The Eldest

Those that have met my immediate family would say that we are close, and it is true, we are.  My parents were blessed with five biological children and fostered five more but what few people know is that my parents had another baby that no one has ever met.  As children in school we were frequently asked to draw family portraits.  I always enjoyed this activity because everyone else might have a brother or sister, dog or cat, mom and dad, maybe even a step mom and dad, but I was always the only one in the classroom with an angel.

On April 27th, 1985 my parents were joined in holy matrimony.  A few months later they became pregnant and on April 19th, 1986 they were blessed with their first born.  She weighed six pounds some odd ounces and was two months early.  When she was born my family went to the moon and back.  My parents (whose courtship was long and tedious for all parties) finally had a child of their own and my maternal grandparents had their first grandchild.  My paternal grandparents had other grandchildren but this was the first by their youngest son and they were very happy too.  Sadly the precious gift that God had given them was not theirs to keep. 

With a sorrowful face the doctor who helped bring her into this world sadly informed my parents that she was no long to be in it.  An early term illness that my mother had acquired visiting relatives had damaged the baby's heart and the decree was that she would not live long enough to take her home.  Pausing only long enough for the terrible news to sink in, my Father asked for her to be baptized.  The on hand nurse had already looked at the charts and had seen that my parents were Catholic.  Without pausing she did an emergency baptism then and there.  She was named for my parents favorite saint, Jean Marie Vianney.  My Father, unknowing what the nurse had done, did an emergency baptism as well.  My great uncle, Father Barnabas, arrived shortly after that and baptised her as well.  Now, I know that only the first baptism counts, but just in case one of them did not count, we are quite certain that at least one must have worked. 

A few short hours later Jeanne Marie, not meant for this world, passed from my parents arms into God's.  This concludes the tragically short, but very exciting life of my only big sister.  I have to add what happened next or my Mother will kill me for leaving out the happy ending.  The doctor who delivered Jeanne Marie told my parents that they would never give birth to a child who would live.  Not a year later he went on to deliver a healthy baby boy, my brother Danny.  A year and half later I was born with the same doctor.  After that he retired and my Mother went on to have John-Paul, Robert, and Elizabeth.  I have often wondered, and then wanted, to meet that doctor and ask how it feels to be to be so wrong?

My mother says that without sorrow one cannot experience true joy and that losing Jeanne Marie made her love all of us so much more.  So every April 19th my Father tries to do something nice for all of us.  As happy as he is with all of us, he still writes letters to my first sister.  When my younger sister was ten, he read us a letter he had written to Jeanne Marie a month after we found out my Mother was pregnant with Elizabeth.  He told her that he thinks of her often, especially in the Spring, and that even though he loves the rest of us, she will always be his first child, his first love.  He wrote that he knows she is in heaven and watching down on us and looking out for all of us from up there.  He asked her for another girl because he felt that his first child had been a little girl, so maybe his last should be as well.  I wrote a song about it once (my Dad hated it) but somehow I know that she likes it. 

You would think that my Mother would be sad too but she never shows it.  Every year on April 19th she does, well, she does what she does every day of the year.  She loves us unconditionally and tells us that she is proud of us.  Sometimes, when we get sad, she tells us about the sister that we never had the privilege of meeting, but to hear her tell it, the story is an adventure and it always end with the joy of God's plan.  She does not call it Jeanne Marie's birthday, but rather her feast day.  She tells us that this is the day we remember that one of children has already made it to heaven and that we have a patron saint who is watching out for us.  Some day I hope to meet my sister, but not for a very long time.  Maybe someday, if I ever have children, I will understand how difficult it was for my parents, but for now I raise a glass to her twenty-fifth feast and instead choose to celebrate life.

My life as an adult

There are few things in my life as an adult that I can really say that I am proud of.  Last night definately makes it in the top ten favorite things ever.  Some of my friends (okay, the CWC) have created what we have called "Punk the World" sessions.  What did we do?  Dressed up like Nintendo characters and went go karting.  Katrina was Toad, Lauren was Toadette, Cissy was Mario, Jacob was Luigi, Kevin was Donkey Kong, Sasha was Princess Peach, and I was Yoshi.  Bathe in our awesomeness. 

The Gabbielady Attempts to Cook

Now most of you who know me know that happiness for me is when someone else does the cooking.  I come from a long line of bad cooks on one side and a long line of amazing cooks who refuse to go into the kitchen on the other side.  I am going to say that I am very talented but I still haven't figured out which side I take after.  Due to the nature of my life now I am forced into the kitchen on a semi daily basis.  This works well and dandy when the only thing I'm cooking are quesadillas and hard boiled eggs, but God insists upon me taking the role of comic relief.  He does this by pushing me out of my comfort zone and into the kitchen. 

