The Meat and Potatoes of Life

by Molinari, Lisa Smith;

  Typical military brats, our kids had no idea how fortunate they were to live a minivan ride away from Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Florence, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Prague, and other European cultural meccas. Sometimes to their chagrin, we took them to see paintings and sculptures in every city we visited.

  And, as it is with art, many of the renderings were explicit, causing our children to giggle, gawk, or grimace in embarrassment. We indulged them—they are kids, after all—and hoped someday when it mattered, they’d remember standing before the original works of Manet, Michelangelo, Klimt, Matisse, Botticelli, Cezanne, Donatello, and other greats.

  However, some pieces were so detailed, they caused our children’s mental wheels to spin.

  Wait a minute … what is that, and what’s it for anyway?

  After fielding many awkward questions, Francis and I got good at knowing which masterpieces we should breeze by quickly.

  We shuffled the kids past explicit nudes in Paris’s Musée D’Orsay on our way to see classics like Monet’s Blue Water Lilies and Whistler’s Mother. We didn’t let the kids linger too long at the base of Giambologna’s The Rape of Sabines in Florence’s Galleria dell’Accademia, opting instead to find Michelangelo’s anatomically humongous but relatively benign David.

  Often, as we did when we realized the statue of Artemis in the Vatican was not covered in mangoes after all, we used the oldest diversion in the book—ice cream. However, on our final European excursion before moving back to the States, it became clear I could no longer avoid the curiosity of our youngest child, Lilly.

  We were nearing the end of our three years of living in Germany. Francis had already moved to his next duty station at Naval Station Mayport, Florida, and I stayed behind so the kids could finish out the school year. Regretting that we’d never had the chance to visit Greece and Croatia, I booked a last-minute cruise with ports of call in Venice, Bari, Corfu, and Dubrovnik.

  “Perfect!” I thought, looking forward to checking the rest of the boxes on my family’s travel wish list. But of course, things were not perfect.

  Lilly, Anna, and I got seasick after departing Venice. After a long night of tag-teaming in our state room’s tiny bathroom and rationing the remaining scraps of toilet paper, we wandered around Bari the following morning, dazed and queasy. In my weakened state, I didn’t have the energy to censor what the kids were seeing. All I could do was sip shakily from a cappuccino while they gawked at nude statues and giggled at paintings.

  I could tell that Lilly’s head was spinning with questions.

  Later, while Anna and Hayden visited the arcade, I took Lilly for a mother-daughter dinner at the ship’s buffet. Even though my parental judgment was still somewhat impaired from lingering seasickness, I decided to seize the opportunity to enlighten my daughter.

  Sitting there in a booth on that Italian cruise ship, using breadsticks and rigatoni noodles as my visual aids, I told Lilly all about the birds and the bees.

  Too stunned to finish her pasta, Lilly just sat there, her brown eyes wide. It was as if she was trying to process all she had seen during our three years in Europe. Whether this bombshell made things easier or more difficult for her to comprehend, I couldn’t say.

  All I knew was, if Lilly asked me any follow up questions, I was armed with the perfect answer—“Let’s get some ice cream!”

  SEASON 2 EPISODE 10

  WAR OF THE ROSES

  It was a night like any other night.

  The soft glow of the television winked off, signaling the start of our bedtime ritual. I hoisted my weary body out of its hollow in our sofa and began my journey down the hall to our bedroom, flicking off lights and peeking into the kids’ rooms on the way. Francis peeled himself out of his leather recliner and plodded off to the kitchen to set the coffee maker to brew the hot elixir that would awaken us in eight hours.

  Peering into my baggy eyes in our bathroom mirror, I flossed, brushed, and gulped down a self-prescribed combination of eight vitamins, minerals, essential oils, and fiber, intended to keep me eternally young. And regular.

  Although he used to simply strip down to his undies and hop into bed, Francis joined me at our double sinks, to floss and brush his teeth, including a recently filled molar.

  With oral hygiene completed, we fumbled into our bedclothes and climbed into bed, I on his right, and he on my left.

