To The Day When I Am Organized

I’m not sure how one celebrates this day; it probably involves festive streamers or window decals that have been carefully stored in a earmarked storage closet, probably in a bin of some kind labeled with a label maker: “Party Supplies”

 

And I imagine one has planned for the day appropriately by inviting people at just the right time: not so soon that they would have to re-arrange their schedule, but not so far out that they forget.

The party will be on a Saturday, so that, after a long week at work, I’m not rushing home to make the

stuffed mushrooms and guacamole. Being organized means I understand my limitations that way. I could, of course, make the mushrooms in advance, freeze them on a tray and then just “pop” them in the oven. But I want everything to be fresh. I want to grate the parmesan minutes before they arrive.

I don’t have to think about cleaning because I clean as I go. I have learned not to let the mail pile up on the edge of the dining room table. I know now the most efficient way to cycle through the dirty/clean cycles of the dishwasher. I have a place for all the books I’m in the middle of, and we file each of our notebooks in a very stylish little system that we have installed in the kitchen office.

I have a kitchen office.

The kitchen is the epitome of organized; it’s so precise, it seems organic, intuitive. Whatever I need at the moment I need it is right within reach. Wine opener? Attached to the wine rack, of course. The knives lined up according to--not size, as some might think--but usefulness. That makes all the difference. The difference between organization and aesthetics.

I created three different bins for trash for my guests and carefully weighed the environmental impact of each. I’ve labeled them clearly and placed them so that one does not have to see the garbage, but when one goes to look for it, it’s right where it should be. The guests feel that in our house everything just makes so much sense.

I have no vision for how to get to this day. I pile my clothes on my dresser all week long because I simply cannot bring myself to hang my pants up at 5:14 on a Tuesday. The demand is too great. The dishes lean on each other in the sink. I have to look for several minutes for the dog leashes, though I have hooks for them on the back porch. I hope the keys are on the table.

I don’t believe this will make me happy. I understand happiness is not about the where and how I store my tape. It’s nothing to do with my filing system. But I want to know if it matters at all. Will I feel better on any level if I can maintain this for more than a week? Will I sleep better knowing that the photos have all been sorted and labeled? Our smiling faces arranged chronologically for all the generations to come?

To The Characters in the Novel I Will Never Write

I'm sorry I don't love you more.  

Mae, this would have been your story. Born in Sweetwater, Texas, because not enough stories begin in Sweetwater, you are, like all strong women, misunderstood throughout your childhood. Your parents love you, but they don't know you. Your mom, Marie, is half Chinese, half Mexican and your father, Louis, is all Jewish. This explains everything and nothing. You're an only child and your parents are older than your friends’ parents. They have secrets they won't tell you.

The readers will meet you when you are 32 and running for state senator. You've never had a serious relationship, and so they don't have much dirt on you. Your campaign manager, Angel, says this makes you more suspicious, that in order to be legit, to be real, you have to have some blemish. Something for the voters to forgive.

You will nod your head. You can't make up romances you've never had, but you know if the voters need something to forgive, you can offer plenty. Angel looks you in the eyes and says, “Before we continue with this campaign, is there anything I need to know about?”

You do not hesitate.

Maybe this is why I don't write fiction. It's certainly why I rarely read it. I'm sure I'm writing someone’s life, someone who really exists, someone with a birth certificate and who, as I imagine her, is actually now just deciding what color to paint her bathroom. Even if I set this 347 years in the future, even if I imagine it in Mars, I believe that I'm not really making anything up. Make believe is truth and truth is make believe.

You will look at Angel across the conference table. The setting sun is gold and it feels like the whole state of Texas is listening. You remember your father in the kitchen just before Alzheimer's set in. He loved salami on rye, though the rye bread in Sweetwater was a bad distant cousin to real rye.

You know if you pause too long or too short Angel will not believe what you are about to say.

Mae, the responsibility is too much for me. I love you like I love my sisters, like I love all my nieces and all their babies and all their future babies. I love you as I fall asleep. I love you as open a red Spanish wine. I wish you could join me.

I don't write novels because I would have to write the end. But stories never end. If I start the novel, I'm committed for the rest of my life to telling your story.

“Angel,” you say, placing your hands on the table in front of you, “there is a great deal you need to know about me. I don't know where to begin.”

To Sifting the Shortening

Third grade. Nancy came home from school with me and I wanted to impress her. This was the first time she’d been to my house. 

Nancy is funny. She’s fearless in a way that’s unusual for a third grader. She laughs a lot and makes faces. Whatever allows her to do that, whatever freedom she feels, I want to feel it, too. I want to know what that feels like.

So she’s agreed to come over and we decide, after it’s clear I don’t have the good Barbies and our backyard swing set is boring, that we should make a cake.

“Oh sure,” I say, “My parents won’t mind.”

So we pull out the Betty Crocker cookbook for kids and find a recipe for yellow cake. The kids in the book are waving chocolate coated spoons in the air and wearing spotless aprons. That should have been our first clue. Kids with chocolate are never spotless.

The instructions read: “Sift the first 4 ingredients”

They did not state in what order the ingredients should be read. They did not state, “Reading this list vertically, sift the first 4 ingredients.” They did not state, “Sift the dry, powdery ingredients.” They did not clearly state which ingredients can be sifted.

We read the list left to right: flour, shortening, baking soda, salt.

It didn’t take long before we realized something was terribly wrong. One cannot, in fact, shift shortening.

It’s so obvious to me now. Just looking at the sifter should be the clue. But we didn’t have well-developed critical thinking skills yet. We were still in that phase of education where one follows directions carefully to the desired outcome. We had not yet learned to question.

My mother walked in. We looked at her dumbfounded. “It said the first four ingredients!” I explained, pointing to the book. The children with the raised spoons now seem to be mocking us.

Mom is tired but kind. She drops her head a little. Perhaps this is one of those days where, in the grand scheme of things, a messy kitchen and a ruined sifter are the least of her problems, but she doesn’t get mad. She helps us clean up but does not allow us another chance. “Find something else to do,” She says, sponge in hand.

I never read recipes the same. Figuring out what they meant by “first four”--or rather, not taking the time to figuring it out--was my first real lesson in critical thinking. 

Ask questions, I learned. Even when you think you know. Even when it seems clear. Especially when all the tools you are working with seem to be failing.