I am three weeks behind on my blogging, but forgive me. I had a birthday to celebrate and just kept thinking, I’ll cook when it cools off. But so far Saturday is looking like a chilly 86, so it’s going to be Costco chickens for a while.
If we were meant to cook in summer:
a. It wouldn’t be so stinking hot and,
b. Rotisserie chickens would have never been invented.
My birthday started with a visit from my mother in the form of a butterfly in the front yard. (To understand that, you’ll have to read this older story about my mom, called, “A Pooty Butterfly.”
I got to spend the day with my kids, which is all I ever want for a birthday gift. We started the day with breakfast out, then rode the swan boats in Echo Park, then went to dinner at a fabulous restaurant called Republique. The coolest part was one of my son’s friends from elementary school works there as a chef now. A chef! (I hold chefs in the same esteem my mom used to hold the Pope.)
What a thrill to go there and see a kid I watched grow up, working behind the counter of this fabulous restaurant, making dishes that blew me away. Now I’ll be totally intimidated if I ever cook for him again!
But he told me this little story during our quick visit with him: When I met Adrian, he was probably 11 or 12, and would barely speak to us, which made me feel bad because most kids will talk your ear off. I didn’t remember this, but once when he was visiting, I apparently asked him, why he didn’t talk to us. He said he hadn’t thought about his silence around grown ups before, so he thought about it. He said, after that, he made an effort to talk to people more, and became very outgoing — which kind of blew me away. I guess you never know how your words can affect someone.
What a great birthday gift, hearing that I actually made a teeny positive difference, because you never know whether people’s lives are better or worse for you having been there. So that little chat with Adrian along with the amazing pasta he made us, and just getting to see him were priceless gifts!
Maybe it’s true, it does takes a village. I’m sure there are other kids I’ve scarred for life. They’ll be in touch after their therapy sessions have ended.
My late mother-in-law used to tell a story about a kid who came to the door looking for Roger (her son). This kid was asking for Roger, but with a terrible stutter.
Certain he was messing with her, like most of her son’s friends, she stuttered back, “N-n-n-no. R-r-r-r-roger’s n-nnnot h-h-here. Turned out the kid really did have a stutter. She felt guilty for decades. Being part of the village can haunt you too!
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