An egg is not just an egg

It started innocently enough.

"Would you like an egg for breakfast?"

"Sure."

Thing 2 grabs the egg, twirls it in his hands, and then stops. "Where's the chick?"

"What chick?"

"How come there is not chick in the egg? I am not eating a dead chick am I?"

"No, the egg wasn't fertilized. Ahh, damn! Why did I go there?"

"Mom! You just swore and where are you going?"

"Sorry. To get your dad."

I race down the hall and Big Man is chuckling because he has heard the entire exchange.

"You haven't had your coffee yet, huh?"

Thing 2 has followed me, eager to get some real answers. "Dad, what is fertilize? why do you need it to get a chick?"

"Umm..well the dad has to sprinkle dad-dust on the egg.."

"What! You are doctor for god's sake! Dad-dust? Geez... you need a lot more than coffee. Come on kid. Want a bagel instead?"

319 Ellis Avenue

I spent two years living at 319 Ellis Avenue. It was a crackerbox house situated a mere block from the campus at what was then called Mankato State University. What was best about this place, however, was that it was cheap. Legally, six people could reside there. In practice, the number hovered around nine. I say hovered because it seemed to fluctuate with needs of the inhabitants and their friends.

I was an unlikely candidate for 319 Ellis Avenue. I was straight, my family was in tact, and boiling water was not a challenge for me. But my good friend who had one of the illegal rooms took domination over the basement and drew in people she knew. Eventually I brought in one of my oldest friends and my sister, but the rest of the cast evolved.

Diane was someone just coming out. She was the victim of physical abuse and spent much time crying and leaning on friends that were not her roomates. Damien owned a rifle and was proud of the bikini-clad women gracing his posters on the faux panneling of his room. Tom was lively and informative while watching the winter Olympics. He had fashion sense, rhythmn, and knew a good skater when he saw one.

When new people came, we never asked much. Could you pay the rent? Keep your mess to a minimum? Would you please adhere to the kitchen cleaning schedule? This meant more to us than who you shared your private time with.

Eventually, my own sister came out. It was a long and difficult process. All the while, friends were shipped off to Desert Storm and millions of gallons of oil spilled in Alaska. What have we done to people? I remember thinking. There is war and our natural resources are threatened, and here is my sister, my heart, ashamed to admit who she is--someone she has been all along?

That was 21 years ago.

It doesn't seem like we have come that far. Maybe some of the stigma of sexual orientation is fading. Maybe it feels like we are more open simply because more people are "out". But we are still having debates over what constitutes a marriage. What constitutes a marriage is the union of two people.

The wars are still raging, our natural resources continue to be threatened, and people, because of their private life, still get treated like second-class citizens in a country where we claim to be created equal.

Yeah, right.

Mashed Potatoes

I was raised on mashed potatoes and it's apparent that I ate them. But I left northwest Iowa for someplace racier, south central Minnesota, and didn't spend a whole lot of time thinking about them. With every year away my culinary world expanded. I discovered midwest Chinese food and the Gyro and spices beyond salt and pepper. Once on my own in southern Iowa, I saw fit to spend my paycheck on radical things like fresh-from-Mexico vegetables and Thai fish sauce and I learned how to make spring rolls. I could go for long stretches without eating mashed potatoes and my life seemed just fine. Every town I moved to introduced me to people who cooked other things- their grandma's Italian dishes, their mom's turkey burgers (turkey-in a burger?), peppers that were meant to be HOT to add kick and not just a garnish. Olive oil became my cream of mushroom soup and sea salt my onion soup mix. I learned to roast the most offensive vegetable and people would swoon. Kale chips anyone?

Then I had kids and for a time, Thing 1 was game for most everything. Chickpeas in curry did not faze her....until she had Grandma's mashed potatoes. It was like the heavens had opened up and poured fourth all that is right in the world. Lump-free and rich with butter and homemade gravy, it finally dawned on me that I can't make gravy. And truth be told, I don't like making mashed potatoes. I would cagily invite people for holidays who make mashed potatoes and gravy and celebrate their participation in holiday preparations.

Thing 2 came along and the battle cry became louder. "Why don't you make Grandma's world-famous mashed potatoes?" Clearly, their worlds were too small or I had to get busy. I would try. Many times, I skipped the gravy purporting that the amount of butter and cream used to disguise lumps and improve flavor couldn't possibly be made better. Wrong. I was fooling no one. They would eat them but rarely take seconds. Grandma would come or we would go and they would gulp away as if trying to savor the memory for future subpar stand-ins.

But we found ourselved alone on Easter and everyone wanted tradition- ham and mashed potatoes and gravy. "Are you kidding?" they squealed. "You can't have pasta on Easter!" So I went at it again and finally...there was success. I farmed out the gravy to Big Man, and it too was a hit.

I still don't like making mashed potatoes--and the appeal is not completely understood. But their faces were happy and it seems I rose a few notches in their book. "Mom," said Thing 1. "You can really cook." I didn't dignify that comment with a response, but I did soak in their pleasure. I hope the carb buzz lingers since I have no plans for a repeat performance soon.

But we do have some trips to Grandma's planned.