This week I made Zucchini bread, banana bread, sweet mustard beef, and my favorite, pesto.  I have managed to screw up all of them.  Being an Anne, of course I messed them up beautifully in different ways, so at least I'm learning and not making the same mistake twice.

I jokingly tell people that nothing could be worse than the time that I killed Mrs. Fleischman's yeast.  Mrs. Fleischman is the mother of one of my favorite college roommates and sometimes on long weekends we would go home with Abby because she was the only one of us who had family who lived in the state.  On one such weekend Mrs. Fleischman invited me to enter the sacred of her kitchen to help her make bagels.  I was in charge of adding the ingredients while she puttered around making dinner.  Did you know that salt comes out in a rush if you are not careful?  Well I didn't.  Poor Mrs. Fleischman could not for the life of her figure out why her perfect bagels were not rising and instead were doing their best impression of a sat upon pancake.  After some research and various repetitions of what I had added we discovered her mistake- namely, it was her fault for letting me help.  The bagels/pancakes were my fault because I added too much salt which killed the yeast which made it so the dough would not rise which resulted in me being flung from the kitchen while she fixed the dough.  Then she graciously allowed me to return and destroy her bagels further.  Did you know that bagels are supposed to be round?  And they're supposed to have holes in them?  Somehow I knew this but I think it didn't work so well because none of my bagels were round or had holes in them.  They looked more like scares with random pokey marks in the tops of them.  Her bagels were perfect.  In case I had not done enough damage she then had me put toppings on them- you know sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic, etc.  Well guess who managed to poor an entire case of sesame seeds into the pan, almost hiding the bagels.  For the record, this saintly woman did have a lapse of judgement again, and again, every time I came to visit.  She would let me "help" her (or desecrate her kitchen) and then would dutifully fix my mistakes while I stood shamefacedly as far away from it as I could manage while remaining in Florida. 

Anyways, like I said, nothing could be worse than that time, but believe me when I say that I've come close this week.  When I made zucchini bread (with directions set out in front of me) I misread "tsp" for "tbs".  Did you know that there is a significant difference between two teaspoons and two tablespoons?  Especially when it's salt?  Unfortunately no one caught this particular mistake until long after it was done cooking.  Consequently my zucchini bread which is supposed to be sweet, tastes like I used salt water instead of regular water.  My only thought is that most of it's been eaten (thankfully as it appears to get saltier with age) and that if you put enough jam on the bread you can't REALLY taste it. 

Then I made banana bread.  I cannot take full credit for this one as no one warned me that we do not have standard size bread pans.  Consequently they take longer to cook.  So I kept on adding ten minutes to the cook time, and then adding ten more and then ten more.  I did this for at least forty minutes and then I thought for SURE it must be done by NOW.  I was wrong.  Now we have to toast the banana bread to make sure it's not half cooked in the center.  As I said before, I am so very talented. 

This morning while making the sweet mustard beef, my tongs slipped and I now have a rather large blood blister on my ring finger that make me feel squeamish.  I am one of those people that as long as I don't see it, you can poke me, prod me, slice me and dice me.  Describe it to your heart's content, while I'm eating, and I will not care, but God help you if I see it.  Consequently this blood blister is running me through the ringer because it hurts, and me being the ADD person that I am I keep on thinking, why does my finger hurt?  Oh yes, because there's this giant red thing on my hand, pulsating blood just under the surface.  blech.  Have I mentioned I am still suffering the effects from a migraine I acquired late last night?  The rest of my recipe seems to be turning out reasonably well, other than the fact that it has a great deal of molasses in it (yuck) and I seem to have run out of it. Ah well, I'm hoping that this works. 

As to the pesto I am making, well, it's not quite done, so I'm praying that maybe, just maybe, this one might turn out alright.  Pesto is one of my favorite foods, along with anything with basil in it.  Just the same I have managed to ruin basil before and killed several plants in the process.  Some days I think my garden would be better off if I were not the one gardening it.  Just the same, at least once a week I go out and sit with my basil and croon to it, "Good basil plants.  You're so beautiful.  Someday you will grow big and strong and if you're really lucky you'll become pesto."  It was only after someone caught me at it that I realized that this might not be the best incentive to the basil to grow "big and strong."

