Birthday presents

I have lived in Los Angeles for nearly 4 1/2 years and have never been to the Hollywood Bowl or to the Walt Disney Concert Hall. For a girl who lived and breathed music for a good chunk of her life as a certified band geek, that's a long time. I did park in the parking garage of the Concert Hall and eat in the cafe when I had jury duty, but I don't think that counts.

So for my birthday, my dad got me two tickets to see the Los Angeles Philharmonic play Dvorak's 9th Symphony "From the New World," a truly generous and thoughtful gift. And it was a spectacular evening. From the free parking spot a block from the concert hall to the older woman I sat next to (I love making new friends). The architecture of the concert hall (designed by Frank Gehry) is truly one of a kind. The exterior is juxtaposed waves of brushed metal. The lobbies have sweeping spaces with bright colors and warm woods as staircases cascade between the levels.

The actual concert space was warm and curved and quite a lot like a womb, which, I suppose is appropriate when celebrating one's birth. Golden wood curved around all sides of the stage and ceiling. Colored light reflected off the open spaces of the walls making it even more cozy. And what is truly unique about this space is the seating all the way around the orchestra. You can literally stare the conductor in the face and read the notes off the timpani player’s stand.

And this was my level of enjoyment before any notes were played! But let me assure you, the notes that were played were spectacular. The New World Symphony was amazing. Played technically and dynamically and emotively. I said afterward that I wish the symphony were a house, so I could live in it. Every movement is memorable and noteworthy.

But what struck me about the concert was the second piece: a violin concerto. I've seen a lot of music in my day, but I have never seen something like this, especially in a professional environment. Part of the way through the first movement, when the soloist was playing aggressively in the lower register, something must have happened to his bow or his instrument. He gestured frantically to the concertmaster and then ran off the stage. In the middle of the piece! He ran off the stage! The result was almost cartoonish, as the orchestra fumbled to a halt. The crowd started to murmur as we waited to see what would happen. Interestingly enough, they were recording the performance for iTunes.

Eventually, the soloist emerged, mysterious problem solved. Eschenbach announced "From the beginning!" And all began anew. It struck me during the second movement, the second time through, that I had completely forgotten that this catastrophic foible had happened. I was so into the current moment, that the drastic jarring of the fleeing soloist was practically eliminated from my memory. When the piece was finished, the applause was so uproarious that the soloist had to exit and re-enter the stage to bow three times.

And it was a lovely little birthday lesson for me. I am terrified of making mistakes and of failure. To the extent that I become immobilized. And whether this musical mishap falls into the “mistake” or “act of God” category, this was a big deal. A professional soloist performing with a premiere orchestra ran off of the stage in the middle of a performance, which was being recorded for later sale. Have you ever heard of such a thing? But in the end, it really was no big deal. They started over. He played exceptionally well. They got a full recording. And the audience enjoyed it thoroughly, perhaps even moreso, because of the truly unique experience they had been a part of.

Wrapped up in this birthday present was a little lesson tied with a musical bow. Take courage. Risk. We don’t know the end of the story.

Here’s to making mistakes at age 31.

Caramel Roll Countertop

Within the past month or so, a certain memory of my mom has been particularly vivid and refreshingly poignant. Mom loved to bake. She would spend a whole Saturday making coffee cakes and rolls and then freeze them for the months to come. I had our family brownie recipe memorized by the time I was 11 or 12, because we had made it together so often. Some of my mom's signature baked goods were gooey butter cake (a St. Louis specialty), miniature cheesecakes, and caramel rolls.

Making caramel rolls (which are like the big pecan rolls from Panera, only smaller) was a fairly involved process. And as a little girl, I would really enjoy helping my mom do the baking, in preparation for the holidays or for special family dinners. We had to make a dough with yeast and let it rise. While the dough was rising, we would fill the cups of a muffin tin with brown sugar and pecans. I remembered carefully counting out the number of pecans as I slowly dropped them onto their brown sugar bed inside a muffin cup.

Then, on the countertop next to the sink, mom would roll out the risen dough with an old rolling pin. She had strong arms and large hands and would probably have done well working on a farm. It wasn't tough dough, but she would lean her whole body into it. Sometimes, she would let me roll out the dough, standing behind me with her hands over mine. I liked to make a big sweeping roll that would end with a flourish, leaving the rolling pin going around and around on its spindle up in the air. I can hear the click of the rolling pin as it made contact with the dough on the counter. One sweep to the left and one to the right, so it would spread out evenly into a large, thin oval. What came next was my absolute favorite part.

We would melt butter, then spread the warm butter over the rolled-out dough.

With our bare hands.

The warmth of the butter oozing between my little fingers next to my mom's big fingers. The permission and freedom to get messy (which was typically not allowed). The intimacy of the closeness of our bodies and our voices speaking softly, sharing smiles and laughter. This memory is so powerfully and poignantly maternal. And it simultaneously quenches and arouses a profound hunger within me for that mothering presence. The care. The creativity. The protection. The play.

There's something about the transmission of family traditions from mother to daughter that strikes me as epic and ancient. I'm not really one to appreciate, much less propagate, traditions. But whether it's age or loss or something else I can't pinpoint, I want to pass on this tradition of dough-rolling and butter spreading and cinnamon-sugar sprinkling, whether to actual future generations of my family or to the people I call family. It just feels right to do so. As a way to multiply the mothering I received.

The resurgence of this memory has also led me to want that section of countertop next to the sink where we would roll out the dough and spread the butter. Or at least ask that the new owners, whenever they appear and most likely remodel the 1970's kitchen, to save it for me. I don't quite know what someone does with a diagonal section of 1970's countertop, but I'm creative and have creative friends, so I'm sure we can think of something. Perhaps the countertop will become a canvas to portray a picture of a little girl with red pigtails leaning over a countertop with her mother, making caramel rolls.

2 Years

Friday marked the 2-year anniversary of my mother's death, and it is true that sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

On Thursday, I turn 31 years old.  And there have been numerous changes in the past few months that have left me wondering, "Really?!  Is this my life?  This isn't what I expected."  My notions of what my life would look like at almost-31 are being dismantled.  My dad is engaged.  To a woman I've never met.  And they bought a house.....Excuse me, a McMansion.

So on Tuesday, November 3rd, I head home to St. Louis for a week to start going through my house, the house that I came home from the hospital to when I was born.  The home that is the container for the majority of my memories of my mom.  The building that represented stability in my life.  Though I experienced incredible joy and excruciating pain within those walls, those walls always stood on Braumton Ct., and it was always home.  The same green carpet downstairs, wood paneling in the family room.  Big trees outside that you could stand under when it rained and not get wet.

This blog will recount the process of dismantling my childhood home and (hopefully) building a new life.  You can expect a lot of emotional musings, some humor, and (again, hopefully) some insights into the process of love and loss.