Big Bottom Girls

Hold the phone, y'all.

Stop the presses.

Sit down cause you are never going to believe what I am about to tell you.

A researcher in Australia recently conducted a study that shows..... Wait for it.... Wait for it.....

Trying on swim suits tend to make women depressed. 

Yes, that's right. It seems tugging a teeny, tiny, tight piece of fancy, fake fiber up over your hips can make you feel down in the dumps, objectified, and plain old mean.

Seriously.  Don't we all already know that? I think the earliest study was done in the Garden of Eden when Eve stared at her figure in the reflective light of a shallow tidal pool under that apple tree and wondered if the fig leaves made her butt look big.

Who really needed 102 female grad students, a four page questionnaire, and a forty dollar stipend to uncover that piece of earthshaking news?  Find me someone who just loves, and I mean loves, to try on bathing suits in the crippling light of fluorescent bulbs while  imaging themselves bending over, squatting, running and chasing after kids, a Frisbee, a floppy hat, and/ or a dog day all day and I've got some gorgeous beachfront property in Ohio to sell them.

This is how it really goes down:

After two hours, lots of tears, and a dozen different sizes, styles, and "how ya doing in there”s...most women find a suit that'll do, hold their nose, and surrender some serious cash before marching straight on down to the outdoor food court for an iced mocha and a cinnamon sugared soft pretzel and a serious dose of fresh air.

Though there was one interesting part of the study, that when I read it, made me pause, take a sip of my morning Chocolate Royale Slim Fast shake, and say out loud "well, you could have fooled me".  It was the part explaining that women were more upset and disparaged in the dressing room than wearing the suit out on the beach.  This is because, once they are out having fun in the sun, these lab rats said they get too busy and kind of forget about being stuffed in, tied up tight, and lodged into a garment about as big as a industrial size glue gun.

But I don't buy it for a second.....even if you did have a couple strawberry daiquiris and a Miller Lite before you unrolled your beach mat and sprayed on your SPF 50.  You simply don't fail to remember, especially when a nice easterly breeze flows by, that you don't have a whole heck of a lot on.

See, imbibing or not, I find them both equally terrifying and depressing.....the trying on and then the subsequent wearing of the overpriced slip of shiny looking material masquerading as a slice of artificial second skin.  But hey, that's just me. 

Trying to chase down a seagull (who just snatched my baby’s favorite sand toy) does not make me overlook the fact that I just might have a wedgie the size of one of those Styrofoam pool noodles in my sand packed bathing suit bottom.  Or as I run...well, jog...alright, walk quickly after the pesky bird, I am probably exposing the very parts of me that I have no personal desire for the rest of the world to see....even if I shaved my legs the night before and am sporting on all-over body spray tan.

Cause let's face it, y'all.  When you peel on your one hundred and twenty dollar swimsuit, we all know we're just putting on a more expensive and fancier pair of glorified underwear and no marketing genius from Madison Ave is going ever to change that.

But all this pity and malaise is not particularly fair to me and my self-image.  At least, that's what all the experts keep telling me.

They say I should love me for me.  I should embrace my curves; every hairpin and harrowingly steep-sized one of them.

Better yet I should work it like I own it, strut my stuff, put a little swagger in my step.  Basically, I should show it all off with aplomb, confidence, and a hefty helping of attitude.

I don't do that in my regular clothes.  Most people I know don't do that either.

So as we now enter into one of the most disheartening and irritating times of the year, fear not fellow ladies.  For no fluorescent lightening, flimsy fabric, or forceful sales girl can keep us down.

Go ahead, girls.  Get moving and go gracefully towards that good night ....uh, I mean ....towards that rack of swimsuits at your local department store or boutique. The inanimate and microscopic sack of quick drying spandex might make you testy but it's not going to bite.  That's what the May flies, gnats, and overpriced frozen drinks are for.

See all of you bathing beauties out on the sand this summer.  I’ll be the one covered up to my neck in it.

Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken

 

Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken

 

For most people, picking is just a verb that has a lot of different meanings.  For moms, it's something we do every day; constantly picking up after all those who live with us so we can see the floor in order to sweep it.  For siblings, picking means knowing which buttons to push and how long we can keep on pushing them before getting a major licking.