  “Hike,” Francis commanded with his eyes already closed. I obliged, lifting my left leg and flopping it over his right. With our legs intertwined in such a way, we kissed goodnight and silence fell.

  “Hey, you’re over the roses,” I murmured.

  Our bed, a hundred-year-old French antique with three roses carved into the apex of its lovely arched headboard, was only wide enough for a full-sized mattress. The middle rose had always been our equator, our 38th parallel, our Berlin Wall.

  Despite our substantial frames, we had been sleeping on this full-sized mattress our entire marriage, and territorial disputes arose frequently.

  With a loud “tsk,” Francis jerked his girth two inches to the left. As I waited for the resulting undulations of the bed to subside, I opened my book.

  “The light!” Francis moaned. I turned off the overhead light, fumbled for my book light and turned it on.

  “Holy cow, that thing is bright,” he whined. He dragged a pillow over his eyes, and I compromised by angling the beam away from his side of the bed.

  A few minutes later, a familiar sound interrupted my reading. It was a rhythmic racket like sandpaper scraping rough wood, always accompanied by a prolonged jiggling of the mattress. These well-known clues pointed to only one thing: Francis was scratching himself again.

  When we lived in moister climates, his scratching was incessant, and often included the additional disruption of him furiously rubbing his burning feet together. Although I offered various creams and powders in hopes of dousing his fiery itch, Francis never seemed to mind. In fact, he took pride in the association of his condition with “jocks” and “athletes.”

  The sounds and shakes soon subsided, topped off with a loud, prolonged yawn. Silence returned, and my mind wandered back to the pages of my book. I lost myself in the wordy descriptions of the characters and began to doze.

  Onions. My eyelids blinked open and I turned my head to the left. In the dim light, I saw Francis’s open mouth about six inches from my face. I crinkled my nose at the hot breath emanating from this seemingly enormous, dark cave.

  Interestingly, the smell of Francis’s breath bore no relation to his eating habits. I didn’t recall serving the aromatic bulb with dinner or dessert for that matter, but somehow his mouth was giving off the clear scent of onions. The same irrational rules governed the odor of his belches. I could serve him a heaping plate of sugar cookies, and if he burped afterward, it would smell like salami. Go figure.

  “Hon, could you face the other direction?” I gingerly suggested. It took him a sleepy second to process my request, and then he smacked his dry lips, growled, and repositioned onto his back with a tuck and jerk motion.

  With our bed finally still, silent, and free of noxious odors, I surrendered to slumber.

  My eyelids twitched, as my dreams turned fitful. With a tiny gasp, I awakened and realized the growling wolf in my dreams was my snoring husband. “Honey, turn on your other side,” I whispered.

  “Huh? Whah?” he mumbled. With another “tsk” of exasperation, he jerked and tucked his body to the left, managing to curl our entire quilt around himself like a giant burrito.

  I lay awake a few minutes, thinking of our nightly ritual and whether or not it indicated anything about our relationship. I felt remorse for making Francis accommodate my light-sleep habits, and contemplated spooning him to communicate my regret.

  “Hike,” Francis whispered knowingly from his side of the roses. I flopped my leg back over his. Warm and secure in our little bed, we happily drifted off to sleep.

  SEASON 2 EPISODE 11

  THE STUFF FAMIL
IES ARE MADE OF

  I was told that my family of five weighed nearly eighteen thousand pounds.

  No, we were not morbidly obese—that figure was actually the estimated total weight of all our stuff, according to our military movers. Everything from the half-chewed pencil in the desk drawer to the 1978 Baldwin upright piano, and all the socks, cookie sheets, end tables, and dog toys in between.

  We were about to make the move from Germany to another duty station, this time Naval Station Mayport, Florida. But before the team of movers arrived to wrap all our stuff in paper, pack it into boxes, nail it into crates, weigh it, and deliver it to our next temporary home, we had to take some time to sort through our eighteen thousand pounds of stuff and purge unnecessary items like old clothes, outgrown toys, and beat-up furniture.

