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The pie contest from Thanksgiving would be completely forgotten by now were it not for the Heimlich incident. Nobody actually needed the Heimlich, but that is a minor detail.

It was our second annual pie competition with bakers as young as 10 and as old as, well, let’s just say a woman of a certain age since I’m the one telling the story.

Pie entries were lined up along with a sour cream coffee cake, chocolate chip cookies and tiramisu. Yes, cookies, coffee cake and tiramisu are not pies, but it is extremely difficult managing the talent.

Eleven grands squeezed onto a folding bench in front of the dessert lineup, some adults sat in chairs at a table and some stood.

Our two judges, the husband who believes pie should be the base of every food pyramid, and a son-in-law who considers siracha a major food group, prepared for the first tasting when a 5-year-old began coughing.

Someone asked if she was all right. Someone else asked if she was choking. She was fine; it was just a benign little cough.

Despite the non-event, our daughter in the medical profession immediately flew into action asking if everyone knew what to do if someone is choking. She grabbed her sister (who was not choking and had brought a delectable chocolate pie), leaned her forward and announced the thing to do was give the person five firm whacks on the back.

There was one whack, two whacks, and I wondered when her sister would revolt, pie would fly and small children would run for their lives. But her sister, a teacher, obliged for the educational benefit of the group.

Our medical professional then explained that if the whacking maneuver fails, you then wrap both arms around the person, as she proceeded to again demonstrate on her sister. “Making a fist with one hand located just above their belly button—thumb side on their abdomen—place your other hand over your fist. Now pull quickly inward and upward.

“In and up,” she repeated, executing the move, “so the person can cough it out, not just up.”

At that point, the demo model pretended to forcefully spit something out of her mouth, whereupon all the children and both judges immediately sprang to shield the pies.

Eventually, calm was restored, no pies were harmed and the contest resumed.

The beautiful Greek pie with phyllo woven in a spiral pattern throughout the pie won “Pinterest Worthy.” A fabulous pumpkin pie, made by a boy using a pumpkin from the family garden, won “Best Crust” and another pumpkin pie took the “Delish” award. The apple pie with the secret ingredient (Ritz crackers) took “Beautiful Presentation” and the sour cream coffee cake was awarded “I Don’t Like It – I Love It!”

Everyone enjoyed sampling everything, although everyone was still on edge and did not so much as clear their throats. I personally stepped outside when I felt a cough coming on and saw one of the grands with allergies slip into the hall closet when she had a tickle in her throat.

It was our medical professional who enjoyed the holiday the most of all. She accomplished a worthy educational goal and simultaneously covered for the fact she did not enter the pie contest.

Christmas should be fun. Once the dishes are cleared, she will probably lay someone out on the tablecloth and step us through CPR.

 

It has been 20 years since I drove carpool. I’m covering this week for our youngest daughter who has been sick.

A neighbor is dropping off and I’m “picking-up,” as they say.

Our daughter texted detailed instructions. She can’t quit texting detailed instructions.

Round 1: “The signs say earliest pick up time is 2:35 but you have to arrive at 2:20 to check in anywhere near that time. They have the first entrance closed. You take the second entrance and wrap around a bit.”

Waze and Google Maps never use “wrap around a bit,” but I’ll figure it out.

The instructions continued, “Just join in the line and you’ll be fine. When you pull up closer to the elementary building, a lady will be there with an iPad. Print out this card with all the kids’ names and codes and hold it up or roll down your window and show the photo from your phone.”

She continues, “You stay in line, park and someone will open the door and the kids will get in. Stay in the vehicle.”

Like I would get out and let a second- or third-grade kid get in the driver’s seat.

Round 2: “Once you have the kids, pull into the left lane and wrap around the school. You will then go into the middle lane once you turn the corner. Stay to the left as you wrap around the first building. Other cars are getting in line and staying to pick up middle schoolers. Don’t get in that line to the right.”

Round 3: “Just ask the girls if you are confused. Call out one child by name or all four kids will yell at you at once.”

