Lesson learned: never enter into parenting without first defining a clear exit strategy. 

Okay, that never works. 

Some days, though, we just toss in the towel of tradition and let our wild boys get their freak on.  We call this Wild Thing Day, which always starts with the reading of Maurice Sendak’s classic book Where the Wild Things Are/Wo die wilden Kerlen Wohnen/Donde Viven los Monstruos/ Ubi feri sunt  (yes, we have this particular story in English, German, Spanish & Latin—it’s a top shelf fave, what can I say?). Toe , the original wild thing, knows all the words by heart and roars his terrible roar.  His love for naughty Max is true.  Roo stomps his feet and bares his terrible fangs a lot—he is lost in the promise of the rumpus.

Things that typically occur in the course of any given WTD:

--Reckless disregard for the sanctity of Mommy’s bed (yah, sorry, but since birth the lads have both been of the opinion that not a damn thing inside the home actually belongs to Daddy—Daddy does get credit for ownership of the trampoline, mower, power tools (handtools, however=Mommy’s), LEGOS, vehicles, the backyard maple tree and poopy shovel).  Anyhoo, this trespass into the sacred zone of the Mommy Bed usually manifests itself in wild jumping, rooting, wallering, snuggling, tickling, mosh pit style piling, dozing, and impromptu pillow fights. 

--Playing Stella the guitar with feet

--Upside down time (doing the opposite of what you say, saying the opposite of what you do)

--Hub remixing classic kids’ songs and nursery rhymes in a slightly gallows manner, such as the following:

One more monkey jumping on the bed
He fell off and…now he’s dead
Mommy called the doctor and the doctor said
Can’t you see his brain fell out of his head?

--Pink Floyd Psychedelic “FauxLaser” Light Show : this is where we all cram into a dark bathroom with our flashlights and flip on our makeshift ASD therapy bubble light.  The real deals costs thousands of dollars, but for $17 you can get a wild light-projecting orb for swimming pools with tons of settings that turns any the walls & ceiling of any room into Xanadu on acid.

---Flash mobs (for example, we all put on lighted spelunker helmets and show up in the toy storage area of the basement for “cellar shopping”).

Staring contests, poetry slams, break-dancing, spontaneous picnics, beagle rodeos…these may all also be part of Wild Thing Day.

OMG, remember ELO? ROFLMAO! LOSER!

Whatever, ELO was horrible, but they certainly marked a moment in childhood (my childhood, not yours--you're either too young or too old to remember ELO since all the people my exact age are in their prime productive years and busy busy at work too busy to read blogs and OTHER NON-WORK RELATED INTERNET SHENANIGANS).

So, back to work.  Where was I?  Oh, yah...

When I was a tyke, the St. Paul Public Schools had this pilot elementary school program called "outsource enrichment."  It was basically a plan to load us all on a bus and ship us off to poorly supervised venues where we could dabble in thinly veiled vo-tech type activities at the ripe old work-ready age of seven (while our regular teachers sipped coffee and gobbled migraine meds back at our wall-less 70's experimental "leaning environments"). Kind of like OJT or apprenticeship for kiddies.  I mean, who needs to sit in a "school" and learn "subjects" from a "teacher" all day, right?

Anyway, for OE, you could pick from three programs: the arts, earth science, and something disappointingly packaged as "careers."  Always pick science, that was my rule, and also a rumor I spread.  Therefore, by the 3rd round of "enrichment," science was sold out before I signed up (always always pick science!) and I was carted off to "careers" against my will, like a veal in a boxcar.  Boo.

Here's what I did during my (what seemed interminable) days at "careers":

1.  Fiddled around in a mock beauty shop, equipped with giant barbie heads of synthetic hair and real, real hot curling irons.  No supervision.  Hot irons.  Synthetic hair.  Wanna see the scars from the blisters?  Wanna know the haunting smell of melted rayon tinged with seared human flesh?

2.  Mucked around in a mock restaurant (okay, restaurant is too fancy a word--it was more like a mock taco truck interior) making all sorts things of absolutely no appeal nor food value with real ingredients on authentic stoves and in working blenders.  No supervision.  Real stoves.  Whirring blenders.  I won't go on, but I can tell you there were EMTs at OE at least 4 times that session (not for me).  Mostly I just sat and ate carob chips and watched other children blend their fingers.