  Getting rid of things has always been difficult for me. As a child, I used to squirrel everything away—toys, coins, rocks, shells, candy, notes, photos—and I still do it as an adult. I can attach practical or sentimental value to almost anything to make it worth keeping.

  Before we packed for our move from England to Virginia, Francis was going through all the little drawers in his big roll top desk and came upon a small white plastic clamp holding a small, brownish object.

  “What the heck is this?” he asked, holding the clamp up to the light.

  “Oh, that’s Hayden’s umbilical cord,” I said, briefly looking up from a file box of bank statements.

  “His umbilical cord?!” he said, astonished, tossing the dehydrated fragment back into the drawer. “That looks like something you’d find in a bowl of Chex Mix … what if I’d accidentally eaten it? I’m throwing it away.”

  “Wait!” I shouted, lunging for the dried-up morsel. I held the plastic clamp and gazed at the petrified remnants of the bridge of flesh that once connected my son and me. I thought of the life-giving nourishment that flowed through the cord and how it symbolized our undying love.

  Francis interrupted my reverie.

  “Hon, you’re not going to keep that thing, are you?”

  As I reluctantly threw the scabby scrap into the trash, I wondered whether discarding the original physical bond between my son and me might adversely affect our emotional ties.

  I knew it was crazy, yet I went through the same insane thought processes with every move.

  I couldn’t give in to believing every scrap of paper and old shoe was indispensable because it held some dear memory or might come in handy one day. If I did, we’d easily exceed the military’s weight limit for moving a family of five. Uncle Sam’s discipline kept me from becoming a true hoarder, but I still battled my inner packrat every time he ordered us to move.

  I hesitated over a restaurant matchbook from a night when the kids didn’t embarrass us. I had trouble parting with my 1980s Bermuda bag and its buttoned covers, convinced that preppy wooden-handled purses might come back into style. And I couldn’t get myself to part with the tin drum my son used to beat when we went Christmas caroling with the neighbors.

  With each move, I had to remind myself that, although our stuff comforted us and made us feel at home in unfamiliar places, the eighteen thousand pounds of stuff following us around the world did not make us who we were.

  Without it we still had a hefty family life—weighty with memories, loaded with laughter, and laden with love.

  SEASON THREE

  IN THE TRENCHES

  SEASON 3 EPISODE 1

  MIDDLE SCHOOL DISORIENTATION

  My daughters and I nervously passed between two huge concrete lions flanking the entrance, and a door opened magically before us.

  “Welcome to Julia Landon College Preparatory School!” said the eighth grader holding the door, smartly clad in khaki shorts, a navy-blue polo emblazoned with the school logo, and a full set of shining braces.

  It was middle school orientation day, and having just moved to Jacksonville, Florida, from our previous duty station in Germany, we had no clue how to negotiate the vast halls and complex social hierarchy of this new institution.

  With every move, our military family adapted to new surroundings, but this time we were a bit anxious. Anna and Lilly had been accepted into the area’s top magnet middle school, and while I was grateful for this stroke of luck, I was also a bit worried I might meet up with some pretentious personalities.

  Being from humble roots, I tended to become self-conscious when I perceived that people were snooty.

  I believed middle school parents were a separate and distinct breed, because they were still living the dream that their children would grow up to be the cream of the crop. Unlike elementary school children who were more of a blank canvas, and high school kids whose personalities were pretty much set, middle school children were hovering in the middle—still forming their individual aptitudes and character traits. Middle school parents still believed that, with their guidance, their children would become neurosurgeons, famous artists, or professional athletes.

  I had a sneaking suspicion that the parents at Julia Landon College Preparatory School might have cornered the market on elitist attitudes, so I decided to beat them at their own game.

  I knew I needed to walk into that school wearing something that would convey the message, “I’m new, I’m smart, I’m interesting, and I have no time for you.”