But for Southerners, it's not just a verb, but an experience, a way of life.  Something generations can, and still do, together as a family.

 For me, growing up, every late spring and early summer, we would go picking in my grandfather, Papa’s, garden outside of Athens, GA.   At the time, his garden seemed as big as Sanford Stadium, but now, if I was to go back, it would be what it is... and was at the time.....just a small slice of space no bigger than the carport behind it that my family all used to sit and rock on and watch the cars go by.  But just as loved.

If I did go back, I would hope to still find all of those luscious, vibrant colored tomatoes, squash, and zucchini growing out from the same tilled up dirt……the ones just like I’d find from my youth that I’d wrestle off of vine and bring into the kitchen with pride and dirty fingers. 

Because I know I will never again find my grandfather there, tending his beloved garden with his generous hands and strong, solid back.  He passed away many years ago, but I still hold out hope that whoever owns that spot of land now, cares as deeply about what can spring forth from it as much as he did. 

I guess I'm a little scared to go back and check.  I don't want to find weeds and dead grass where treasures and childhood memories once grew.

I have two daughters now.  They are 9 and 11.  It saddens me when I think about how they never had the opportunity to see Papa's garden and all of that love.  But we still take them picking every May anyway.  Now, it’s at Barefoot Farms located on St. Helena's Island near my parent’s beach house off Beaufort, SC.  They've been picking now since they could walk, talk, and count on their little, pudgy hands to ten and back again.

My most cherished memories are watching them with empty buckets, toddling up and down the strawberry fields.  Their buckets were bare because every, single strawberry they picked went into their mouths, the juice squirting down their sundresses faster than lightening.

 

It about time for a road trip to Beaufort to visit Barefoot Farms yet again seeing as the strawberries are at peak season during the month of May.   Though they are older, my girls still pick a plump strawberry or two right off the vine and gobble them up from their longer, leaner, yet more grown up fingers.  They also enjoy being in the kitchen and helping create something divine straight from the earth to our table….where they get to see the fruits of their labor born.... and appreciated.

I'll share with y'all now one of our families favorite early summer suppers.  It is all about slow cooked BBQ chicken, sautéed squash and onions, and strawberry short cake for desert.  From our heart and table to yours, I hope you can taste the love in the simple things that can grow from a single vine and into a lasting memory.

 Here goes:

 

My Mom's BBQ Chicken

Sautéed Summer Squash and Vidalia Onions

Strawberry Shortcake

 

Now y'all can't rush this….no matter how bad you want to get into the strawberry shortcake. You'll need to plan at least two and a half hours of loving care for the bird itself.  Not for the faint of heart, you'll need to dissect a whole chicken, skin and all, or pick one already cut up at your grocer or local butcher if you possess a weaker constitution.

 

1 whole chicken

2 cloves minced garlic

3 Tablespoons Olive Oil

Salt and Pepper

 

Set oven to 350 degrees.  Arrange your bird in a baking dish.  Poke the darn thing over and over again with a fork (good aggression therapy at the end of a long day) and then place the minced garlic in the fork holes.  Now, drizzle olive oil over the chicken and add salt and pepper to taste.  Place in oven for 20 minutes uncovered so the skin can brown slightly and hold onto the oil and garlic…basically it’ll get a nice, little beach tan but still stay juicy inside.

 

Next, decrease oven temp to 325 degrees and pour your favorite BBQ sauce (mine is Southern Souls BBQ- Sweet Southern Soul) generously all over the chicken before covering it with foil and sticking it back in the oven.

 

Cook another 2 hours at the reduced temp.  I promise y'all, it's going to fall right off the bone and is so unbelievably delicious.

 

While your bird is slow cooking, pour a glass of wine (for yourself, not the food) and sauté a pan full of fresh, thinly sliced yellow squash and a Vidalia onion in butter over medium low heat until tender.  My secret squash recipe calls for a cup of bottled zesty Italian salad dressing for a little kick, but that's just me.

 

Also, slice your fresh picked strawberries and pull out the Bisquick.  They have THE BEST shortbread recipe on the back of the box, so don't try it from scratch unless you're a pro. It's flaky and buttery with just the right amount of flakiness.  Never, ever, use the packaged sponge cake.  That’s sacrilege, y’all.

