It's Independence Day Somewhere

Apparently, yesterday was France's independence day.

I don't know how I could have missed that!

Actually, I couldn't miss it, because I'm married to Paul.

And if there's any country out there with any independence day, Paul is the man to celebrate it!

When I got home from work last night, I found roasted pork and carrots waiting patiently for me in a foil tent. I found lentils, crepes, and bacon-cooked greens. Also a dish of green beans.

"Wow!" burst out of me before I even knew what I would follow that with.

I didn't know how to serve and eat all of these things. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that crepes were a dessert, but, well, they were sitting by the lentils, and, well, I've seen a lot of creative cooking in my house--mint in peas, peanut butter on meat, chili powder in chocolate. And, well, I grew up in a meat-potatoes-and-vegetable household.

But my daughter saved me from the full weight of my ignorance by pointing out YET ANOTHER dish on the south counter of prepared homemade raspberry sauce. "And you sprinkle powdered sugar on the top."

It was clear that Paul had been very, very busy. And, no doubt, had a great deal of fun. Why be bored cooking dinner when you can center it on a theme?

As we sat down to our feast, the baby declared the roasted carrots to look "ferocious yucky!" I already knew them to probably be the best part of the meal, because I had already sampled one. Okay, two.

"Oh, no!" I said. "These are going to be the best carrots you've ever had in your life."

He thought back over four years and was not impressed.

"Was Daddy playing Julia Child all day?" I asked, smiling.

"Who's Julia Child?" a middle child asked.

"She was a cook," an older middle child said snootily.

"She wrote 'The Art of French Cooking,'" I said.

"What's the art of French cooking--is that the meat? I don't like French."

Older child: "It's a cookbook!"

"Is that the cookbook Daddy used to make this food?" someone asked.

"No. Daddy doesn't use a cookbook," an older child snooted. "Just recipes."

"Daddy called and told me to heat some green beans to go with our meal, but I didn't add the savory, like he told me to," our daughter confessed.

I looked at the table. There were greens. There were beans (lentils). And then there were green beans. Paul had been very thorough. I told her I liked it when Daddy added savory. I think she had been thinking of the time when he had tried to add celery salt to all of our cabbagy veggies so the kids would eat them and I'd had to tell him those very same kids were plotting to hide the celery salt.

There was so much food I knew we couldn't eat it all, but I did encourage everyone to try a little of everything. It worked, partly because of the looming promise of the crepes! With raspberry sauce!

It worked on everyone but the youngest. He looked suspiciously at the crepes as he does regularly with all new foods. (We usually just refer to any meat on his plate as "chicken" to get him to not balk.) I got him to finally try his crepe by pointing out that it was like a pancake. The same line had worked earlier in the week on the Spaetzle we'd had with our Brats and Rotkohl. I had pried one paper-punch-hole-sized noodle into his mouth, but once he could look at them as teensy tiny pancakes, he'd eaten a plateful.

After showing our daughter how to cook the crepes, Paul had left for work. It was too bad he wasn't there to enjoy the meal and the comments with us. But he laughed hard at "ferocious yucky" later.

I didn't know how to serve the crepes. Never had one. Never seen it done. But, hey! A plate with a crepe, raspberry sauce, and powdered sugar on it cannot go wrong, right?

And my baby declared himself a "dessertarian"--something with which I think we can all identify.

Crown Thy Good with Sisterhood

When I was in first grade, I had the good fortune to be placed in the class taught by my Aunt Rosie's good friend, Marie Stuart. She was tall, slim, and gracious, and probably about sixty years old, as Aunt Rosie would have been, had my aunt not succumbed to poor health two-and-a-half years before.

I remember Miss Stuart well. She told me that when she and my aunt were young women, they liked to introduce themselves as Rosemarie and "Plain Marie."

Miss Stuart encouraged all of us to write a list of numerals from 1 to 1000. Once we had done that, we were eligible for random prizes she would bring for holidays and changes of seasons. I remember a little heart pin I received around Valentine's Day. I wore it with a blue dress I had that went with a white pinafore with cats on it. It took us weeks, of course, to complete the task of writing to 1000. I was not among the first to be done, but once I saw the prizes other children were getting, I really wanted to be in that club.

But the thing I remember more than that about Miss Stuart's class was how, every morning, without fail, we saluted the American flag, said the "Pledge of Allegiance," and sang, "God Bless America." When we sang the words to the chorus, we raised our right arms up to a 1:00 position for "From the mountains," then lowered them to about 2:00 for "to the prairies," then straight out at 3:00 for "to the oceans, white with foooaaammmmmm!"

I know from other people's reports that I could not carry a tune at that time in my life, but that did not stop me from belting out the words, pride in my country bursting like fireworks in my heart.

Decades later, it was my misfortune to see sexism in action while dealing with domestic disputes in court against a male foe who seemed able to stop justice just by objecting to it. I thought back to that daily ritual, and wondered, "Why didn't anyone ever tell me back then that I was a second-class citizen?" I had certainly never suspected it.

In a workshop I attended once, the speaker made the comment that boys grow up to be more unified than girls do--traditionally, they play on teams together, wear the uniform, have each others' backs. Even as adults, the business suit is sort of a uniform. A man could probably wear the same thing day after day after day without it being noticed.

Women, on the other hand, have to wear outfits different from each other's. They must display constant variety. The typical girl grew up playing with Barbies, or playing house--each having her own stuff to compare and contrast and compete with her friends' stuff.

This struck me as one of the factors of the societal problem of sexism. We need more sisterhood! We need to stick up for each other better, help each other out of difficult situations, have more empathy for each other, provide more practical help, and compete with and judge each other less. We need to be on the same team, so to speak.

That's why, years back, I started singing "And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea" on the last verse of "America the Beautiful." I still sing "brotherhood" on the first verse. America needs both brotherhood and sisterhood, I explain to my kids when they look at me in wonder as I unconventionally sing the "wrong" word.

Truth be told, I wouldn't mind seeing the song officially changed to say "sisterhood" in the last line. And I have to wonder if Katharine Lee Bates, who wrote the song, would really mind, either.

My own sister was my rescuer from the worst situation I was ever in, and, without the laws in the United States of America being as good as they were, it could not have been done.

I like to remember one day in church when my second son was sixteen and we were singing "America the Beautiful" for the closing hymn. On the last verse, he looked at me, a smile playing on his lips as we neared that last line. He knew what was coming, and we beamed at each other as I sang it.

This year, some of my children noticed me choking up on the latter verses of "The Star-spangled Banner." They just can't know what it means to me to live in a country with more freedoms for women than most countries have--a place where women can vote, own property, work in an occupation of their choice, hold office, choose to marry or not and whom to marry or not, and all the other rights we enjoy. We still have a little way to go, America, but we have come a long way.

And I am grateful. My life is soooooo much better than it might have been in another time or in another place.

The ongoing prayer in my heart is, "America, America, God mend thine every flaw. . . And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea!"