  So, I strategically paired a trendy shirtdress with a silver pendant necklace on a leather cord. I carried one of those huge tote bags with the name of a European city stamped all over it. Mine read “Stuttgart.”

  I envisioned another mom asking, “Ooh, cool necklace … where’d you get it?” and I’d have to tell how I bought the pendant from a street market in Rome after a delicious lunch of risotto and fried artichokes in a Trastevere café. I’d have that far-away look in my eye that says, “I’ve got more culture in my upturned pinkie than you’d get from a case of Chobani.”

  Then someone else might notice my Stuttgart bag and inquire as to whether I have “visited” Germany. I’d have to hide my smirk as I explain, “Why, no, actually we lived in Stuttgart for the last three years.” Again, with that far-away look in my eyes.

  That’ll show ’em, I thought, as we crossed the threshold into the school.

  We were greeted by more khaki-clad kids, each one more polite and helpful than the last, “Yes ma’am” rolling off their tongues without the slightest effort.

  I grumbled under my breath at their superiority.

  I’d been trying to get Hayden, Anna, and Lilly to use that simple phrase for years, but even under extreme duress I had only been able to elicit a reluctant muttering that sounded more like “S’pam.” Apparently my kids would rather shove Popsicle sticks under their toenails than subordinate themselves in such a humiliating way. I preferred to not be referred to as a canned-meat product, so I gave up the fight and accepted the garden variety “Yes, Mom,” usually accompanied by plenty of eye rolling.

  We followed the sea of people headed to several stations set up for getting locker assignments, student ID photos, PTA memberships, textbooks, and PE uniforms. The crowd looked like a giant preppy wave of madras plaid, nautical stripes, tanned limbs, sun-bleached hair, and white teeth. Parents seemed to recognize each other, chatting as the tide swept forward.

  In a pathetic ploy for attention, I announced at each station, “We are new here,” but no one seemed to care all that much. They were as pleasant as eating a slice of summer peach pie on a porch swing. But I wasn’t about to let these sweet-tea swilling snobs get the best of me.

  In a last-ditch effort to get the upper hand, I announced to the silver-haired guidance counselor, “Well, you see, we are new because WE JUST MOVED HERE AFTER LIVING IN EUROPE,” hoping the surrounding crowd would overhear and drop to their knees to beg for my friendship.

  But strangely, no one batted an eye.

  In her slow-cooked southern drawl, the guidance counselor responded, “Well, I do declare, you have come a long way! Welcome, we are so happy to have you here. Now, how may
I help you?”

  Contritely, I handed the sweet woman Anna’s and Lilly’s health records and thanked her for her assistance. I couldn’t deny it any more. The people at this new school weren’t snooty or elitist. I didn’t need to beat them at their own game, because they weren’t playing one. With a sigh of relief, I finally let down my guard and resolved to just be real.

  As I walked back out the door and between the concrete lions, I remembered the advice I had given Anna and Lilly that very morning: “Don’t be afraid, just be yourself. In time, you’ll make lots of new friends and fit right in.”

  Point taken.

  SEASON 3 EPISODE 2

  BATTLE OF THE BULGE

  One busy weeknight while chewing the last bites of pork chops and boxed macaroni and cheese, I asked Francis, “Did I tell you about my conversation with the sixth-grade math teacher today?”

  Gnawing a particularly tough piece of meat, Francis shook his head with a familiar glazed look in his eyes. After nearly two decades of marriage, he knew I could take a good twenty minutes to describe cleaning the fuzz out of the lint trap, so he settled into his seat and braced himself for excruciating detail and superfluous analysis.

  “Well, I called him about the semester project,” I continued, “and do you know what he said?”

  “No. What?” Francis robotically replied, staring blankly into space.

  I went on, in great detail, to describe a mundane event in my daily life as a stay-at-home mother of three. Many years of housewifery had taught me I could give our regular dinner conversation a stimulating dose of drama and suspense if I merely embellished my otherwise ordinary stories with exhaustive descriptions, exaggerated voice intonation, and vivid facial expressions.