spices. Not as often I cook chicken or fish. Tonight I've opted for  pork, which I braised four hours in apple cider that was awash in chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, white onion, garlic, salt and pepper and a splash of tequila, rendering a meat that is so juicily tender as to melt in your mouth - and in honor of my first taco, tonight there will be no cheese, sour cream or tomatoes adorning these tacos. I made some tortilla chips and guacamole, to enhance but not replicate that first experience. And we'll wash these tacos down with fresh-squeezed lime margaritas on the rocks (also missing that first time.)

juicy cider-braised pork

fresh limes for margaritas - the only way to go

braised meat with onion - simple

Glass from Lalo's in Oak Park - I purchased it :)

steak taco meat - it still has those caramelized bits

Flank steak getting ready to marinade

Happy October 4, National Taco Day! (Only in America. I love this country!)