I am now drawing a diagram, rehearsing lane changes in my mind and have a racing heartbeat.

A few minutes later comes Round 4: “Don’t yell at the kids.”

“Why would I yell at the kids?”

“Because they are wound tight after school.”

I’m leaving for pick up when another text says she was just notified that her oldest went to the school clinic feeling nauseous. She rested a while, had no fever and returned to class.

Pick up goes without a hitch. Kids pile into the car. We wrap around the elementary school, change lanes, wrap the middle school, don’t change lanes, pass the high school, merge into a single lane and exit the campus.

“How am I doing?” I ask.

The entire car explodes shouting, “DON’T FOLLOW THE BLUE CAR! DON’T FOLLOW THE BLUE CAR! FOLLOW THE RED CAR! FOLLOW THE RED CAR!

We merge onto the interstate with six lanes of traffic where every other vehicle is a huge semi.

Somebody coughs.

You know what often follows a child’s cough, right? Vomit. Vomit that covers the child, the car, and places you can’t see in the car so that it reeks for months.

“Who coughed?”

“NOBODY!” they yell.

Then they all start coughing. COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! HACK! HACK! HACK!! Germs fill the vehicle like buckshot, some ricochet off the windows, some ping the rearview mirror and others remain aloft in the air.

“NOT FUNNY!” I yell.

More coughing.

I blast the AC pointing all the vents toward the back. Yes, it is selfish, but none of them can drive and we have 15 minutes to go.

I am dripping sweat by the time I drop them off at their respective homes.

Both mothers thank me profusely for doing pick up.

“Piece of cake,” I say.

And then I went home and ate some.

Following is an account of the First Thanksgiving as recorded by a very punny Pilgrim writer:

It was early morning of the great feast. Pilgrim women had been busy in the main cabin before sunrise, dashing about, peeling potatoes, turnips and apples and monitoring food in the fireplace, when one was heard to say, “Hard to be-leaf it’s already Thanksgiving.”

A cackle of laughter ensued, greatly encouraging other pun meisters.

“Pumpkin sure smells good in here!”

Being that one good pun deserves another, a woman holding a handful of turkey feathers said, “We’re plucky to assemble a feast so fine this year.”

“Poultry in motion,” sang out another.

“But can we pull it off?” cried a weary soul.

“Yes, we pecan!” came a resounding chorus.

“Is anyone keeping thyme?” asked another.

“We’ve got this, ladies—we’re going to give them pumpkin to talk about!”

Yes, they were the sort of women who bake the world a better place. They were strong, stalwart and not ones to take the path of yeast resistance.

After hours and hours of preparation, last but not feast, the women paraded the dishes to the tables.

“Y’all bready for this?”

There came an array of fruits, vegetables, hot dishes, cold dishes, fish, venison, and wild game. It was, quite simply, a gourd-geous spread.

The guests oohed and aahed. “You aint seen stuffin’ yet!” cried a robust Pilgrim woman.

The tables creaked under the weight of the bounty. Governor William Bradford announced there would be no fowl talk or getting sauced and said a blessing, and the feasting commenced.

It quickly became obvious that the candied sweet potatoes were going untouched. This was not unexpected – silence of the yams.

“Anymore rolls?” inquired one of the guests.

“You butter believe it.”

An altercation broke out between two Pilgrim families at the end of the table. “Squash the family drama!” Bradford yelled.

Family members didn’t always see pie-to-pie, but they did love a feast.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the forest, a young pilgrim boy whispered into a pilgrim girl’s ear, “Stuffin’ compares to you.”

To which she responded, “I’ve had a crust on you.”

Back at the table, hosts made the rounds with a decanter asking, “Wine not have another glass?”

It was eat, drink and cranberry.

Then it was time for dessert: Do or pie.

A chief took a serving of pumpkin, pecan and apple, nodded his thanks and said, “Piece out.”

Three days later, the feast was finally over. Leftovers were wrapped and sent home with the guests and plates and gobble-lets were washed, dried and put away.