Dear God, I know that this life you have given me is really just one big adventure and everything I have is a gift from You, but please, please let me not ruin the pesto.  I don't know if the basil plants will ever forgive me for letting them down.  Let me not desecrate another one of my favorite foods.  Amen.  Sincerely, The Gabbie Lady

Sir John

When my Mother was pregnant with my second brother she went to my grandfather and said, "Sir, they say it's a boy.  What shall I name him?"  At least according to the version of the story that she tells he replied with a smile and said, "Name him John."  Apparently a few of my aunts had the same idea.  Consequently I grew up in a family either blessed or plagued with "Johns".  I have a brother named John-Paul, cousins named Jonathan, Jonah, and Joseph, and they are all named after my Grandfather, John.  True, most of them aren't perfect "Johns" but that's because my aunts and mother are all trying to cleverly name their sons after Pop without actually taking "the name" we hope to reserve for my Uncle Johnny to someday use if he should ever have a son.  Either way, between all the boys named John and all the men named John and them all coming from Pop who can also be known as John, you might understand why many of us took to just calling him "Sir." 
Now that I've explained the name allow me to speak on the topic of the man and perhaps I may explain why his daughters think so very highly of him.  My Grandfather, fondly known as Pop, respectfully known as Sir, was born in New York (gratefully he does not speak with any accent) to Irish immigrants.  As a young man he attended the California Institute for Technology, the only real challenge to MIT, and then was a paratrooper in the Army.  He wrapped his motorcycle and himself around a tree and consequently has a great deal of metal in his leg.  At the age of 21 he stopped smoking (which he claims is the best thing he ever did for himself) and promised never to drink hard liquor again- beer and wine do not count.  He married his high school girlfriend and had four children.  After she died he married my grandmother (who had four children at the time) and together they had two more children, equating to the amazing number of ten children.  In his spare time he worked on the Apollo missions, building the rockets.  At every wedding he makes the same toast, "May all your problems be little ones." 
When his first grandchild was born he said he was too young to be "Grandpa" and declined the title.  Instead he adopted the name of "Pop."
He has battled cancer three times (and won all of them) and had numerous diseases where he was told that he would not make it.  Some of his less cautious female progeny question whether Oscar Wilde based The Picture of Dorian Gray upon him.  All of his stories are entertaining but most of them I have to question the reliability of the source.  HHe is an excelent cook and his taste is second to none.  Among his favorite songs are such titles as The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Oh Danny Boy, and The War Requiem.  When he walks into a room everyone turns and listens to him.  His presence demands respect.  He is one of the most demanding and generous men I have ever known and he always answers his wife with "Yes dear." 
Since he retired he likes to cook, spoil his children and grandchildren, embarass his granddaughters, and globe trot. 
I'm writing this largely because he just visited with my grandmother.  Perhaps this description will explain why  for the longest time I thought that my grandfather and John Wayne were one in the same.  It made perfect sense- they're both first generation Irish men.  They both can scare the living daylights out of you.  They both have a sort of classic cowboy image.  They both have really great one liners.  Everyone is drawn to their presence.  And most importantly in every shot they are always the hero.  He has been informed by three generations of his descendants that he is not allowed to die , but being the stubborn man that he is, he refuses. 
Pop says that of all his accomplishments (and he has a great many) he is most proud of his children and his grandchildren.  He says that Nana prays for a just God because she deserves heaven.  Pop says he prays for a merciful God because he knows what he's done wrong in this life.  He says that in this life we are all stewards and that all the gifts we have come from God.  At days end we will be asked what we did with our gifts.  I've never asked him but he doesn't appear to be worried.  Looking at the family that he created (32 grandchildren, 10 children, and nine children-in-law) I wouldn't be either. 

Alright so tell me if this is funny?

Tonight at the dinner table we discovered the joy of the oh so clever "Knock-knock" joke. Fortunately, half the people at the table were entirely unversed in the better known ones and therefore decided to come up with their own. This added to the joy because, well... I'm not sure if they were actually funny. Some of my favorites went as follows, Karina- "Knock knock!" Mama- "Who's there?" Karina- "Cantelope." (I'd like to point out that when she said this I could not discern what the word was.) Mama- "Cantelope who?" (I was very dutifully impressed at her ability to understand the child at this point) Karina points across the table at a bowl. "Cantelope!" Mama- "Oh, cantelope... actually darling, that's watermelon." Karina got a very contemplative look on her face and said with a grin, "Watermelon?" Grisha- "Knock knock." Papa- "Who's there?" Grisha- "Animal" Papa- "Animal who?" Grisha- "Papa!" Jonathan- "Knock knock" Gabbie- "Who's there?" Jonathan- "Interupting wampa!" Gabbie- "Interuptingwampawho! HA!" Jonathan- *gigglesnickergiggle* From this I have deduced that Karina is learning new words (and forgetting some old ones) all the time, Grisha thinks Papa is an animal, and Gabbie never grew up.