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Nothing adds color to the holidays like spending them with your extended family. We recently made the 12-hour round-trip journey by car to celebrate a holiday double-header (Grandma’s 80th birthday and Easter) with Dad’s side of the family.

Grandma is, in a word, spirited. As a younger woman, she used to run for the downtown bus in high heels and leave the young men of the neighborhood in her dust. The years haven’t slowed her down much.

At her birthday party, Grandma politely inquired of Youngest Male Cousin, who was coming down the stairs, if the upstairs bathroom was free. Getting a straight answer out of anyone in my family is like trying to get a cork out of a wine bottle without a corkscrew. It can be done, but it’s not really worth the trouble.

Youngest Male Cousin informed Grandma that the upstairs was off-limits to anyone 80 years old or older. He came the rest of the way downstairs and walked past Grandma, who was not amused. She feinted as though to grab him, but he easily dodged her and kept walking.

Things might have gone differently if he had walked toward the kitchen, where the rest of the family was, but he walked through the foyer (where I was hunting for my coat) instead.

I watched in gleeful amazement as Grandma chased Youngest Male Cousin (a college baseball player, mind you) across the foyer, out the front door and across the indoor porch. She caught up with him at the door to the outside and gave him a satisfied bop on the shoulder.

Youngest Male Cousin kept a respectful distance from Grandma for the rest of the evening, and perhaps realized afresh where in the family his athletic abilities come from.

We had asked Grandma well in advance what she wanted as a gift to celebrate her birthday milestone, planning to pool funds if needed to get her something really nice. Her request was simple. She wanted us to celebrate Easter at her church, as this would be the first time in 30 years that the majority of the family was together for Easter.

And so, we piled into cars and headed out to Easter Vigil Mass at Grandma’s church.

Many years ago, Grandma’s parents helped found the city’s only Slovak Catholic church. Grandma and Grandpa even staked out their own family pew. There’s no need for a plaque to mark it, though, since no one else ever chooses to sit there. It’s probably something to do with the large concrete pillar that blocks one end of the pew.

If you think about it, though, it makes sense for a family with five mischievous boys to choose this pew. Grandma and Grandpa only had to worry about them running out into the aisle and tripping the priest from one direction instead of two.

I had the pleasure of sitting next to Youngest Brother, who amused himself by scraping wax off his vigil candle with his fingernail, filling the candle’s plastic-cup holder with wax shavings. I would have done a better job of keeping him in check, but I literally had my hands full.

In my right hand was my lit candle. In my left, an open missalette so I could follow along with the Mass. I should also mention I did not inherit Grandma’s extraordinary sense of balance in high heels. I was just getting the hang of things when the priest began to walk down the aisle, pausing at each pew to sprinkle holy water on the congregation.

As the priest passed by, the other parishioners would make the sign of the cross. I had a real “What Would Jesus Do?” moment there, as blessing myself with my left hand would result in a mild bludgeoning and multiple paper cuts and blessing myself with my right hand would set my hair on fire.

I managed what I hoped was a reverent head bob and resolved to try again during the next Easter Vigil Mass I attended, providing we could sit closer to the baptismal font.

After Mass had ended, I told Youngest Uncle and Aunt, with whom we were staying, that I had enjoyed the Mass in spite of my coordination complications.

“I thought it was really cool how it began in total darkness and then the lights gradually came on, you know, symbolizing how Jesus is the light of the world. I could do without the holy smoke, though.”

“The what?”

“The holy smoke. That’s what Dad … always said … they called the incense … .”

As has been established in previous columns, I should really know better than to trust the man who almost convinced me that “Maine” was a two-syllable word.

If we could find our family crest, I can think of no better motto to accompany it than Grandma’s assessment of the weekend: “We’re not perfect, but we always have a good time.”

I couldn’t agree more. We have two weddings coming up this summer and who knows what might happen? My money’s definitely on Grandma, though, when it comes to who will catch the bouquet.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published April 23, 2009.