The pilgrims all joined hands, said a prayer of thanks, raised their arms to the sky and shouted, “Whip, whip, hooray! Corn in the USA!”

My number of new friends has exploded in recent weeks. All of a sudden I’m incredibly popular. It’s staggering.

Letters fill the mailbox every afternoon, texts ding on my phone and, oh, the emails. My inbox overfloweth.

“I need you!” a new friend says.

“I want you!” another new friend says.

“I’m married!” I say.

All this fawning is embarrassing.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Do what? We’ve never met! Who are you? Did our kids go to school together? Did you live in the neighborhood 20 years ago?

The pleading continues, “I’m counting on you.”

My new friends often ask for money. It seems like an odd way to connect.

Today I had an email from a new friend asking for one dollar. I wonder where my new friend lives that a dollar is worth anything. Asking for one dollar makes absolutely no financial sense. What is this guy? A congressman?

Then there is the request that says, “I don’t need your money! I just need your signature.”

Obviously, the sender has never seen my handwriting. My own mother told me to never write to her in cursive.

Who are these people?

The last time I had a huge uptick like this in new friends was back in the fall of 2020. It was nice to feel needed. All the concern and care were overwhelming. Yes, they all did want money. We were “working together, forging a future, building partnership.”

Then the election was over, and my would-be partners went silent. My friends never wrote, never texted, never called. To think we’d been so close; then just like that, I was tossed aside.

I felt so used.

Just now an email arrived saying, “Lori, Ohio is in trouble!”

I haven’t been to Ohio in two years! Don’t blame Ohio’s trouble on me.

Unfortunately, a few of my new best friends are high pressure and I don’t appreciate it: “You have until midnight.” Or what? My car turns into a pumpkin? I lose a glass slipper?

Yesterday, and this is the truth, I had 29 emails from new best friends between 9 a.m. and noon. My new best friends are very needy.

The most bizarre message was virtually pleading: “I’m asking you to . . . ACT.”

I don’t act. I don’t sing either.

But I do make good lasagna. And I excel at unsubscribing.

 

 

I’m on the fence about using a guest towel in someone else’s home.

I only mention this because my sister-in-law, one of our daughters, and several close friends routinely keep paper guest towels in their bathrooms.

It’s an identity crisis of sorts. I see the pretty paper guest towels and ask myself, “Am I a guest or am I family?”

Is family ever a guest, and is a guest ever like family?

If my good friend notices a used pretty paper guest towel in the bathroom trash, will she think we’re not close friends after all?

There I stand, water running down my arms, soaking my sleeves, pondering how to dry.

To towel or not to towel, that is the question.

Tell you what is out of the question – those air dryers in public restrooms that sound like jet engines on takeoff. They’re so deafening that nobody stays until their hands are dry.

Yes, I do know there’s a war going on, but sometimes pondering banal matters of life can extend your sanity for a few more minutes.

The whole guest towel dilemma is complicated by the pretty factor. I like looking at the pretty paper guest towels; I’m just not sure I should use them.

Why use something so lovely when you can just shake your hands over the sink (sorry about splattering the mirror) then pat them dry them on your pants? Hand towels, pants towels. I’ve learned a lot from all these grandkids.

Years ago, I bought some pretty holiday guest towels that were on clearance.  They featured a pretty little snow scene with reindeer and a sleigh. Year after year, I put them out and nobody touched them. Each year I inched them closer and closer to the sink in case the message wasn’t clear.

The grew so old the edges were curling, so I snatched one up and used it for cleaning.  Santa was working double duty– delivering presents and doing windows.

My mother kept guest towels in the bathroom. She didn’t grow up fancy, and we didn’t grow up fancy, it was just a touch of loveliness. The pretty paper towels sat in a little metal holder and, of course, whenever we went for a stay, the kids raced to the bathroom to wash their hands.

“Don’t touch those – they’re for Grandma’s guests!”

“We’re Grandma’s guests!”

“No, you’re not guests! You’re family!”