3.  Hung out in the "Mellow Station."  This was a dimly lit alcove under a stairway, furnished with beanbag chairs, a stack of putridly pop LPs and phonographs (huh, yah, remember those? FO-NO-GRAF), complete with giant muffin headphones and "secluded" by a curtain of seashell and bead streamers.  No supervision.  Bean bag chairs.  Music.  Even bad music was better than the pointless and degrading blood, gore and mayhem of "careers," and typically that is where you would find me: mellowing for hours on end. If it comes up in cocktail party conversation, just remember: this is why I know so much about ELO, and all the words to Olivia Newton John's Xanadu album and the lyrics to the soundtrack from the movie Grease, and why I can also talk coherently about the real Xanadu in literature and the finer points of Grease the original broadway show (well, that and because I took a lot of American Studies courses in college). 

So, of course they shut down the program.  No more "outsource enrichment."
What else can I say but...

Summer came and passed away,
Hardly seemed to last a day
But it's over and what can I do?
Music playin in the ai,r
Silence on a darkened stair
Cos it's over and what can I do?

(Yeah, thanks SPPS.  That's about 60 hours of my tender childhood right there!) Always choose science.

Have you ever said to yourself : Self, I have labored hard and deserve me a delicious Russian carbonated fermented dark rye stale breadcrust beverage—or a soda made of beets?  Well, wouldn’t you know, many many others in the world have too!  Enter delicious and foamy Kvass....

Those Russians, they know more than how to groom a good spy.  Kvass beverage has been around for at least a thousand years, is so delicious, healthful and (now) popular, even that capitalist pig giant Coca Cola is trying to cash in on its fabulousness.  Listen to what the Russkie website (translated for your convenience) says about their beloved beverage: 

"It's brown and bubbly, with a beer-like taste, but its alcohol content is so low that it's considered non-alcoholic (though it turns alcoholic if it's left to ferment long enough). It may be flavored with herbs, strawberries, raisins, currants, lemons, cherries, apples or mint. Kvass is a staple of Russia, enoyed by Czars to peasants and everyone in between.  Russian soldiers even used to drink a ladle full of Kvass before going out on the streets of Moscow to stay healthy during our cholera epidemics."

No, it's not just the amazing Russian power of propoganda--they have a great product and they know how to sell it.  If you weren't already planning a trip to your local Russian food market to get you some, I'm sure knowing that it can prevent cholera will get you off the fence.  And there's more.  This drink is rich in vitamin B and probiotics (like Dannon Activa products), and has been shown to help with the following:  intestinal problems (including inflammatory bowel and IBS), hangovers, disease-causing microbes in your mouth, post-surgical infections, chronic and acute diarhhea, cancers of the digestive tract and more.  Yummy!

Okay, here's the downside.  Kvass has no shelf life (about a week at room temperature), and therefore is not a big money maker for most grocers to stock (the Russians warn that if you purchase a Kvass that promises to last longer than this, it is inauthentic and should be avoided!).  Street vendors of Kvass pull giant barrels of the stuff and dispense it right from the fermenting keg to your cup, in order to maintain the drink's freshness and healthful integrity.  I've gone one better here, and bring you the recipe for making your own Kvass at home.  Na zdorovia!
Homemade Kvass

Ingredients:

1 pound rye bread, cut into 1/4-inch slices (it should contain only rye flour, and no additives or preservatives)

1 1/2 cups sugar, in all

1 package dry active yeast

1 tablespoon unbleached white flour

Filtered water

About 1 dozen raisins

Method:

Spread the bread on cookie sheets and bake for about 30 minutes at 325 degrees F. When cool, chop into 1/4-inch pieces in a food processor.

Bring 4 quarts of water to a boil and then cool to 175 degrees F. Add the bread, stir well, cover with a lid and leave in a warm place (76-78 degrees F) for 1 hour. Strain and reserve both the bread and the liquid.

Bring another 2 1/2 quarts of water to a boil, cool down to 175 degrees F and add the reserved bread. Cover with a lid and leave in a warm place for 1 1/2 hours. Strain and discard the bread. Combine both batches of liquid.