One of the many reasons I love my mother is that while she accepts her limitations, she doesn’t use them as an excuse to give up. She acknowledges that cooking isn’t her strong point, but she continues to try new recipes in hopes that practice will eventually make, if not perfect, then at least palatable.

Mom’s most recent experiment was a slow-cooker recipe with a beef brisket. Although she read the directions carefully and had the best of intentions, the results unfortunately gave new meaning to the phrase “dead meat.”

On Mom’s side of the family, my great-grandmother was a fantastic baker, my grandmother is an excellent cook and my grandfather makes wonderful paper-thin sandwiches that put Dagwoods to shame. Mom often shares the fond memories she has because of this culinary heritage and laments that her own children haven’t experienced the same.

“What are you going to tell your children?” she asks. “‘Grandma used to make us stir-fry – from a bag.'”

She’s much too hard on herself. When it comes to home cooking, my tastes are simple. Nothing puts a smile on my face like finding out we’re having grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches for dinner.

And no matter what Mom makes, Youngest Brother will pick it at and ask how much he has to eat before he can have ice cream, Younger Sister will have a meltdown if any of the foods on her plate are touching any other foods and Dad will opt for cold creamed corn instead. She might as well make us all toast and be done with it.

Mom recently planned a simple meal: the brisket, boiled potatoes and cabbage. She started the brisket in the slow-cooker early in the day, as stated in the recipe.

I came upstairs around 9 o’clock at night, curious as to why no one had called me for dinner. We eat later on weekends, but this was unusual.

Dad, a veteran of many kitchen crises, was calmly reading the newspaper while Mom frantically tried to save a pot of over-boiled potatoes by mashing them. The cabbage was still raw and the brisket was simmering evilly in a pool of greasy-looking juices.

We still can’t figure out what happened. Mom followed up with the butcher, who said it was either overdone or underdone. That didn’t narrow it down much. Perhaps we need to exorcise the slow-cooker.

Whatever the cause, the brisket was obviously inedible and needed to be disposed of. According to Dad, there was only one solution: bury it in the front yard.

I suggested burying it at a crossroads with a stake through the middle of it, just to be safe, but there weren’t any crossroads nearby where we could do so without interfering with traffic.

While Mom mourned the failed brisket, Dad gathered up the slow-cooker and his shovel and asked Youngest Brother if he wanted to help. Youngest Brother happily agreed.

Younger Sister pouted, asking why she couldn’t help, and Dad tried to console her. “You can help me bury the next meal Mommy kills.”

Under Mom’s glowering stare, Dad quickly changed his mind. He and Younger Sister hurried outside with the brisket to join Youngest Brother.

When they returned, they reported that the brisket had been buried several feet down to discourage any animals from digging it up. They prayed over it for good measure, asking God to please make sure the brisket didn’t hurt the animals.

Dad then informed me that this wasn’t the first time we’ve buried a failed meal in the front yard. At a minimum, our landscape contains the brisket, two spoiled homemade soups, a cake that refused to rise and a wayward pudding.

I looked at him in amazement. “And you wonder why we can’t get the grass to grow? We’ve probably poisoned the soil!”

Mom and Dad admitted they had never considered that. If the perennials don’t come up this year (or conversely, develop evil superpowers and embark on a quest for world domination), we’ll know why.

Mom is concerned that the brisket incident may have been the nail in her culinary coffin, that there’s no way we’ll be sharing fond memories of her cooking with our own children after this. I beg to differ.

When I bring any future children to visit their grandparents, I will tell them:

“Oh, your grandma is a great cook. Her grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches are out of this world, and she’ll put chocolate chips in your pancakes without you even having to ask.

“And, uh, sweetie? Play in the backyard.”

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published April 9, 2009.

As another school year begins, I can’t help but appreciate our public school system. Had my education and that of my siblings been left solely in the hands of our father, we would have been in serious trouble.

