Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.
Dad, AKA 'the man'
I remember being stood by the toilets, waiting for my uncle to come out of the toilets and they were next to this really big rollercoaster that I didn’t want to go on, but my dad had said ‘come on, don’t be a wuss, come on with me it’ll be fun!’ This made me not want to go on even more. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed being angry at my dad, or to wanted to contradict him, but it allowed me to side with mum as she would often say ‘he said no, don’t force him if he doesn’t want to’ which pleased me that I got my own way.
The shovel digs into the dirt and the knife slices through bread. Seeds are scattered politely as the butter is spread carelessly. Next, the cheese, the smelly kind, her father’s favourite. Glancing through the window into the green she watches as her father lays down the topsoil, she places the top layer onto his well-earned snack. Twisting the knob to high she places the sandwich into the oven staring at it for a moment, eager for the cheese to melt.
We were floating together in the pool. You both had just gotten married and we were surrounded by people who loved your love the most. You held hands, smiling in pure ecstasy, as the sun set on you, and povi sang your tune; you took deep breaths into your next chapter.
Why I Want to Learn the Languages of my Ancestors
What languages did your ancestors speak? What languages do you speak? What languages do you want to learn? What is lost and what is gained when a family or person switches from their ancestral language to the dominant language of the nation where they live?
What To Do If You Fall In Love With Your Best Friend
I used to believe that falling in love with your best friend only happened in television shows or motion pictures. Do people really just discover their soulmate is the person who has never given them boners when they wake up one day?
Jimmy was his name. Officially James which usually carries the nickname Jim, but neither fit. He was Jimmy. “Jimmy” because he was a child at heart with an unparalleled zest for life.
Home of Summer
“Don’t even dare touch the aam.” My hands shook at the voice. It wasn’t exactly angry or loud, yet I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to do what I was about to do. At 10, I wasn’t much of a fruit lover, but this season really had me all riled up for some green mangoes. For the sake of my own justification, there are two things that are notable when it comes to my relationship with mangoes.
Labors of Love
When I was seven years old, my family moved to Switzerland for my dad’s job. Growing up overseas, we only got to come back home to the US once a year. After a couple times of trying to fly home to the Midwest for Christmas, we decided to skip the winter weather delays and visit over the summer instead. One of the things I always looked forward to was my Grandma Doris’s chocolate pie. That was my dad’s favorite, so she made sure to make it at least twice every time we came to visit. I loved walking into her little kitchen with the rays of sunshine beaming in through the curtains above the sink and finding a chocolate pie waiting for us. Despite living in a country that was known for its phenomenal chocolate, there was something special about her chocolate pie made with Hershey’s cocoa powder.
Fire Pit Baklava: A Summer Story
The week before I graduated college I lost my last baby tooth. I was 21 years old and it came out on a pineapple of all things. The tooth sat right in the center of my mouth and I wasn’t sure if I looked more like a Beverly Hillbilly or a pirate, but either way, the look was not becoming for a young doctor on the rise. It was far more reminiscent of the recluse I so longed to be at that time. In the same week, my best friend passed away in a fiery car accident. Even through tears and nights of attempting to numb the pain with sugary cereal and liters of soda, I still had to chuckle every time I passed a mirror thinking, Jay would have said pirate.
Ode To The Classic Hotdog
Hot Dog. Hot Diggity! A backyard staple, bologna’s cousin of dignity. A concoction, a compound, An enigmatic treat. Fill me a tube of that mixed up minced meat
“You’re so embarrassing!”
Some total idiot has introduced my children to that most English concept of embarrassment, and I’ve got a nasty feeling it was me. Some weeks ago, my daughter (aged 6) was due to receive three friends after school for tea, as my son (aged 12) was off on a week long residential school trip and we had decided that in his absence, the house was not full enough of mewling screams and bickering. Girl does not entertain as often as she would like, as if she did, it would leave no room for school, or sleep, or anything else, for that matter. Perhaps because of this, she approaches the arrival of guests with a manic fervour and a keen eye for detail, right down to taking dinner orders for her guests some days in advance as if it were a works Christmas meal; “guest X would like pizza, guest Y would like fishfingers and [bafflingly] guest Z would like Spaghetti Carbonara.” All three were given a plate of fishfingers and chips each, much to Girl’s chagrin as in her mind’s eye she saw the locomotion of social mobility heading for the buffers of ostracisation.
The Ice Cream Man Cometh
My childhood memories are tinged in shades of black and white. Although various relatives and friends used their Kodak and Polaroid cameras to capture in vivid color many of the moments from the late 1970s and early 1980s, when my father got behind the lens they were recorded in black and white or sepia tones.