Where my Dad grew up. The red brick, oh the red brick.

You Can Find Me in St. Louie

The Van Brunt clan mobilized in St. Louis this past week for a family reunion. It was a great trip filled with appropriate balances of meeting cousins I have never met before, good times, and stress. (sadly, no Nelly sightings)  Over the 5 day period, I had the opportunity to observe a few things about myself that I feel compelled to share now:

1. I am not an easy flier. I absolutely love to travel, so this is an unfortunate discovery. I used to LOVE to fly, actually preferring connecting flights over direct so that I could get double the take off/landing thrill. I think I can trace the genesis of my phobia to a Ryanair flight from Barcelona to France, where the turbulence spilled my drink, caused a few mid-flight screams to burst out about the cabin, and induced a couple passengers to kiss the ground once we finally smacked back down to the tarmac. I have gone up and down with my extremes of fear (which arises from a just such a source) depending on the flight, but now  it appears I have digressed into frantically grabbing an obliging arm when we begin to bounce. (My mom, I am told, does the same. I was filled with mixed emotions upon hearing this news.) My mind goes in all sorts of directions—At certain points, I am even ready for the appearance of Snakes on the motha ‘effing Plane. This is a disturbing realization, and vow to seek help. And please don’t tell me the whole “just imagine the bumps are the bumps on a road” bit. Air is not a road. I can’t walk on it. 

2. The reliance on the shiny world of iphones was in full force for our maps/directions throughout the trip. Technology has given us so much, seemingly fool-proofed the methods of getting one from A to B, but somehow that could not keep the VB caravan from flipping numerous U’s at terrifying intersections. Suffice to say: Stubbornness—she get it from her Daddy.

3. My Grandma Chick is/was a peach. Years ago it would be hard to imagine a more tender side of the red-headed lady who raised 8 kids (7 boys!) and struck terror into my heart as a child. Yes, the woman who was constantly chiding me to “brush your hair!” “sit like a lady!” “don’t drink your water so fast!” just could not understand that as I child I was a boy who liked to gulp down water and spill it down my front. It could be that I have changed (am no longer ragged boy child) or perhaps the both of us, but I genuinely enjoy my Grandma Chick. I saw several pictures of the Irish Italian Gloria Chickey with glossy black hair in a cute two-piece get up playfully swimming with my grandpa Rut in the Ozarks while they were “courting.” She has achieved so much, traveled all over the world, still eats steak, encourages red wine for health, and can swing a golf club with the best of them.

4. I assume the countenance of a monster when low blood sugar hits.

5. I have seen the Promise Land in the form of a world class manicured croquet course, but was unable to taste of its fruits. This is going to take a while for me to get over.

6. Going down a 10 story slide when you are 5’9 is a slow, painful experience.

7. Being modest about ones athletic abilities is surely always a lie. I donned the White’s necessary to play tennis at G Chick’s club, being very clear about my tennis skills, “I am not very good. I have never really had a lesson.”  Family members responded, “Oh! That’s fine. I have not played in ages!” Only to be pelted by spicy mustard-style serves minutes later.

8. I have a huge thing for red brick houses. I caught myself about every two minutes envisioning/practically tasting the lemonade I would be sipping on the porch of my would-be absolutely stunning house. In retrospect, I  see no impediment to me actually doing so. I should have just supplied my own glass and set up camp. 

9. I made a pit stop to Schnucks at 11:30 p.m on a friday night with my parents. Our purchases? A rotissere chicken and grapes. It's really not what you think.

10. I love love my family.  And things have gotten so much easier since the days of loading up our van and using a spray bottle in lieu of AC. 

                               Lemon Ricotta Pine Nut Tart                ...Yummmmmmmmmmmmmm

Buddy, Fondant, and the Indisputable

When I say I don’t really watch TV I mean it. It’s mainly because I don’t understand my new television, and cannot figure out which of the 7 remotes I need to use to make it give me a moving picture. I am aware this statement savors strongly of a geriatric-style rant and puts the feather in my Luddite cap, but I wish to redeem myself by stating that I do have one show that I just really enjoy. The quality, the thought provoking, the inspirational,

The Cake Boss.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. If it were to be made a drinking game, and a sip was in order each time Buddy shouted the word "Fondant!" everyone would be delightfully sloshed on cheap Italian wine within minutes. For bearing the name Buddy with so little visible symptoms of self-angst and shame, you have my esteem. For maintaining that high level of intensity and pitch in your voice, you have my amazement. For using pounds and pounds of edible sweets to make unorthodox figurines on cakes, never to be actually eaten, you have my astonishment. And anyone who can make a life-sized cake in the image and likeness of your own wife and stomach the sight of it, has my congratulations.

People think it is easy to be The Cake Boss. People think his hair just looks like that when he gets out of the shower, and that the Jersey accent flows naturally. People think that making a cake that looks and flushes like a real toilet is old hat. Work, it all takes unimaginable amounts of work. Let me tell you, the only unrehearsed thing about the show is the nature of Italian drama. If Moonstruck has taught me anything, (and don’t even try to tell me it hasn’t) it’s that Italian hands move independent of the brain, if you are not yelling about something you are lying, that families are tight-knit, and bad-blood can rip your heart out and your hand off—and that Nick Cage, at one point in time, had real promising talent.