As is the case with many parents, his attempts to enlighten me (whom he has lovingly referred to as “the practice child”) began during my formative, pre-preschool years. He decided to start by teaching me which sounds are made by which animals, in what he imagined was a clever and funny way.

“What does a cat say, honey?”

“Mooooo!” I replied triumphantly.

“Very good! And what do dogs say?”

“Oink!”

“Good job!”

I thought it was, too, until I started preschool. The teacher had a talk with Mom (during which I believe the term “learning disability” was mentioned), and both of them had a talk with Dad.

I am pleased to say that, many years later, I have finally gotten my animals sounds straight, although it did require logging a considerable number of hours on my See-and-Say. Counting, however, is still a little iffy.

Fortunately, Oldest Younger Brother also bears the scars of the counting lesson. Nothing cements a sibling relationship like shared childhood trauma.

One day, when Oldest Younger Brother and I were both in elementary school, Dad asked us to count to 10. Puzzled, we did.

Dad shook his head. “You forgot florp.”

Florp, he informed us, was the number between seven and eight. Between the two of us, Oldest Younger Brother and I were a little bit sharper than I had been as an impressionable toddler, and we managed to figure out that he was only kidding before either of us said anything in class.

Even so, when we studied more advanced mathematics in high school, both of us had to fight the urge to raise our hands when our teachers asked if anyone could name an imaginary number.

My father’s crowning glory came one evening when Oldest Younger Brother was working on a project for his high school social studies class. Quite innocently, he asked Dad how many syllables were in the word “Maine.”

Without hesitation, Dad replied, “Two.”

“Two? Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course. Sound it out. May-nuh. That’s two syllables.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess so. It sounds right.”

Mom called Dad’s bluff immediately, but Oldest Younger Brother wasn’t convinced. We spent the next half-hour alternately knocking the syllable(s) on the kitchen counter like they teach you to do in elementary school and interrogating Dad to see if he would crack and admit that he was joking. He didn’t.

Just as Oldest Younger Brother was on the verge of accepting Maine as a two-syllable word and printing out his project, Dad confessed to the ruse. I believe he saw a parent-teacher conference looming in his future if he continued to nudge us down the garden path.

With Youngest Brother and Younger Sister in school themselves, they too are learning never to take Dad’s words at face value. When they’re being rowdy at the dinner table, Dad will frequently tell them to get their “fanny perpendicular” in the chair, a turn of phrase that induces so much giggling, they can’t help but obey.

Lo and behold, at the end of the last school year, the word “perpendicular” ended up on Youngest Brother’s spelling list. Naturally, his teacher went over the meanings of the spelling words with the class before sending them home with the list.

Before the school day had ended, Mom was reading an email from Youngest Brother’s teacher, informing her that he had explained to the class that “perpendicular” was another word for “backside.” She quickly called Dad at work and asked him how she should explain this one.

It turned out that the phrase “fanny perpendicular” refers to the geometric relationship created between the horizontal line of the chair and the vertical line of the crack of your bottom when you are properly seated. Therefore, if you’re sitting the right way, your fanny is perpendicular to the chair.

It’s a not-so-obvious allusion that makes perfect sense, providing you’re not a small (or not-so-small) child who, in spite of all the reasons he’s given you to the contrary, takes everything your father says as gospel truth.

Youngest Brother’s teacher was very understanding, especially when we mentioned some of Dad’s previous crimes against education. She got off easy in comparison to my preschool teacher.

Since that last incident, Dad has been slightly more subdued in his educational efforts. This may only be temporary, though, as summer doesn’t afford many opportunities for academic reinvention.

Who knows what this school year may bring? Younger Sister will be studying New Hampshire state history. I have a sneaking suspicion that the Granite State will turn out to have been settled by Pilgrims who were blown off course and landed at Portsmouth instead of at Plymouth Rock.

I think I’ll put aside a few copies of this column for when Mom gets that inevitable email from one of my siblings’ teachers. Or perhaps we should just send a copy in with them now and save time.

– Teresa Santoski

www.teresasantoski.com

Originally published Sept. 4, 2008.