 

Let the shortbread cool, then cover with sliced strawberries dashed with a little bit of sugar and a dollop of whip cream and you are good to go!

Staying Still

"Nobody is bored when he is trying to make something that is beautiful or to discover something that is true."- W.R. "Dean" Inge; Anglican Priest and Cambridge Professor (1860-1954)

 I am hardly, if ever, bored.

 I don't know if it it's because I love to read (anything), eat (same answer), nap (anywhere), daydream (all the time) or just plain think.

 I am perfectly comfortable doing nothing- as my motto for these past few decades is time wasted is not wasted time.

 I don't worry if the early bird eats the worm, I miss the midnight train, or the world passes me by.

 I am not really in an all out hurry to get anywhere.

 I have always been comfortable with where I'm at in the moment.

 My children.  Not so much.

When I was their age, when I was bored, I would pick up a volume of my grandfather’s collection of burgundy colored hard-covers-Shakespeare’s As You Like It, was one of the first plays I ever read.  I would look for signs in the clouds during the day; the big dipper and fireflies at night.  I ate crabapples from their backyard and flung the skinny cores over the fence so their neighbor’s goat had something to eat.

I never complained.

My girls are evidently not on the same page; the one mapped out of my childhood.  Theirs is a much different narrative.  I often wonder where I went wrong.   

See, they are bored at the drop of the hat, let down by the shake of the empty cereal box, and dejected at the dreaded depleted power button on their wireless palm held players of DVD’s.

There is no doubt I am doing them a disservice.  If anything, I want them to grow up knowing the world owes you not a damn-excuse my language-thing.  It’s up to them to seek out adventure, fill up their proverbial cup, and let the tides of life soak through them.

I want them drenched and wet.  Not scared to go out into the rain.

So, I am going to change a few things up, shut down the whiny, relentless sleepovers, put the ke-bosh on all the complaining, and will- from this day forward- refuse to be privy to their demands to be entertained 24-7.

I survived.

Didn’t you?

So, for me, I implemented …..  The Bored Jar.

It’s simple, really.  Whenever your dependents complain there isn’t a single thing on God’s green earth to do- have them stick their little hand in this:  A mason jar, tin can, or shoe box (really, anything will do) filled up with the following “random” choices written in stubby crayons on torn-off pieces of scrap paper.  Here’s a quick example:

·         Play Lego’s with Mom for hours, after which she will clean the whole mess up, make you cookie’s and care-less about what time you go to bed.

·         Organize, with absolutely no help from anyone over the legal age of 18, the entire house full of Lego’s into color coordinated bins, labeled to size and description, including all classification and lamentation of said instructions.

·         Two hours with any craft-any time-extra glue-moderate glitter with zero complaining of “remember the last time you did that, it took a good 5 inch chunk out of my Oriental rug.”

·         Two hours of peeling two years of super glue off the table, vacuuming a decade’s worth of sparkles from the carpet, and cleaning all the toilets and litter box to boot.

Even the 12 and under set know that’s a crap shoot-it’s 50/50.  It’s the equivalent of thinking you’re going in to construct a fairy princess or a matchbox hot rod out of a few pipe cleaners, a handful of tooth picks and spun sugar, only to be folding the whites, sifting out your winter socks, and wondering what is Mom (since you had to scrub and wash the fridge) cooking for dinner.

Mine, I shake that Bored Jar and they are out playing ball in the cul-de-sac in a New York minute.

Where they should be.

If I can teach them anything, while I still have them, it’s to: be still but still seeking, be contemplative but never complacent, stay reflective in spirit so they may always shine, and lastly, be spontaneous but wise so they will find what they need and be happy with what they have.

Bored is, like everything else, a word…not a state of mind. Beauty and Truth…words, too…but in their natural stripped down essence.  Well, those are for my girls to find. 

Happy Hunting.

Now, go out and look for them.

Everything's Coming Up Daisies

Spring has sprung.

Then clocks were flung- when some of us realized we’d lost an hour’s worth of sleep.

Where does the time go, really?

 If only I could find it, I’d like to get some of it back, please.  And it’s not like I’m asking for too much.  It’s only time, after all…not carb-free calzones, roomier airplane seats, or world peace.

My oldest daughter, who refuses, like me, to grow up, always seems to have the right answer for questions such as these.