I bought some pretty guest towels this fall. Fall leaves, acorns, you get the picture.

I was about to wash my hands in the bathroom that all our grands use. I looked at my paper guest towels, then at the cotton hand towel hanging all bunched up, dripping water, smeared with dirt and grime and who knows what else.

I was suddenly feeling like a guest in my own home.

For six years running, our brood has met up for a long weekend somewhere in the fall. Such intense togetherness not only builds character but creates a wonderful treasury of embarrassing stories to repeat at holiday gatherings.

This year, unpacking at a lake house in Michigan that we rented for three days, a five-year-old grand opens her little suitcase and screams upon discovering roaches covering her clothes. Her mother lunges forward and sees the roaches are plastic—but fantastic lookalikes for the real thing.

Rolling my bag into the room where my husband and I will stay, I notice a six-foot snakeskin draped across the bed pillows. I turn to our 12-year-old grandson lingering in the doorway and say, “Rat snake? I like it!”

Clearly, he had hoped for a more terrifying reaction. He forgets I helped raise his father.

“Why not put the snakeskin with your plastic roaches?” I ask.

The yard behind the house slopes to a lake with a narrow ribbon of sandy beach. Trees ring the lake with crimson, yellow and orange splashed against a deep blue sky.

A son-in-law and herd of kids race down the hill and into the cold water for a polar plunge. This is followed by screaming, chest thumping and fist pumping.

The youngest ones prefer adventures with more sedate adults in a pedal boat trolling close to shore, collecting tiny shells that look like former homes to miniature snails. These treasures will be found throughout our stay, piled on kitchen counters, the dinner table and beside every bathroom sink.

There is a steady back and forth of pedal boats and kayaks leaving and returning at the water’s edge. It is the first time kayaking for one brave soul. She recently turned 8, is diminutive in size, but undaunted in spirit. She watched the others come and go when we were here several years ago. Now it is her turn.

She straps on a life jacket, climbs in a red kayak, grasps the paddles and someone gives her a shove. Just like that – she’s off. And that’s exactly how it will happen. The younger ones will watch the older ones spread their wings, leave home, fan out, and then do likewise. No doubt that day will arrive with jaw-dropping speed.

On our last afternoon at the lake, four of us are out in kayaks, myself and the older grands. They glide through the water with grace and speed.

Day draws to a close, the sun sinks and twilight yields to dusk. A dad voice on shore shouts, “Time to come in.”

I catch myself before shouting back, “Can’t we stay out a little longer?” I’m the classic over-indulged birthday girl who doesn’t want the party to end.

I can’t contradict one of the dads, but I can paddle slower, soaking in the sights and sounds, etching them into my memory.

We returned home and have resumed our regular routines. But each day I find a part of me still on that lake as evening falls, gazing at the strapping young adults paddling in front of me, silhouetted against the last remnants of light, gliding, gliding, farther and farther away.

I don’t know when that day is coming, but I do know this: Today is a good day.

Someone once said, “With age comes wisdom.”

Then someone else immediately said, “Yeah, but sometimes age comes alone.”

My experience is that with age comes usefulness.

A granddaughter, anxious to pass me in height, frequently “measures up” with me by standing nose-to-nose to see who is the tallest. She “measured up” the other day and announced, “I now come to the second line on Grandma’s forehead!”

I knew there was a reason I don’t get Botox. It’s good to feel needed.

One day, helping first-grade English-as-second-language students with reading, I could see that the little Burmese boy following my finger as I pointed to words was intently studying the back of my hand.

I lifted my hand with aging skin, pointed to it and slowly said, “Wrinkles. Wrinkles.”

He repeated after me, “Wrinkles.” He grinned from ear to ear and his eyes lit up learning a new word.

It is wonderful to be helpful, although this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

I’ve always had curly hair and it has become even curlier with age. Recently, a granddaughter asked, “Grandma, if you let your hair grow really, really long, would it hang down straight or just get bigger and bigger?”