People used to think that cakes were for eating, and that asking for “chocolate” was more than enough of a sufficient description. The Cake Boss astutely maneuvers through all of the antiquated ideas of sweets, shattering them with a rolling pin and an Italian Momma-style cheek slap, and recreates the norm to a level of pyrotechnics and fresco paintings.

If you are still in doubt about the unique talent of this TV Show, let me finish convincing you with a few choice episode titles and descriptions:

“Museum, Mistakes, and Mother Mary”

“The shop goes to the American Museum of Natural History to acquire reference for a prehistoric mammal cake; a sweet 16 cake proves to be more work than anyone planned on; Frankie makes and decorates a cake all by himself for Mary's daughter's dance recital.” 

“A Blindfold, A Bikini, and Breathing Fire”

“A customer orders a tiki cake that emits fire and a cake for his sister-in-law's bridal shower. Also, Mauro challenges him to ice a cake blindfolded, lest he be forced to come to the bakery dressed in a grass skirt and coconut bra.”

"Aquarium Adventures and An Announcement"

“Buddy adds live fish to an underwater-themed cake ordered by an aquarium to celebrate its birthday. Lisa and Remy make a special announcement to Buddy, who can't wait to tell the rest of the family.” 

"Tournament of Knights and a Tasty Tiramisu”

“Buddy's Italian speaking skills are put to the test as he has to make an authentic tiramisu  for a client who has family visiting from Italy. In addition, a knight from Medieval Times comes to the bakery to ask for a cake for his king and queen, and challenges Buddy to a joust .” 

"Chopped Head and a Crazy Cravings Cake"

“Buddy has to make a cake for a  Marie Antoinette party, a "cravings" cake for his sister, Lisa Gonzalez, for her baby shower. Mauro faces a short health care crisis. The rest of the clan is concerned while Mauro claims it to be ‘no big deal.’”

"Hieroglyphics, Hearse and Happy Parents"

“A funeral hearse is made for a surprise cake. A mother and daughter cannot agree on a theme for a Sweet 16 cake, with one desiring an Egyptian theme, and the other a more girlish fashion-oriented theme. An animal-themed cake is made for an Indian baby shower.”

"Barbers and Bulls"

“Buddy wants to make a cake for the barbershop where he has been getting his hair cut since he was a kid in honor of their anniversary. Also, Buddy and the team are asked to create a mechanical bull cake, complete with movement.”

“Toilets and Textiles”

“A plumbing supply company asks Buddy to make a toilet bowl cake with one special condition -- the cake must actually flush. A nightclub owner who's a fan of denim requests a baby shower cake -- that looks like denim. Meanwhile, someone in the bakery has accidentally made a tiered cake with uneven tiers; with the cake on a deadline, Buddy demands who's at fault.” 

I rest my cake?

In the Gadda

I have long associated gardening with failure. The few attempts I made as a kid in Arizona withered and died the minute I put the seed in the ground or second I took them out of the black plastic holder. It’s like I almost heard the plants say to me, “are you kidding me? I’m not meant to survive here. And neither are you, really, you freckled thing!” Ours was not a caring relationship, plants and I.

The only gardening success I have ever been involved with, I was only involved in the enjoying part. My roommates in college planted a garden in our backyard. They tended to it, and it grew beautifully in the unlikely setting of an under-utilized yard behind a sub-par house in the middle of a college neighborhood. I maybe helped water once or twice.  Even more beautiful was the time I spent picking off cherry tomatoes by the dozen and eating them up.

When my mother asked me to accompany her to Lowes today, I had instantaneous flashbacks of the last time I was at that store, in Fairfield, Connecticut, with my green-thumbed roommate. I impatiently followed my indecisive companion all around the store. He would pick up a type of flower and put it in the oversized carts they have at those places, we would circle through the aisles, and then he would take the flowers out of the cart and replace them with another. This happened every two minutes. Offering no real help, I only made strong comments about what color of pots I liked best. He did not listen. I was happy when we could finally leave, even though our exit included me lugging a 30 lb bag of manure-ish stuff in my arms.

My trip with my mom was decidedly different. I was so amazed to see all the various types of plants that could apparently grow in AZ. (with loads of borrowed water and TLC, obvi) In her typical fashion, my mom knew exactly what she wanted, got it, and we left. As we were unloading all of our newly acquired plants, I for some inexplicable reason got giddy with excitement. The next thing I know, I have slathered on SPF 60, changed out of my dress and sandals into work clothes and tennis shoes, and have a shovel in my hand. I am digging holes with vigor a la John Henry’s railroad race with the steam powered machine. (In the scenario in my head, I cream the hole-digging machine, and remain living victoriously, shovel in hand. I kick the lousy defeated machine over, and bury it in the big amazing hole I just dug, resolute to never water it, and deny it even a drop of Miracle Grow.)