Her: “We need magic beans.  Are magic beans in season?”

Me: “I don’t know.  Let’s Google it.”

See, Livi, because she is so acutely aware of her surroundings, is in no hurry to hurl herself directly into the harm’s way of life.

If you were to tell her- go on, the world is waiting for you- she’d ask if it’s some sort of trap.  You know, a place filled with heartbreak, hunger, unrealistic health care premiums, and 5 dollar gallons of unleaded gasoline.

I get you, sister.

I, like you, want to live in a slice of space where joy is eating Chick-Filet Polynesian sauce with your finger, love is unconditional, and freedom is sleeping in and watching Saturday morning cartoons while eating buckets of Captain Crunch topped with whipped cream.

Sometimes when I watch Livi turning cartwheels barefoot in the grass, her long wavy hair trailing behind her, she reminds me so much of my Aunt Beverly.  I adored her as a child. 

I adore her still. 

As the wife of my mom’s youngest brother, Beverly seemed more of an older cousin to me even though she was 19 years older.  On the weekends we would drive to Colbert, GA, I couldn’t wait to see her making the hour and a half drive seem twice as long.  As soon as you were sprung free from the car, she would chase you around and around the house, tickle you until you were utterly exhausted, and let you brush her lush long, blonde hair for hours on end without complaint.

Beverly was light and air and pixie dust.

She was beautiful.

She loved daisies, too.  I remember them in vases at her house, loosely arranged and lovingly picked.  They embodied her, as well, with their simple elegance and innocent beauty.  Like Beverly, they signify kindness, patience, loyalty, and love.

I still think of her whenever I see a daisy.  And if I were to close my eyes, I can picture her running through the woods, laughing, her long blonde hair flowing behind her, forever young. 

See, I never did get to see her grow old.  She lost her battle with breast cancer at 38 years-old, when I was a freshman at Georgia.

She never got to see her two young kids, Kimberly, 11, and Chris, 9, grow into adulthood, either.

Time, that tick tock span of inevitability, can be cruel, sometimes too. Well, a lot of times…..if we’re honest.

But what if that makes the young at heart, the youthful spirits, the Beverly’s of this world the wisest of us all?

What can we learn from those who have the insight and sensitivity to know the heartaches and pains of life, but instead embrace the joys and small wonders of the world all the same?

Her son, Chris Butler, is getting married here on the island at the King & Prince on the 30^th of March.  It’s hard to believe time has flown by so fast. 

If I could say anything to Chris and his bride-to-be, Erin, it would be to enter into your new lives together with the same wild abandonment, love of life and curiosity as your mother.

I’m reminded of the song Forever Young written by Bob Dylan around the time Beverly was 18.  He wrote this after taking a break from touring and had become a father: 

 

“May God bless you and keep you always

May your wishes all come true

May you always do for others

And let others do for you

May you build a ladder to the stars

And climb on every rung

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May you grow up to be righteous

May you grow up to be true

May you always know the truth

And see the lights surrounding you

May you always be courageous

Stand upright and be strong

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May your hands always be busy

May your feet always be swift

May you have a strong foundation

When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful

And may your song always be sung

May you stay forever young.”

 

Congratulations, Erin and Chris.  May your song always be sound, honest, pure and full of light and lots of love.

And once you walk the aisle and stand together, ‘building your ladder to the stars’, just know how proud she’d be of the both of you. Together. Always.

 

 

A Poem:

First Place-Grand Prize Winner

Eber &Wein Publishing

June-December 2012

 

 

The Wedding Gown of Marriage

by Laura Packard       

The quest for less baggage
Seems all wrapped up in a neat tiny
box, not a gift
Still nice, but tied up real tight.
Only does it hold up to the tulle and the tussle of cool, vacant sheets,
The layers and folds and creases that told of pain and misunderstanding.
Or bittersweet words that linger with time
Like layers of buttercream
Artificially sweet.

It came off at once,
This veil of complexity all sheer and white.
The iridescent taste of raw silk bunched up then spread stiff in a harsh morning light.
Has the essence of sweetness dissolved quickly with one caress
And at the first touch of the tongue?

A garter, a martyr
A groom, a self starter
A bride made of blushing bravado
Complete with slick pearls
And polished silver reflected in mirrors
Of doubt.

