The family heritage of oranges from a can

Last week I was at my mom's working on a sewing project, and my sister brought over the most delicious cabbage salad for lunch. Why is it that these things always taste more delicious when someone else makes them? If I had made myself a cabbage salad that would only have made a small portion of my lunch, instead of two large helpings.

But I digress.

My sister told me, "I brought mandarin oranges because I know you love them on salads." And I do. I pretty much love mandarin oranges on anything. I started saying how in college (actually I still do it sometimes) I would eat them straight out of the can. And she said,

"With a toothpick?"

Why, yes. How did you know?

"That's how we used to eat them at Grandma Jacques' house."

Grandma Jacques, my dad's maternal grandmother, lived in a storybook house (it was even the color of gingerbread) on Jackson Avenue(?). Tiny purple violets grew in greater profusion in her lawn than anywhere else I've seen. She always had a can of beer sitting on the table next to her recliner, but she was the best arm tickler. I wished I could sit on her lap indefinitely and let her stroke gently up and down my arms; she always knew when to move on to a different spot just before the skin got too sensitive and it really started to tickle. And she was the Cookie Grandma.

She kept a drawer in her house full of treats for the great-grandkids. Cookies, candy, strawberry milk, popsicles, you name it. Cans of mandarin oranges with toothpicks. It was all waiting for us every time we visited. One of the best delicacies was a piece of Kraft American cheese, which I can only imagine tasted good because it wasn't available at home. I had a special ritual for the way I'd peel open the plastic packaging and peel the orange goodness, piece by piece. It was luxury.

I have a lot more memories that are too vague really to be put into words, like her backyard that was so magical for some reason I can't remember. She died when I was eight: old enough to remember, but young enough for some memories to sink in enough that I don't know why things are special, why eating mandarin oranges with a toothpick is so comforting. How did I forget that?

And I think I'm doing my kids a great disservice by not taking them to see my grandparents more.

I need a publicist

Don't you think that would be nice? Personally, I'm horrible at communicating. I don't enjoy making phone calls. And I don't like to talk about myself. And so I'm lazy at sharing things, even good things.

So, I'm pregnant. If you haven't heard by now. I'm hoping most people have, though I found someone last week who didn't know.

And now that it's safely behind me and I can laugh at it, I'll share my best puking story:

Nathan peed his pants in the basement, so I sent him upstairs to undress and wait for me to shower him (shower as an accident deterrent didn't really work). I grabbed the vinegar and baking soda (feeling nauseated all the while) and just as I finished, I heard "Mom! I'm done!" Which means, "I've pooped and you have to come wipe my bum."

And the bathroom smelled, shall we say, horrible.

I tried to hold my breath, do the wipe, flush, and leave the stench before my stomach started to heave. But no luck. So Nathan got off the toilet and I started puking. There was a kid on either side of me, watching.

And it turns out Nathan has a weak stomach, because he also started puking. A little bit landed on the floor so I moved over and positioned him over the toilet bowl in case there was more, leaning around him to finish my sickness. Clara, however, was unaffected.

And then I had to wash Nathan and make sure he got dressed.

The end. Levi, kind husband that he is, laughed a lot when I told him.

I'm so glad to be feeling better. I can laugh now too.