The latter, darlin’. I’ll cite Dolly Parton on this one: “Big hair puts you closer to God.” How wonderful to be consulted on something like the potential trajectory of curly hair.

I think.

With age also comes the distinct advantage of not only having read a lot of history, but of having lived a lot of history.

No, I did not personally know George Washington, Abe Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, or help build the Panama Canal, but I can tell you about telephones that hung on kitchen walls, milkmen who delivered milk to your front door, ketchup that came in glass bottles, record players, June, July and August heat without air conditioning and a summer job I had in college doing data entry that fed into a computer so enormous it took up an entire room.

Due to age, I am frequently the go-to person for an assist on Jumble word puzzles. Far be it from me to ruin the cloud of adulation by explaining I excel at Jumble because I have made so many typos over the years that every misspelled word looks vaguely familiar.

By far, the greatest laurel of “maturing” is having rushed around like a madwoman to get a meal on the table for a large group, being seated at the table and hearing a gentle voice say, “You’re a good cook, Grandma.”

Then another and another and another says, “You’re a good cook, Grandma.” It may be that I am a good cook, but it also may be that no one at the table wants to be outdone. If competition is the means by which I am showered with praise, then so be it.  I accept.

 

 

I never dreamed my life would one day intersect with a two-time Super Bowl champion, but it does.

Patrick Mahomes. Who knew we had so much in common?

He plays for Kansas City; I lived in Kansas City.

His favorite color is red; my favorite color is red.

He has curly hair; I have curly hair.

We both do a lot of screaming and jumping up and down whenever the Chiefs play.

Some days I almost wonder if we were separated at birth. Yes, there is that 40 year age difference.

He likes Subway; I like Subway. Judging from how often I see him in commercials, Mahomes spends a lot of time in Subways. We have a Subway in a strip mall nearby. I glance in the window every time I pass by just in case he’s there.

Mahomes also enjoys talking about insurance, mainly State Farm. What are the odds? We talk about insurance a lot, too. Mahomes has an old mind for a young guy. I’m waiting for when he partners with Vanguard to promote IRA accounts and does a two-minute humorous tutorial explaining RMDs.

Fist bump! Blow it up!

I’ve long bought Red Gold ketchup. We live in Indiana and Red Gold is a local company, but I may be wavering. Hunts is looking good. When you can trust a guy on colors, football, subs and insurance savvy, he could be onto something about ketchup as well.

Get ready for this: If we need to watch a game on ESPN, we open our (drum roll, please) DirectTV app. Guess who does commercials for DirectTV?

High five, baby!

Whodathunkit?

Mahomes also does endorsements for Head & Shoulders. Is this insane, or what? A blue and white bottle sits in the linen closet as I keyboard!

Our cell phone carrier? Yep. The one Mahomes does endorsements for— T-Mobile. What are the odds?

Everywhere he is, we are; and everywhere we are, he is.

Tell you what, I like his mom, too. Day one, she lined out a member of the press corps saying her son’s name was not Pat, but Patrick. Love that woman.

Mahomes also endorses Hy-Vee grocery stores. The young man has good taste. Hy-Vee is primarily a Midwest grocery chain. Whenever we venture back to Kansas City, I always find a reason to wander through a Hy-Vee. It’s usually to buy briskets to throw in a cooler and take back home. Well, that and a chance to see Mahomes.

Hy-Vee produce sections are works of art. Store lighting is fantastic and they have high ceilings. You could throw a football from the deli area clear over to the dairy case and have a clear pathway. (Just an idea, guys, take it or leave it.)

We’re not in sync on everything. I don’t wear Adidas shoes, drink Essentia water or have any Oakley sunglasses. Maybe with a few more endorsements I could be persuaded.

Speaking of endorsements, I know a columnist . . .

There are two types of people in this world: those whom mosquitoes consider an all-you-can-eat buffet and those whom mosquitoes find repugnant.

I have a body that mosquitos love. I suppose it is nice to think your physical being is still attractive at this age, even if it is to insects.