Who knows what happens within each hand - stitched thread
When passion and bunting and (dis)honesty met.
A nod, a cold shoulder, a toss of the head,
Where things of the heart are often unsaid.
Who knew that chamber in which you were led
Would end without words but a stroke of a pen.

Mamma Mia

 

I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

It only took me four decades, 11 moves, 5 states, 5 years of college, 1 husband, and 2 kids to do it. 

I want to be an Italian grandmother.

I know, I know. No need to state the obvious, since I am not Italian, nor I’m I married to one.  And genealogically speaking, on both sides, I’m as English as English comes; but I still can’t stomach stout filled pints, Prims, or pies with organ meat stuffed into to them.  I don’t like rain, trench coats, royal watching, fog, or those ridiculous fascinator’s English people wear to weddings. 

What I do love are figs, capers, rich cheeses, wine, sundresses and three hour lunches.  I like to move, not with great purpose to get somewhere, but with great curiosity to find the purpose in the commonplace.

            Sometimes, in the evenings, when I am taking a can opener to a 14 ounce of Hunt’s stewed tomatoes and snapping my Winn Dixie brand spaghetti in half so it’ll fit in the pot while listening to the sounds of doors slamming and pre-teen fighting, I can’t help but yearn for the salty taste of paper thin prosciutto, the heady smell of orange blossoms, and the sweet sound of children’s laughter.

            On occasion, I will spend an entire Sunday in the kitchen nurturing my fantasy.  I will simmer my sweated pearl onions in garlic and white wine sauce for an hour before I even toss them into my homemade tomato sauce that’s been slowly bubbling since dawn.  I will cut, with love and military precision, my own tagliolini made from dough of farm fresh eggs, organic flour, and the finest of virgin olive oil. It will not matter when I sit down with family and friends at our outdoor table draped in heirloom linens and lined with tea candles and carafes of Chianti when someone salts the food before they taste it.  I will not be deterred when someone proclaims they hate tomatoes and then asks for ketchup.  And even after one of my angels refuses sauce on top of her pasta then politely declines to eat it because it resembles snot, I will smile over my wine and think of lemon trees, wandering goats, sea salted breezes, and olive groves.

 

I will simply image a time and place where my children will bring their children and their friends and their children over every Sunday.  I will rise early, feed the chickens, pick the tomatoes off the vine, stir my eight hour Ragu and decant the red table wine from an earthen jug outside in the garden.  We will dine for hours under the shade of an old cypress tree on fresh cheeses, mussels, figs and berries.  There will be no iPads, Dsi’s or shouts for extra TV time; only kissed cheeks, salutes, and everyone calling me “Mamma.”  Because we will eat, we will drink, we will tell stories, and we will be grateful for all that we have; the simple pleasures and, of course, each other.

 

An old lady can dream, right? 

           

And it will not bother me aging and weathering in the salty air of the mediterrean sea like an aged grape- nope, not in the slightest, since we cannot all look like Sophia Loren- the deep wrinkles, the course gray hair, the unending aches and the pains of tending to a lifetime of lush gardens because I will have lived la dolce vita- the good life.

            Y’all may be wondering about now why and when I came to this epiphany after all these year?  Why I suddenly figured out what I wanted to be and how I would like to grow old.  Most people fantasize about writing a novel, climbing the world’s largest mountains, traveling to outer space or discovery something unknown and new and life altering- a cure for cancer, the fountain of youth.  But to aspire to become an Italian grandma?  Why in the world-and how, exactly- does someone hope to become that?

            It was simple, really, like any great meal; a few ingredients tended with love.  It just happened to occur one morning over a crock pot where I usually threw them all in and hoped for the best.  And what I got out of this magic post-war invention that saves time, money, and energy, was usually pretty darn good.  And I felt I sense of accomplishment; coming home, removing the lid, and dishing something out. 

But like life, easy isn’t always best.  Simplicity, yes.  But short cuts? No.  Because there is so much you miss in between. 

There is an old saying in Italy that goes something like this: A tavola non si invecchia.  At a table with good friends and family, you do not become old.

Italian grandmother or not, I wholly concur.

Buon Appetito! Let’s all take the time and enjoy the simple pleasures that come from enjoying the meal of life.