Place 1/4 cup sugar and 1 tablespoon water in a small cast-iron skillet. Stir continuously over heat until the mixture turns golden brown. (Be careful not to burn it.) Remove from heat and gradually blend in 1/2 cup of the reserved liquid. Then stir this mixture into the entire batch of liquid.

In a small saucepan place 1 cup water and the remaining 1 1/4 cups sugar. Bring to a boil, lower the heat and simmer for 10 minutes, skimming once or twice. Stir this syrup into the reserved liquid and allow the mixture to come to room temperature (about 75 degrees F).

Mix the yeast with the flour and combine with 1 cup of the liquid. Return this yeast mixture to the pot. Make an X of masking tape across the top of the pot. Cover the pot with 2 layers of cheesecloth or a clean kitchen towel and leave in a warm place (73-78 degrees F) for 8-12 hours or overnight. Cool the kvass to about 50-54 degrees F. Transfer to bottles, seal tightly and refrigerate for 24 hours. The kvass will keep in the refrigerator for 2-3 days.

I gotta run with the wolves on this one.  Typically I try to stay away from commenting much about vampires, witches, warlocks, hobbits, werewolves, incubi, sccubi, griffins and the undead in general.  I do like a good kraken  or sasquatch  anecdote, though….

Anyway. The current cultural fixation on the wan, anemic vampire mall-goth* kids of the whole Twilight/Vampire Couture epidemic is really starting to get me thinking, so let me just jump on the bandwagon here and say my piece.  Let’s call it Vampire Saturday. [Disclaimer: I only ever read this vampirature in a once-over cursory way. For this reason I’m working hard here not to sound too much like a poseur (le sigh).]

Here's the thing.  Media is working hard right now to put a Christian faith spin on this whole teen Twilight saga.  Finding the hidden Jesus in everything lately is not new (see: The Real Spiritual Meaning of Lost, The Real Spiritual Meaning of Harry Potter, The Real Spiritual Meaning of The World Cup, The Real Spiritual Meaning of________[insert favorite pop culture trend here]). Editorials, websites (my fave: Twilight Devotions: Finding God’s Word in the World of Vampires and Werewolves) and books abound--all dedicated to understanding what I like to call the Sermon of the Bloodsuckers. 

All I wanted to say is: really?  Do you really think teens are coming to Jesus because of a bloody goth-isnpired love drama a la Transylvanian West Side Story? If yes, then shut my mouth.  Just make sure your powers of discernment have some, uh, fangs.

*Not to be confused with “authentic goth,”death rockers, D&D, Bauhaus, The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, Trenchcoat Mafia, Emos, Skaters, Ravers, Harry Potters, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Final Fantasy, Doc Martens, Digi-Goths, World of Warcraft, X-Files, cyberpunk, or Zombieland? (I would also like to add the original emo-goth, Edgar Allen Poe, but whatever.  I’m ancient).

This picture is probably nothing compared to what Toe sees in his head. Who can guess (and let’s not go there)? He has 5 (F-I-V-E) imaginary cats now, one for every year of his twisted little life: Lucky, Uncle Jimbo, Dr. Reiff, Memphis and Rocket Skipper.  I promise you, I had no hand in the naming of these cats, nor in conjuring the details of their very finicky yet somehow also un-catlike desires.  Being simultaneously Epi pen allergic and hopelessly in love with real actual cats has proven no barrier for this boy’s (too?) vivid imagination.

According to cat-wrangler Toe, all imaginary cats are miniature and can easily sit in a child’s outstretched hand. They also enjoy these traits/idiosyncrasies:

Lucky: White with black spots, only drinks chocolate milk, can’t go to sleep without watching an episode of Shaun the Sheep first, catchphrase is apparently “take your own advice”.

Uncle Jimbo: Orange, “just visiting” from his “other house” at the ocean, only eats jellybeans and does not like to ride busses (esp. “to school”)—prefers personal transport via family SUV.

Dr. Reiff: Also orange, inexplicably drawn to biting and scratching Roo, can only sleep in “mommy’s bed” and doesn’t eat food—instead subsists on root beer.

Memphis: Black cat with white spots, expected to pick up all Toe’s toys, eats only Doritos.

Rocket Skipper: “Space Cat” of unknown origin, can fly, color questionable as he is always in silver space suit and “rocket helmet,” boss of all cats, unable often to nap-bathe-eat due to being “too busy working” or “checking his email,” and only eats gold foil-wrapped chocolate geld or vanilla tootsie rolls anyhow.

