The Slow Food Movement has always been informed by a bit of elitism. Sure, let’s all spread out the linen under the ancient oak and bask in each other’s company. Nothing wrong with that, of course. And us Americans, always is such a rush! What’s the hurry?

I’ll tell you what the hurry is: I hearken back to when our two girls were young. Perhaps it’s Monday, and we’ve got all that great food we cooked over the weekend for a meal of soul-satisfying homemade leftovers. Or perhaps it’s Tuesday, and that’s all in the past, and we’ve got a precious 2 ½ hour window to get them Fed, Read, and Bed.

6:00 p.m. We’re all get home, carpools willing. One of us boils pasta, steams veggies, sets the table and helps with one kid’s homework. The other puts in a load of laundry, clears a path between rooms, drives back out to pick up the forgotten backpack, and, screw it, just does the other kids damn homework. (A client told me, “I did really well in the third grade last year.”)

6:45 p.m. Sit and eat, chat and laugh. But not too long – get that bathwater running while we finish dinner. Now time to Divide and Capitulate. The little one goes into the tub, then out, then back in (we left the room for a minute), then Mom settles her into beddy-bye with the latest Rowling opus. I sit, slack-jawed, taking in the eldest’s brilliant string of stalling maneuvers. Finally we fight to a draw, and it’s time to see if her sister is asleep, which she was until the passive-aggressive goodnight kiss.

9:15 p.m. – Just before hopping into bed, Girl 1 remembers the diorama due tomorrow.

9:45 p.m. Father returns from Walgreen’s with supplies. Mother tries to barricade herself in the bedroom, but the papier-mâché won’t hold.

11:30. Parents retire, after completing the nightly devotional: Please, Great Spirit, let us find two pairs of matching shoes in the morning.

Coming Soon: What mealtimes are like now, or: It’s worth having children just so to have them grow up and leave

So, New Year’s Resolutions: Less Colorful Language (there’s a euphemism)
Working in a kitchen environment is not helpful to this. But, gee willikers, (see, better already!) how small has my vocabulary become? And when I do need a good salty F-bomb, my overuse has devalued it to the point of meaninglessness. You know how they used to need a wheelbarrow full of lira to buy a loaf of bread? That’s how much I need to swear to make any type of impression, even on myself.

Snail Mail
My sister in LA has been singlehandedly keeping the Post Office in business. Sometimes it’s a cute card from her fancy stationary pals, others some stupid magazine article (Sharon, if you’re reading this, don’t get offended. And why not try sending a little cash? It’s safe!) But every time, it feels like my birthday. Before smart phones take the next step to pure telepathy, I’m using up these stamps, as soon as I find them. And I’m fortunate to have an endless list of Thank You’s to send.

“Parting the Veil”
Joseph Campbell spoke of the “invisible world that supports the visible world”. And he spent his life seeking out places where the “veil” between the two would part, allowing us a glimpse into . . . whatever presented itself. The desert, the ocean, the forest. Group worship, religion, meditation, psychedelics, fasting. Hell, he even went to a Grateful Dead show. And having tried all of the above, and having rejected all of them, most of them, fasting, I find myself returning to, of all places church. But I don’t proselytize. It’s already too hard to park.

I promise to update on my adherence to these. What about yours? Anyone? Anyone?