I remember when I was younger I loved to get unnecessarily messy when doing projects. When baking bread with my mom, I used to smother flour all over my face like in the movies. When helping my dad paint, I used to make sure that I got splatters all over my “paint clothes.” And I am pretty sure my feet have consistently been dirty ever since the day I discovered I really don’t care for shoes. Gardening and working in the dirt rekindled that messy urge. I had dirt everywhere, as I made no effort in the least to stay clean. I even had that mulch stuff that I know has organic materials that might include animal excrement caked on all over. (The swarms of flies were having lunch on my legs. ‘Twas poop.) It felt great.

It also felt like my mom and I were performing some great civic duty by planting. Neighbors who drove by honked and waved, and we even got a few thumbs up. No joke, a police man even stopped, got out of his car, and complimented our work. He even went so far as to ask candidly “how everything is going for you?” and, “if you have any concerns, here is my card.” Thank you, officer. I'll name this rosemary plant after you.

Then, a parade come thundering down the street, with dancing bushes and bagpipe playing shovels.  Scantily clad vegetables strut down the street shaking what the dirty dirt gave ‘em. (my mom covered my eyes) Various other gardening tools were twirling batons to the beat played by watering cans. As they passed our house, a fight broke out because apparently one called the other a “hoe.” Really?

Okay, but there really should have been a parade.

The test will really be to keep those plants alive. It’s a tough world out there, in AZ. I’d like to think that I have instilled them all with the fundamentals: courage , self respect and furtile soil. I guess all I can do, I guess all  any gardener can ever do,  is just to watch my babies grow.

pretty poppies in my neighbor's yard

The Good, the Bad, and the Pup

No one would ever assume that my father is a man who loves his truck, especially because 9 times out of 10 when you see the man he is grinning in his spandex with a glob of sunscreen on his nose, either beginning or ending one of his lengthy bike rides.  Yes, that truck is the one variance from his usual “I don’t care about cars” mantra. Is it because it makes him feel manly and Ford Tough? An accompaniment to his proverbial shot gun and flannel? Maybe he takes it off road to traipse around in the mud? Or is it because he can haul huge loads of rocks, timber and steel planks in the back?

I cannot say definitively, because I have never asked him, but I am going to go with No.

Why? Because it is a 1989 Isuzu. It is small, powdery beige, and completely the opposite of Macho. It cannot make it safely over 45 miles an hour.  The first gear is practically non-existent.  You can literally hear it coming from a half mile away; it is so very, very loud (evidenced by heads turning in concern). Inside the car, there is a cacophony of noises coming from various parts of the engine and odometer—seemingly   all over (A recent confusing addition is the sound of swishing water?). Oh, and a very important defining detail: the trucks name is “the Pup.”

We continually get offers from people (via messages written on scrap paper left on the windshield) trying to by it, presumably for parts. My father takes each and every proposition as a compliment, and would never consider selling it.

“The whole neighborhood uses it!”

Well, the last time a neighbor tried to put it to use, pulling out a tree stump, the Pup huffed, puffed, roared and squealed, trying to get it to budge. Not long after it began its battle, the Pup relented, lurching backwards at the stump, causing a scene of great concern. We have not gotten too many requests since.

Currently, the Pup has a pale blue license plate from the Bahamas on the front. That very same license plate used to be on the wall in my room. I bought off a woman on the side of the road when my family visited the Bahamas on a cruise several years ago. One day, literally out of nowhere, I saw it attached to the front of the Pup. When asked about it, my Dad simply responded, “Oh, yes! Sort of fun, huh?”

We never lock the car, knowing that if somebody did have the gall to try and steal the Pup, they would soon figure out they would not be able to drive it. You simply have to have the touch. It requires a sort of seasoned sensitivity to a very hard to please clutch. Incidentally, once the keys got locked in the car. My mother prayed to the “Good Thief” as I easily jimmied the lock with a bent hanger. 

The good times in the Pup are unquestionable; it would have one hell of a memoir. I used to play in it as a kid, seeing how long I could tolerate standing bare foot on the black lining of the bed that had been baking in the Arizona sun all afternoon.  My nieces and nephews now play in it, taking advantage of its old and poorly inflated tires, jouncing the car like it was a trampoline. Legend has it my oldest sister Sarah accidentally took out a tree in front of Ted’s Hotdogs in the Pup.  I also have heard it has driven over a few parking blocks. There are telltale signs  that it has had a few unsavory encounters with foreign objects, its body is riddled with dents. I personally once backed it into a wall.  There is no mirror on the passenger side (it’s just not there), and I have never gotten a clear story as to why. 

All six of the VB kids have learned to drive stick in the Pup, (I can clearly recall the horror of my own experience) and yet somehow it has managed to be one of our only cars to escape some disastrous fate. The Pup is a landmark to the VB house, and I daresay, our whole neighborhood. It’s been working hard for 20+ years at bringing down the property value. 

The Pup even makes a cameo on Google Earth.  Count it.