I only became a mosquito magnet two years ago. Prior to that they’d loop me once or twice, then beeline for a better smorgasbord. I used to think the people mosquitos feasted on complained excessively.

Now that I have become one of those people, I think such people are brave and strong and admirable. Mosquito magnets unite!

For the past four nights, I’ve awakened with my ankles itching madly from mosquito bites. We have grands that scratch mosquito bites until they bleed. If I thought that would stop the itching, I’d do it.

I stagger from bed and begin hunting for the After-Bite, hydrocortisone and Benadryl topical cream. It’s a “hit ‘em with all you got” approach. It helps. For about 10 minutes.

Recently, I attended an outdoor event and made the mistake of wearing strappy sandals. The mosquitoes went for the bottom of my feet. I tried scrataching the bottom of one foot with the shoe on my other foot. I glanced around and realized everyone could see everyone else’s feet under the tables. I was the only one playing footsies with myself.

I saw a slab of concrete and thought if I could just drag the bottom of my foot across it, the itch would settle down. It was a possibility without opportunity.

A Pfizer study found that mosquitoes are drawn to three types of people who have a high metabolic rate and emit more carbon dioxide: those who are pregnant, working out, or drinking alcohol.

My last pregnancy was 38 years ago. I drink alcohol about once a year. I do work out. Wouldn’t it be something if mosquitoes forced me to quit working out? Oh well.  A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.

Yesterday, two mosquitoes followed me inside. I have a touch-screen laptop where you can trigger functions by simply touching icons on the screen. One of the mosquitoes landed on the screen. I tried to smash it with my finger and accidentally sent some financial records to the trash.

The mosquitoes high-fived each other and laughed.

“We’ll see who’s laughing when I quit working out!” I yelled.

In the meantime, I’m covering every inch of skin, wearing long pants, a long- sleeved shirt with the collar pulled up around my neck, socks, tennis shoes and a hat. I have sprayed one kind of insect repellant on my skin and another on my clothes. I smell like a tiki torch and look like one, too.

My husband just asked where I was going.

“Outside,” I said.

“Feeding the mosquitoes again, eh?”

Nine months ago, my brother retired. If you want to get technical, he went to lunch and never went back.

Now he is launching a second career. We only know about this because my sister-in-law was with him when he filled out a preregistration form at an eye doctor’s office.

My sister-in-law is a saint.

The form asked for his occupation. He entered “consultant.”

My brother has never worn a white shirt and tie to work, sat behind a desk, or chatted up CEOs a single day in his life. Such a job would kill him. It wouldn’t be particularly healthy for those around him either.

As he filled out the registration, my sister-in-law asked exactly when he became a consultant. “Just now,” he said.

She asked what he does as a consultant to which he replied, “Whaddya need?”

He also said he would not further discuss the nature of his consulting until they first agreed on a fee.

A consultant is someone who has expertise and experience in a field, or numerous fields, and is willing to share insights and suggestions with others in need of advisement.

Upon hearing my brother has become a consultant, I realized that for years now, I, too, have benefited from the expertise of a consultant who shall remain nameless. Much of the time, I don’t even have to ask for a consultation; ideas and suggestions just roll like the mighty Mississippi.

Fortunately, my consultant does not charge a fee. Then again, if my consultant did charge a fee, I would refuse to pay it and maybe all the unsolicited consulting would screech to a halt.

Doubtful.

As one good consult deserves another, I often counter-consult with my own suggestions, insights and commentary on projects my consultant is working on, ideas on how he might improve what he is doing. All of this is offered without him even having to ask for a consult. That’s just how willing and eager I am to be of assistance.

There is a lot of consulting and counter-consulting that goes on in this house, and neither one of us would be willing to pay one thin dime for all the free advice.

I mean consulting.

Naturally, my sister-in-law’s concern was what would happen if the doctor looked at my brother’s “occupation” and inquired as to what sort of consultant he was. On second thought, she knew it wouldn’t go far because he would first require the doctor pay a consulting fee.