All cats are also extremely vocal.  In fact, they're yowling at me right now, and—luckily—I have Toe here to serve as their interpreter. Hmmm, you see how this works? 

But lest you think my child is the craziest one alive (and remember, he is five), know this. There’s even a Facebook community page for imaginary cats and their typically grown-up “owners.”









Toe with Lucky and Memphis (pictured in the foreground) enjoying an episode of Shaun the Sheep.

Look at this beautiful siren, Giada.  She's the Lorelei of the Food Network, luring Americans everywhere onto the rocky shoals of food worship with her spritely personal charm and festive Italian cookery.  Well, manga. And beware, young men, beware.

Um, in case you haven't noticed, food idolatry has become a bit of an issue around here (ie: America). And am I guilty?  Have I found myself romanced and ensourceled by the glint of the Calphalon hardware and the jingle of the Frahhhhhnchified foodie lingo (amuse bouche, harissa, beurre blanc, sabayon, kandhai, burgoo, quenelles, mirepoix, chiffonade, sous vide, burrata, confit)?  Yes.  But at least I have (recent) guilt about it, appropriate guilt.  So now I can share this burdensome gift of the Spirit with you. Lucky, lucky you.

What could be wrong with enjoying the cult of yummy?
1.  Hello, idolatry.  It’s a whole thing now, let’s face it. TV, blogs, books, magazines, markets, movements, trends, travels, festival feasts of all sorts, gadgets and gizmos and gear. When did people who cook well become mega red carpet *superstars* (oh, and to be fair, Giada's not the only vixen of the Food Network.  There's Rachael Ray and saucy Mrs. Neely and all the usual suspects--male and female.  And let's not forget also the talent of the Cooking Channel, Fine Living, Bravo, Food and Wine, Bon Appetit, Gourmet, blah blah blah.  You know what I'm talking about.  You're probably watching them right now)?  In other non-Western cultures when a person cooks exceptionally they maybe get, like, a belch as recognition.  Here we give them their own show and merchandise line at Target.  My paternal grandma was a phenomenal cook, but, eh, nobody was flying to Aspen to see her render a capon on a $7,000 grill (the cooking thing, not the teeth) in a tent, no. Sorry, Gramsie.

2.  Also, social justice. And I don’t use this term here for the web spiders (or to poke at fans of Glenn Beck). It's a thorn in my side, thinking about all the people going hungry all over the country and the world.  As I have said, damn you conscience for so often ruining my fun.  Jesus didn’t help me with this any either, I can tell you. The more I ponder it, the more perverse and closer to one of the capital vices it seems to have become. A whole host of folks cravenly watching food being manipulated and eaten as a spectator sport? I realize cooking is an art, it is a talent, it is a necessity and a joyful way of giving of oneself.  But what I am talking about is gaping at an hour-long program to see who can most masterfully recreate one of the 7 wonders of the world in chocolate sculpture for an outrageous monetary prize.  Like that. Doesn’t that just seem a weird way for people of integrity to want to spend their time?

3.  Lastly, the wolf in mutton’s clothing.  I have a spooky suspicion that for some people (not all, I did not say “all”) the more “noble” foodie trends are just a new-fangled way to get around the gluttony guilt of food fetishes.  For example: farm-to-table, organics and non-GMOs, heritage farming, whole foods, raw foods, etc. Yes, these are great things, they are earth-conscious and health-conscious choices, and I support them 100%.  Food dyes and gluten rarely enter my house, GMOs are avoided like the plague as time and budget allow, and there be not an antibiotic-pumped chicken to be found.  All true. But for some people, getting wrapped up in all the hubbub surrounding these trends is like a falsely “clean” food idolatry, creeping into that little hand-woven hemp bag when you least expect it.

So, now you probably hate me, just like Glenn Beck does.  Either I have pooped on your (Pampered Chef) party or you just think I am part of the evil socialist agenda trying to buzzkill good old American fun. Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it now?

Into the woodsy...
























It's the infamouse swimosaurus!






















Toe, master of the NotDeep, does what he calls "the froggy paddle."





















Roo can pinch an inch.
























One of the 10K+ reasons we heart MN.