9/12. On Friday night, the whole family attended the first-grade potluck at school, a sham of an event that confirms my severe dislike for school functions. The head of the PTO** urged parents to join, that first grade is such a crucial year to become involved. Seriously, I wanted to join (I am so not a joiner) but now I fear I'll burn-out before my kids reach eighth grade. After the potluck***, with a few families we knew from preschool, we endeavored to find a place where the parents could have bottomless glasses of wine, while the children colored and ate cookies. D'Amico couldn't accommodate. No room at the inn. So we stood around and named every place on Grand Avenue, working our way through greater residential St. Paul, shooting down every suggestion, guessing most restaurants would have waiting lists at 7:30 on a Friday night. I can't believe that neither couple, each of whom lived in the neighborhood, had a bottle of wine at their homes. John and I gracefully bowed out, went home, popped a couple Bell's Oktoberfests, and called my father to wish him a happy birthday.
9/13. John took soccer duties this morning. Called me mid-game to announce that Simon had made his first ever goal! What a triumph. What a boost for the little guy. I am so sorry I missed it. The whole day after that was kind of weird as I was trying to reach my friend Tracy, with whom we were to have dinner and see The Walkmen at the 400 Bar, to let her know we hadn't found a sitter and were bailing on the evening. In the end, we took the boys with us to have dinner with Tracy and her beau, Bill, at Bill's house. They fed us so incredibly well with an amazing cheeseboard and a Chateaux Donjon Chateauneuf de Pape, followed by a shrimp and mussel stew on Indonesian black rice, chased with a Claudia Springs pinot gris, easily one of my favorite whites. Dessert was blue cheese and a port. So delicious and civilized. The boys gorged themselves on movies, viewed on Bill's 52-inch flat screen, while playing with Bill's Yorkie mix, Harvey. The boys loved Harvey and can't stop talking about how we need a dog like him.
9/14. Winston and John rode the 14-mile course of the Minneapolis Bike Classic while Simon and I went to the farmers market (Black Russian cherry tomatoes, beefsteak tomatoes, broccoli, green beans, a stunning orange buttercup squash, a muskmelon, and green bell peppers) on our way to his noon soccer match in Woodbury. Simon had a rare-for-him meltdown when we reached our turn to the farmers market. He didn't want to walk around in public wearing his soccer kit. He said, "I don't feel normal." I negotiated with him, unsuccessfully for fifteen minutes, at which point I was running out of time for shopping and so left him in the car. With the doors locked. Of course. He's eight years old and knows to stay put. I remember when I started to sit in the car while my mom ran her boring errands. I loved it, especially if it meant more reading time. But, I thought he was being ridiculous, and I was mad when I consented. I shopped as fast as I could. Ran into a friend who assured me Simon would be fine. When I returned to the car, we had a hug and a heart-to-heart. I don't want him to stay in the car every time I need to run an errand, but I am willing to let him be mature enough to do this (with the doors locked and a book for him to read) occasionally. Mostly, I missed his company. He's a great kid, and I like hanging out with him. Simon's team played a great soccer game. When we got home, we watched the Vikings lose a game they had seemingly wrapped up toward the end of the third quarter. For dinner, I made some amazing, 90% local stuffed peppers, loaded with Big Woods Bison ground bison; onions, garlic, and tomatoes from the farmers market; oregano, sage, and thyme from my herb pots, grown from early-season farmers market purchases; and manchego cheese (obviously not local).
Weekends like this make me wish I could live in a land of nothing but weekends!
*David Foster Wallace, author of the door-stopper Infinite Jest, was found dead, of self-inflicted injuries, on Friday. That fucking selfish idiot—how could he? Suicide is stoopid. He was so brilliant. And he had a wife and a family who loved him. And he battled serious depression. He did electroconvulsive therapy this past summer. Damn demons. One of the world's brightest bulbs has been dimmed and I'm really really sad about that.
**The "O" stands for organization, the answer to the question that parents with advanced degrees asked repeatedly, mostly to make small talk. Remember, advanced degrees don't buy common sense. Followed by the equally important corollary, offering stupidity as an ice-breaker will not make you popular.
***What a pathetic potluck dinner. I know a lot of parents work, thus don't have time to whip up, or even reheat, something in advance of a 6pm school event. Heck, I used to have an 8-6 job so I get that. I also acknowledge that not everyone likes to cook. But it scares me to see what some folks pass off as food. All those accusations of our lousy American diet are writ-large in convenience and processed food. I know because I saw a lot of it at this dinner. And, I know potlucks are challenging even if you like to cook and have the time because, heck, I never know what to make, either. But, jeezus, what was with the macaroni and cheese? There were no fewer than 12 mac-and-cheese casseroles, including my own (homemade) version, as well as a few that had clearly been made from a family-size box of Kraft, then poured into a serving vessel. People, let's take back the potluck. Look here for inspiration. I know I may have gone too far with this rant. Sorry if I have offended.
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